Page 26 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)
“I minored in linguistics at university. I’m studying information and library science now.
My dad was a professor of twentieth-century American literature.
His research focused on how generational trauma reshaped public understanding of canonical texts.
I guess you can say I’m a bit of a word nerd.
” She says the last sentence light-heartedly, like it doesn’t matter.
It does. I’ve only just met her, but already, I know that everything she says matters.
“Was? Your dad was?”
Maybe he’s retired. It’s possible, although she’s young.
Far too young for Mercer . But that’s an issue for a different day.
“Was,” she repeats, the light in her eyes dimming. “He died.”
There it is.
“My mom, too. Three years ago. It happened a few weeks before my eighteenth birthday.”
It happened.
The hollowed-out place where my heart used to reside constricts.
My awareness when it comes to death and loss is finely tuned. Even the inflection in a person’s tone as they speak about it, no matter how briefly, stands out. Their choice of words, too. I guess I’m a word nerd , too, though only when it comes to loss and grief.
Something happened, and this woman suffered because of it.
Life isn’t fucking fair.
The mantra rises in me, simmering at first, growing into a slow boil.
Not fucking fair. Not fucking fair. Not fucking fair.
“I-I’m sorry,” I stammer. The words taste acerbic on my tongue. They make up the most useless phrase in the English language. I should fucking know.
But before I can come up with a more eloquent response, a black and white blur whizzes past me.
Sawyer staggers back, letting out a sharp shriek.
Before my brain can register what’s going on, Shiloh leaps onto her, tail wagging wildly, and attempts to cover her in kisses.
“Get down.” I lunge for the mutt.
She fights my hold on her collar, bound and determined to get right back up in the visitor’s face, but I hold tight.
“Heel,” I order.
She doesn’t listen.
“Heel, Shiloh. Heel. What the hell has gotten into you?”
When she still doesn’t settle, I kneel and tuck her into my side. She’s average-sized as far as border collie mixes are concerned. But my god, is she tenacious.
“I’m so sorry about that.” I look up at Sawyer, but only after I’ve ensured that I still have a firm grip on Shiloh. My stomach drops. “Oh shit.”
The woman before me stands with her arms held several inches from her sides, eyes wide and mouth agape. The stiffness in her limbs indicates she already knows what I’m seeing.
She’s absolutely covered in muddy paw prints.
Her sweater is littered with them. Most are indistinguishable, though the two on her chest possess far more definition. And they’re perfectly centered on each of her breasts.
I will not stare. I will not stare. I will not stare…
“What’s all the ruckus?” Bella says as she emerges from the storefront. “Oh shit.” She races back into the store and returns quickly with Shiloh’s leash in hand.
I take it from her, and as I fasten it to her collar, I say, “What has gotten into you?” Once it’s secure, I stand, grunting as I get to my feet. Shiloh, suddenly happy to stand at my side, licks my fingers expectantly, like she’s ready to go for a walk.
“Bella, take her. Please.” I pass off the dog, and the young woman not covered in mud takes her inside.
When the door shuts behind her, I turn to Sawyer.
Sawyer, who hasn’t moved.
Sawyer, who hasn’t made so much as a peep.
“Are you okay? I’m so sorry. I don’t know what possessed her—”
She emits a throaty hiccup, then bursts into a fit of laughter. “Oh my god. Oh my god .”
She doubles over, practically cackling, the move bringing more mud stains into view.
I grimace. Shit. It’s everywhere, the fabric of her cardigan more mud-colored than not .
Her sweater is so far gone that I’m not sure even dry-cleaning could salvage it.
“I’m so sorry.” A laugh escapes me. Not because any of this is funny, but because I’m horrified and I don’t know what to fucking do.
“I don’t think anyone’s gotten that fresh with me in a while,” she quips, eyeing the paw prints on her tits.
Breasts , I mentally correct. Breasts are anatomical body parts. Tits… Tits are for sucking. And fucking. And…
Goddamn . This woman has great tits.
“You don’t—you don’t happen to have anything I can change into, do you?”
Shit. I should have thought of that before she asked.
“Of course. Come with me.” I jog down the steps and lead her toward the house. “I’ll pay for the dry-cleaning. I really am sorry.”
When she doesn’t respond, I peer over my shoulder to confirm she’s following.
She’s several steps behind me, scanning the orchard and barn with a glint of curiosity in her eye.
I slow my pace to allow her to catch up. When she finally falls into step with me, she smiles.
“This place is special, isn’t it?”
The question slams into me at the speed of a freight train.
She’s not wrong, though I strongly believe that the people here were what made Evercrisp Orchard special. And most of those people are gone.
“It was,” I murmur, looking out toward the vista. This place is my home and it always will be. But it hasn’t felt right for a long time.
“Was,” Sawyer repeats. She presses her lips together and nods solemnly, as if cataloging the information for later. Then, as we approach the house, she says, “I think it could be again.”