Page 33 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)

Chapter twenty-eight

Sawyer

I f Mercer doesn’t get here soon, my nerves are going to get the best of me.

I’m early, but I’m not that early, and if the steaming mug of coffee on a warmer on his desk is any indication, he’s already been in today.

At three minutes to eight, I force myself to put my pen down. The obsessive way I’ve been clicking it isn’t helping my anxiety.

I’m prepared for this meeting. In fact, I’m afraid I have too many suggestions for bolstering the attendance and sales at Evercrisp Orchard.

I fiddle with the third button on my cardigan.

It’s always the outlier. Some days, I button it; others, I don’t.

It depends on many factors. Like whether I’m bloated or what sort of bra and base layer I’m wearing.

I leave it open more often than not to avoid creating a gaping hole if the fabric pulls too tightly.

I never struggle with the decision, yet today I’m questioning everything.

“Oh, you’re here.” Mercer breezes into the office just as the time on my phone changes from 7:58 to 7:59.

I blow out a long breath and settle back into my seat. Calm. Collected. I’ve got this. “Good morning. ”

He takes his seat, then regards me for several seconds, assessing me over the top of his glasses. Then, to my surprise, the corners of his mouth pull up into the hint of a smile.

“Good morning, Ms. Davvies.”

The lack of sarcasm in his tone throws me, but I don’t let it show.

“Good morning, Professor Eden.”

A wily smirk tugs at the corner of his full lips. “Have you come up with suggestions for the class project?”

“I have.” I pull a red folder from my bag and slide the surprisingly thick packet onto his desk.

“I went through the information you and Noah shared about the establishment and did a content analysis of the orchard’s digital presence, as well as a competitive analysis of similar establishments in a one-hundred-mile radius, as outlined in the class textbook. ”

Other than a slight lifting of his brows, Mercer’s expression doesn’t change. “And what did your marketing analysis uncover?”

I nod at the packet on the desk. “The first chart on page three quantifies the digital footprint, or lack thereof, of the orchard. The second compares its social media and internet presence with the eighteen other seasonal orchards in the area.”

He turns to the proper page, then sits back, crossing one leg over the other, and rests my report in his lap. He’s quiet and focused and… damn, I think he’s actually studying the information.

My heart lodges itself in my throat and anticipation flares to life as I wait for some sort of reaction.

After a few minutes pass, he peers up. “You did all this?” He flips through the next few pages, scanning the additional charts and graphs I put together.

Assuredness blossoms inside me, leaving no room for nerves. “I did. I thought a competitive analysis of the market would be a good exercise for the class, but only after the site visit.”

Mercer nods, his eyes still glued to the packet in front of him. “Tell me more about this list on page eight.”

Grinning, I turn to the correct list. “These are suggestions for increasing traffic. Specifically for people between eighteen and twenty-nine.”

Mercer purses his lips, tipping his head back and forth. “And why did you select that demographic to target? ”

“Families come through the orchard once a season. An annual visit, so they can take photos and pick out pumpkins. They don’t think about the place again for another year.”

Mercer raises both eyebrows but doesn’t interject, so I continue.

“The untapped market is in this age group—young adults with money to spend. People who tend to post about their experience online. Look at this…”

I pull my phone from my bag and tap the Instagram icon, then navigate to Kai’s profile.

Mercer adjusts his glasses and holds out a hand, gesturing to my phone. As I pass it over, the tips of his long fingers brush against my palm, and a zap of electricity travels up my arm.

“What exactly am I looking at?” he asks.

“My friend took a few pictures and posted them when we were at the orchard yesterday, and in less than twenty-four hours, they’ve gotten over a hundred comments, most asking where they were and what they’re eating in the last picture.”

He straightens, his eyes narrowing. “You were out at the orchard yesterday?”

My heart stutters at the sudden tension in the air, but I square my shoulders and keep my chin lifted. “I was. I was struggling with what direction to go with all of this.” I wave at the report now resting on his desk. “So I took my friends out there to brainstorm with me.”

A flash of surprise contorts Mercer’s features into an expression reminiscent of a smile. But he quickly snaps out of it, donning a straight face once more.

“Pretty pictures don’t drive sales.”

“True. But pretty pictures with a location tag shared by someone with a mostly local network could.”

He presses his lips together thoughtfully, then steeples his fingers. “Fair point. Keep going.”

“So much of what the orchard sells is consumable,” I say, scrolling back to the picture Kai posted of the pastries behind the glass in the store.

“Slices of pie. Flavored coffee, cider, and apples, of course. Tailoring the marketing plan to people who have the time, means, and money to make multiple trips to the orchard throughout the season is the quickest way to increase profits.”

Mercer brings his steepled fingers to his mouth, tapping them against his lips, his wheels turning. I hold his gaze, feigning confidence, despite how out of my depth I feel in his presence .

The inferiority is frustrating. And it’s unnecessary. I did the work. Everything he’s asked of me, I’ve completed. My ideas are solid, and I’m proud of them, regardless of what he thinks.

He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he finally breaks into a satisfied smirk.

“Good work, Ms. Davvies.”

Before I can stop it, a scoff escapes me. “I’m sorry,” I say, holding my phone aloft between us. “I wasn’t recording. Do you think you could say that again?”

His face lights up with amusement. It’s a look I honestly didn’t think he was capable of. “I’m serious,” he says. “You’ve completed a substantial amount of research in a short period, and many of these ideas are not half bad.”

I raise one eyebrow. “So by marketing math standards, a fourth of my ideas are doable?”

That smirk is back. “Not half bad and doable exist in two different realms, Ms. Davvies. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

I grin back, then quickly shake my head. Are we… bantering? Is this meeting actually going well?

“Talk me through the full report, from the top. This is good stuff, truly, but I don’t know that we can expect such advanced work from the class.”

I scoot forward in my seat, and we spend the next hour going through the report, page by page. I share my insights, and Mercer asks lots of questions, making notes in the margins of his copy.

My chest expands with each breath I take. He’s taking this seriously. He’s taking me seriously.

By the time we’re done, we’ve narrowed our focus to a few key strategies and developed two additional assignments for the class.

“This is good work,” he says again. “But now it’s up to the class to discover this on their own. We may know the answers, but that doesn’t mean they’ll get there. Or come anywhere close to achieving any of your optimistic projections.”

My heart sinks. This plan will work. We at least have to try. “But the orchard needs this boost. Even if the class doesn’t catch on right away—”

He raises his hands, cutting me off. “The challenge of teaching a pragmatic field of study in a university setting lies in the intersection of knowledge and application. We are here to educate , Ms. Davvies. Despite the professional satisfaction we’d get by executing this plan for Evercrisp Orchard, the true purpose here is to create experiential learning opportunities for our students. ”

All the excitement I’ve allowed to build up over the last hour crumbles. What’s the point if we can’t actually help Noah?

“That isn’t to say this report can’t be shared with the orchard once the semester ends. You’re aware that Noah Henry and I are acquainted.”

If by acquainted he means they’re drinking buddies who are close enough to smack each other upside the head, then yes, I am aware.

“I’ve been bugging him for years to bring on a dedicated marketing employee. Perhaps there’s opportunity there.”

Hope sparks behind my ribs. Though I’m not sure I could handle my course load, the ice arena, and this assistantship—

“Always thinking, aren’t you, Ms. Davvies?”

I snap out of my mental spiral and find him watching me.

This look is unlike any he’s ever given me. For the last hour, he’s been almost lost in his own head. Considering. Deducing. Now, his eyes are hooded, though his gaze is sharp and intentional.

“I’m thoroughly impressed with how your mind works,” he murmurs. “You’ve far exceeded my expectations.”

My cheeks warm, and on instinct, I look away.

The air is suddenly heady, the energy in the office charged, making my nerves spark.

His words linger, weighted, as the moment stretches out. Tension mounts between us. I feel exposed. Like he’s really seeing me. It throws me off, just how deferential I feel in this man’s presence.

I want to look up, but my eyes stay fixed on his tan arms, on the dark hair that trails down to his wrists. On his long fingers and blunt, polished nails. I don’t mean to stare, but now that I’m looking, I can’t stop.

My throat goes dry, making it impossible to swallow.

The attention he’s giving me has a charge to it I’m only now identifying. Without a heaping dose of animosity hampering our interaction, I can recognize the tension between us for what it is.

Attraction.

I like the way he looks. I like the way he speaks. The way his mind works and the rapid-fire way he carries on a conversation. I like a lot of things about him, I realize, now that I’m not so focused on proving my worth.

Still avoiding direct eye contact—I’m certain my chest, neck, and cheeks are flaming crimson by now—I straighten in my seat. The subtle shift does nothing to quell the crest of arousal I’m experiencing, unfortunately. If anything, I now have to focus on not squirming as I press my thighs together.

Mercifully, he clears his throat and shifts in his own seat, breaking the spell.

He taps at his keyboard, his attention now on his computer screen, as if he isn’t the least bit fazed by whatever just happened.

I know what I felt. I know how my body reacts when a man or a woman wants me. I know what just happened wasn’t nothing. Just like I know it has the power to complicate my life in ways I do not need right now.

I’m searching for the words to ask if he needs anything else from me when he beats me to the punch. “Anything else, Ms. Davvies?”

Yes. No. Shit.

“Actually…” I grimace. The details of the email I received last night are sensitive, and until this morning, I worried Mercer wouldn’t react well. But maybe, given the rapport we’ve established over the last few hours…

“We received an email from Tia Jones last night. She’s a junior in the class.”

He swivels his chair and gives me his full attention.

“I know Tia,” he acknowledges. “Go on.”

“Her grandmother transitioned to hospice care over the weekend, so she won’t be in class today.” I take a steadying breath and mentally remind myself that I’m just the messenger. “She may not be in class for the next few weeks, depending on how things go.”

When his face remains expressionless, anxiety floods me.

I lean forward and blurt out the rest before he can respond. “Her grandmother practically raised her. But she promised she’d try to keep up on the discussion posts until she can return—”

Mercer holds up one hand. I snap my mouth shut.

“Draft a response for me,” he instructs, nodding toward my laptop, open and sitting at the edge of his desk.

“Tia—” he starts.

I grab my computer, tap on the Notes app, and rest my fingers on the keys.

“I’m sorry to hear about the decline of your grandmother’s health. The ache of anticipatory grief is a pain like no other. I wish you comfort and peace during this difficult time.

“Please do not worry about class or about keeping up on the discussion boards. It sounds like you are exactly where you need to be. When you’re ready to return, Ms. Davvies and I will ensure you are caught up to speed.

There will be no makeup work or negative consequence as a result of your absence.

“Take heart and take care. Mercer Eden.”

Emotion clogs my throat as I finish transcribing his response. I’d probably be fighting tears as well if I wasn’t so shocked by the tenderness of his reply or how willing he is to be flexible. I quickly reread the message, then copy and paste it into a reply email.

By the time I hit send , Mercer is engrossed in the document pulled up on his computer screen.

Assuming I’ve been dismissed, I make quick work of packing my things. I’m hefting my bag onto my shoulder, ready to tell him I’ll see him in class, when he rises from his seat and stretches his arms overhead.

“Shall we head down to the lecture hall together?”

Stunned yet again, I nod woodenly and collect my water bottle and travel mug.

As I step out into the hall, a ghost of a touch grazes my lower back, the caress so light I wouldn’t have noticed it if Mercer didn’t then step around me and pull his office door closed.

“After you,” he insists, extending one arm.