Page 34 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)

Chapter twenty-nine

Mercer

T he drive to Noah’s place from the faculty lot is short—just enough time for one perfectly selected song—but it always puts me in a good mood.

As I drive under the arch of the esplanade, humming along with Counting Crows, the stress of the week melts away.

I worried that transitioning back to the trenches of academia would be difficult or that I’d struggle being away from the orchard for days at a time after having spent nearly every moment of the last year there. I worried about my ability to focus and about how Noah would cope.

But so far, it’s all gone well. I slipped back into my role in the department with ease. My position as the faculty advisor for the Holt chapter of Inclusive United as well. Aside from the ongoing department drama between Harry and Sybil, nothing much changed in the year I was gone.

If anything, the semester is going better than expected.

The part I dreaded the most—onboarding a new graduate assistant—is proving to be easier and more enjoyable than I could have imagined.

Sure, we got off to a rocky start. Upon reflection, I may have been a bit too harsh that first day.

But setting expectations early was imperative.

If she wasn’t going to rise to the occasion, I would rather know immediately.

Risen, she has.

I drive the winding road to Evercrisp Orchard without conscious thought, my mental energy monopolized by a certain redhead with a smart mouth and quick wit. She never cowered, despite the harsh introduction I offered that first week. She has a tenacity that’s rare in people her age.

People much, much younger than me.

The fire behind her eyes intrigues me. It’s like she’s all pent up after holding back and biding her time for far too long.

She’s got moxie, I’ll give her that.

She’s also got a body made for sin. Something I shouldn’t dwell on, given our working relationship. But I haven’t been able to get her out of my head since the day we met. After the interactions we shared this week, I don’t want her out of my head.

And then there’s the report she put together for the orchard.

It was gold. Well-researched, thoughtful, actionable gold.

I brought my copy with me tonight. Even if the class fumbles this project completely, Ms. Davvies outlined several brilliant ideas, as well as a strategic approach for reaching an untapped market.

Noah’s old-fashioned. He doesn’t love change.

He may have a healthy respect for my career, but he really doesn’t “get” marketing.

He’d prefer to do the same things his parents did to promote the orchard, despite all the advancements in technology and shifts in consumer behavior.

My hope is that if he reads the report himself, he’ll give it more consideration.

Meg saw the need to keep up with the times. She sided with Noah on a lot of things, but I could usually sway her to my side when it came to business. She even had him nearly convinced to hire someone to handle the orchard’s marketing before tragedy struck.

Then we were stuck, both Noah and I, in a thick quagmire of depression and grief.

That’s why I selected the orchard as this year’s business spotlight. It defies the ethical boundaries between my personal and professional life. But for months, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had to do it. So when I brought it up to Sybil and she gave me the go-ahead, I ran with it .

A fresh start for Noah. A last chance to pull the orchard out of the past and into a more sustainable business model.

A heavy exhale escapes me as I ease my Audi Q8 e-tron into its usual spot in front of the barn.

I’m halfway to the house, my overnight bag in one hand, when a familiar voice calls my name.

I turn on my heel and find Edna standing on the porch outside the store, hands on her hips and a scowl etched into the creases of her face.

Dread gathers in my gut, a steady drip percolating as I course correct and head toward the older woman.

“Edna,” I greet warily as I climb the porch stairs.

If she’s here this late, standing in the doorway like she’s been waiting for me, I can’t imagine she has anything good to say.

She wipes her hands on her apron, trepidation radiating from her. “It’s been a horrific day.”

I like Edna’s bluntness. She doesn’t bullshit or sugarcoat anything. So I’m not surprised that before I can ask her to define “horrific,” she dives into an explanation.

With a sigh, she leans against the doorframe. “A young woman came in with two little girls. Bella wasn’t here yet. A new employee, Tracy, was working the register.”

The wariness in her eyes causes my muscles to lock up and my pulse to thud heavily.

“The customer was asking about the family photo sessions. Said she couldn’t find information on the website.”

My gut plummets to the porch below me. Shit.

“Tracy didn’t know anything about photos, but when Noah walked in, cutting through the store after helping Johnnie with the cider mill, she stopped him and told the woman to ask him.”

I rub forehead, eyes squeezed shut, certain I don’t want to know how this story ends.

“So she did.” Edna lifts her arm and lets it fall with a huff. “The woman, with her two small children, mind you, asked Noah why there wasn’t any information about family photo sessions on the website. Said she’s been having pictures taken here with her kids every year since they were born. ”

Not every year, since Meg died before the sessions began last year, but that’s not the point.

My throat tightens, making my next words hoarse. “What did he do?”

Very little flusters Noah. Almost nothing triggers him. But those fucking photo sessions, questions about sign-ups…

Meg was an exceptional photographer. She’d host mini photo shoots through September and October, working ten-hour days each weekend, taking pictures for hundreds of families, then spending her weekdays editing the images.

I’ve never asked, but I’m almost certain the money those sessions brought in is what kept the orchard afloat over the last several years.

She offered the service for over a decade, so it’s no surprise that people continue to ask about it.

I suggested we put a statement on the website. I’ve told Noah a dozen times it would be helpful to have the information posted where people most often go to look for it.

He never fucking listens when it comes to Meg.

“He flipped over the kettle corn display.” Edna holds up a finger. “He fired Tracy on the spot.” She holds up another finger. “And then he tried to put his fist through the bakery partition.” She holds up a third, shaking her small, wrinkled hand in my direction.

Jesus H.

Noah .

As frustrated as I am, it kills me that mention of the photo sessions still sends him over the edge so quickly.

I want to go to him. Hold him. Make sure he’s okay. But I fight those urges, quelling my compassion in favor of a more pragmatic approach.

Noah made a mess. I’ll clean it up. He’s done it for me more times than I can count. He spent years doing it when we were teenagers. It’s my privilege and responsibility to repay the favor now.

With a sigh, I peer around Edna’s small frame and assess the damage. The partition that protects the pies is cracked in the middle, spiderweb fissures branching out on all sides. It’s been taped over with blue masking tape and thankfully doesn’t appear to have actually shattered.

“Troy from GlassWorks can probably do an emergency repair tomorrow.”

“I’ll call him in the morning,” she offers .

I bring the heel of my hand to my eye, gathering my thoughts. “If he gives you any pushback or tries to schedule you next week, remind him he owes me a favor.”

She nods stoically.

“The employee––Tracy?” I hedge next.

Edna shakes her head dismissively. “Bella says she was lazy and annoying anyway.”

I blow out a breath, letting my cheeks puff out.

Bella thinks everyone is annoying. She’s in her mid-twenties, with a dark sense of humor and even darker sense of style.

The goth girl vibes work for her, and everyone who knows her, loves her.

Noah trusts her judgment, but it helps that she’s his second cousin, I’m sure.

She’s also Edna’s granddaughter. “Being annoying isn’t exactly grounds for termination. ”

Edna shrugs. “She left quickly. Didn’t even put up a fight.”

I scowl. I’m not leaving any part of this unresolved, and I won’t let any of this come back to bite Noah in the ass. “Call tomorrow. Tell her she can either have her job back, or she can collect a check for the shifts she would have worked over the next two weeks.”

The older woman tsks in a way that takes me back a couple of decades. She’s chided me many, many times over the years. “She’ll just take the money.”

“Good,” I counter. “Then she’s out of your hair and has technically chosen to leave on her own.”

That earns me a smirk. “Clever boy.”

Grinning, I tap my temple. “Putting those two master’s degrees and my doctorate to work.”

The amusement doesn’t last long. Not when I remember the last issue left to tackle.

The woman who inquired about photos absolutely did not deserve the backlash of Noah’s outburst. And her children shouldn’t have had to witness a grown man having a meltdown and taking out his frustration on a tower of kettle corn.

I swallow past the secondary shame already sinking into my bones. “The family?”

I’m not ashamed of him, but the depth of our friendship means I can feel his visceral reaction burrowing under my skin.

“I heard the commotion and came out from the back, but they were already gone. ”

That’s what I was afraid of.

“When you call Tracy tomorrow, do a bit a digging, will you? Maybe they gave a name, or she remembers how they paid. I’ll ask Bella to check the transactions. If that doesn’t work, I’ll look through Meg’s records. Maybe I can track them down that way.”

Edna’s thin brows rise into her hairline. “And what will you do if we can track them down?”