Page 27 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)

Chapter twenty-three

Sawyer

A s we walk toward the farmhouse, I hold my arms away from my body. One careless move and the sleeves of my sweater will be ruined, too. Or I might bump into him. Either would send me spiraling, I fear.

My face is hot, still flushed from embarrassment. I didn’t even realize there was a dog in the vicinity until its paws were on me and it was trying to lick my face.

I’m fine. Really.

My sweater, not so much.

But thank god Mercer wasn’t there to witness the encounter. He was around the corner and still distracted by his phone when we headed toward the house. So much so that he didn’t notice when I tried to signal that we were leaving the area.

“In here.” Noah jogs up the front steps of the large white farmhouse .

The door he holds open is a butter yellow color, and inside, my attention is instantly drawn to a stained-glass light hanging in the foyer. The colored glass, inset with flowers, hummingbirds, and honeybees, casts a warm glow over the space .

The white walls look crisp and clean against dark hardwood floors I’d guess are original, despite how well maintained they appear.

“You, uh.” Noah’s blue-gray eyes flit in my direction, but they don’t linger, like he’s too embarrassed to look at me for more than a few seconds.

He lifts the backward hat off his head and runs one hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.

“You need a new shirt,” he says as he replaces the cap.

“Right. Wait here. Or anywhere down here, I mean.” He waves, the motion jerky, awkward.

“Not in that spot specifically. I’ll—I’ll be right back. ”

He takes off toward the staircase, then hauls himself up them two at a time, his boots hitting the steps with thuds that echo through the otherwise quiet house.

I shift my weight, listening as the sounds grow softer.

I don’t trust myself not to track mud through the house, so I linger in the entryway and focus on the sun streaming in through the big bay window in the living room to the right.

The room is beautifully decorated. The plush, modern couch dominates the room, but a rustic coffee table and a matching rocking chair give it a more lived-in feel.

The bright yellow hexagonal rug is woven into a honeycomb pattern, and a rough-edged beam above the fireplace serves as a mantel.

The room calls to me in a way, urging me closer. I want to sink into the couch and trace the outlines of the ridges in the coffee table. But I’m covered in mud, so I stay where I am. And even if I weren’t, it would be inappropriate, right? Now that I work for this man?

Sort of.

Good grief. I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut.

I need to get a grip.

Rocking back on my heels, I peek down the long hallway straight ahead, and when a black-and-white photo on the wall catches my eye, I tiptoe closer.

I can’t make out the image from here, but he did tell me I could wait anywhere.

Though Noah is a stranger, and this is his home.

At least I think it is.

The place is huge. It’s far too big for just one person, which makes me wonder whether he’s married and if he has kids .

Halfway down the hall, I study the photo that caught my attention. It’s a macro shot of a honeybee, the details so crisp that even the hairs around its eyes are visible.

I move on to the next one, another that is indiscernible without some inspection. This one is honeycomb. Some of the holes of the structure are covered, the texture of that covering so crisp I have to resist the urge to touch the glass covering the image.

The next photo is a close-up of dripping honey.

The next, a bee perfectly positioned in the center of a flower.

By the time I reach the end of the gallery, the kitchen is in full view. I turn on my heel, but before I can scurry back to the entryway, an open door on the other side of the hall snags my attention.

I peek my head in, just for a second, and am inundated with notes of salt water and citrus.

One wall is dominated by a large bed with a dark duvet.

There’s a weight bench on one side, along with a set of free weights on the floor.

Another wall is decorated with framed posters, each representing a different band.

Dave Matthews Band, Counting Crows, and Goo Goo Dolls.

There’s a massive mahogany desk on the other side of the room, with books stacked on the floor beside it.

I look away quickly, the rich-colored wood and the stacks of texts reminding me too much of my dad, and catch sight of an acoustic guitar propped up in a corner beside a smaller desk with hardly anything on it.

“Sawyer?”

Heart lurching, I jump back.

“I’m here.” I hurry down the hall and step into the foyer just as Noah does.

“Sorry, just admiring the art.” I give him a warm smile, hoping to ease a bit of the awkwardness I feel from being caught wandering around his house.

A flash of an emotion I can’t identify passes over his face. But then he blinks, and it’s gone.

“Here. Will this work?” he mumbles, holding out a shirt on a hanger, his arm fully extended.

I stifle a laugh as I accept it.

The garment is enormous, though I suppose that makes sense. Noah is broad. And tall. Bigger than Mercer. Honestly he could have been a hockey player or a football player with a build like that .

The fabric is a deep merlot plaid with a bit of mustard in the design, colors I’m naturally drawn to, and the crisp sleeves confirm it’s been pressed recently.

“Thank you.” I work the shirt free and hand the hanger back to Noah, who stands in front of me, silent and clearly still out of sorts. “Um… I have a tank top on under this, but—”

“Oh. Shit. Shit. Sorry. Yeah, I’ll just…” He stomps out of the foyer and into the living room. When he’s out of my line of sight, he says, “I’ll wait right here. Unless you want to go to the bathroom. I should have shown you to—”

“I’m good.” I bite back another giggle. Poor guy.

I remove my sweater and frown at my camisole when I discover the mud seeped into it as well. There’s nothing I can do about it now, and the dark green fabric hides the stains well, so I drop the sweater to the floor and put on the loaner shirt.

Slipping my arms into the flannel feels like sinking into a deep, comforting hug.

The scent that engulfs me only soothes me further.

The masculine notes of cedarwood are complemented perfectly by a sweet honey fragrance.

It’s overwhelming in the best way, though it takes a moment and more than one deep breath to come back to my senses.

“You can come back now,” I call as I fasten a couple of buttons, starting at the bottom of the shirt. I don’t bother doing them all up, knowing they’ll strain over my chest. Flannel is not a forgiving fabric. This shirt could be two sizes bigger and it still wouldn’t lay nicely over my tits.

I give myself a quick assessment in the mirror mounted on one wall in the entryway. At least it looks cute mostly open. And it matches my skirt.

“Wow. You look—”

My breath catches at the unexpectedly close voice, and when I turn to Noah, his eyes are wide, his mouth opening and closing once, then again. He eventually makes a sort of grunting sound, like the words he’s trying to say are lodged in his throat.

Am I the reason he’s so tongue-tied? The sight of me in his shirt? No way. We just met.

He’s just flustered. Annoyed, probably, that I’ve interrupted his day. I take pity on the man and offer a subject change. “Your house is beautiful,” I offer.

He exhales, and his shoulders relax.

There. Back to safer territory.

“Thanks. It’s been in my family for six generations. ”

“Six?” Wow. If I thought the house felt like a home before, that knowledge alone compounds the sensation exponentially.

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “For as long as the orchard has been operational.”

“Do you live here alone?” I pick my sweater up off the floor and ball it up, taking care to tuck the muddy parts in on themselves.

Noah’s expression turns forlorn. As if I hit a nerve, then pressed down hard on the spot.

His face is still screwed up in anguish when the front door bursts open.

“There you are.” Professor Eden storms into the room, huffy as usual, but halts the second he sees me. He gives me a once-over, his signature scowl coming out to play. With an annoyed grunt, he zeroes in on Noah. “Why is she wearing your shirt?”

I tilt my head and study him while he’s busy focusing on his friend, curious about how quickly he recognized this shirt as Noah’s.

“We had a bit of a run-in with Shiloh.” Noah widens his stance and crosses his arms. “It looks like I owe your graduate assistant a new sweater.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can get the stains out,” I offer.

“Maybe. Maybe not. At the very least, I’ll pay to have it dry-cleaned,” Noah asserts.

I open my mouth, gearing up to brush it off, but he holds up his hands, stopping me.

Chin lifted, he holds my gaze for maybe the first time today. “I insist.”

He’s sweet. A little awkward, or maybe a bit rusty with people, but overall, sweet.

What the hell does he see in Professor Eden, I wonder? They’re an unlikely pair, but they must be close if they go out drinking together.

“Right,” the cocky asshole who just stormed in sneers. “Now that the trouble you caused has been sorted—”

With a scoff, Noah smacks Mercer on the back of the head, shutting him up quickly. “She didn’t cause any fucking trouble,” he growls. “I told you—Shiloh got overly excited and jumped on her. You can’t go around victim-blaming, Merce.”

I lift my hand to my mouth to hide the giddy reaction no doubt plastered on my face.

Mercer rubs the back of his head, his eyes wide with either shock or anger. I don’t know him well enough to distinguish between the two emotions .

It takes effort not to laugh. Not only was he just called out, but Noah literally smacked him upside the head.

“Come on,” Noah says, striding past him. He opens the door and gestures for us to follow. “Let’s get back to the tour. You two don’t want to be here all day, do you?”

I don’t dare look at my professor as I follow the apple orchard owner out the door.