Page 39 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)

Chapter thirty-three

Sawyer

A n effervescent glee erupts inside me as Will and Fung show me the mini time-lapse video they have been working on for the last hour.

“This looks so good. Well done.” I hand Will his phone, then move on to check in with the next group, a spring in my step.

It took a few weeks for the students to refine the strategic marketing plan for Evercrisp Orchard.

I’m loath to admit it, but Mercer was right.

I could lead these horses to water, but they’d have to figure out the drinking part on their own.

It’s been a test of patience and tenacity not to just take over and tell everyone exactly what I want them to do.

Mercer is satisfied with the class’s plan, so I’m trying my best to be okay with it, too. His comment about the orchard’s need for marketing in the future is the keystone I cling to when I get frustrated.

Today, it hit me that I haven’t been giving them enough credit.

Divided into six groups, they’ve created a ton of content during our two site visits. And the photos, video, and B-roll they’ve captured to bolster the orchard’s online presence are incredible .

Now that all the strategies are set, they’ll create and schedule content to share on social media through the end of the season. In two weeks, we’ll shift gears and focus on planning a massive late-night event.

The idea is similar to Cam’s original suggestion.

By getting hundreds of students to the orchard for this event, we can create a memorable experience and tap into the organic marketing potential.

The guests will create content that’ll boost attendance, inspire repeat visits, and help the orchard end the season strong.

The details of the event and promotion are up to the students. Mercer’s made it clear that I have to step back and let them handle it.

It’s probably for the best. I don’t know what’s popular with other people my age anyway. Based on the last discussion I sat in on, the winning event idea involves some sort of zombie apocalypse flag football mashup. Weird, but if it works, I’ll be thrilled.

“Morning, Edna,” I call out as I enter through the bakery entrance.

“Sawyer,” she calls back from where she’s rolling out crust behind the counter. “Back again already?”

I was here with the class on Monday. Then Cam and Kai talked me into coming back for pie on Tuesday evening.

“Back again. Noah needs to put me on the payroll.”

Chuckling, she wipes her hands on her apron and waves me over. “Here. Try this.”

She holds out a plate with a small slice of pie centered in the middle. It looks and smells like apple, with a syrupy substance drizzled on top and what I think might be a sprinkle of sea salt. It looks almost too pretty to eat, and it smells heavenly.

“I’m okay.” I lift both hands. “I need to check on the other group of students.” My stomach chooses that moment to call me out, growling in protest, and I flush with embarrassment.

“Nonsense. You can spare five minutes.” She lifts the plate higher. “This is a new recipe. Something I came up with specifically for all the youth who have been stopping by.”

I fight back my smile. By “all the youth,” she really means Cam, Kai, and me. But hopefully, by semester’s end, we won’t be the only young people making frequent visits to Evercrisp Orchard.

“Come back here,” she insists .

Tentatively, I push through the swinging partition that separates the seating area from the production side of the bakery, peering over my shoulder like I’m committing a crime and don’t want to get caught. “I’ll try it. But let me at least photograph it first.”

Edna cocks a brow, but she doesn’t argue.

I take the plate and grab a clean dish towel, then arrange them both on the counter by the window.

“No, wait,” Edna fusses, shuffling closer. “There’s flour all over that surface.”

I smile at her over my shoulder. “I promise it’s okay. That’s part of the appeal.”

I take several pictures and try multiple angles, even using a towel to filter some of the intense morning light coming in from the window. When I think I have what I need, I swipe through them and quickly add them to the cloud for the class.

Once I’ve pocketed the phone, I eye the pie, then glance at Edna again. “You’re sure?”

Hands planted on her hips, she gives me a stern look. “Eat the damn pie, girl.”

I bite back a laugh. Who am I to argue with a command like that?

Without further hesitation, I pick up the plate and accept the fork she offers.

The moment the first bite hits my tongue, I’m sold. “Edna.” My eyes flutter shut as I savor the salty, sweet deliciousness. “What is this?”

“Salted caramel apple pie.” The woman practically preens. “Made with the first Honeycrisps of the season.”

I reload my fork, this bite much larger than the first. It tastes better, too, with more ooey-gooey caramel drizzled over the buttery crust. A moan escapes me this time, but I’m not even sorry. The pie is honestly that good.

“Sawyer?”

At the sound of the deep, familiar voice, I snap my eyes open.

Noah stands on the other side of the counter, wearing a confused frown.

Good grief.

My cheeks heat as he stares at me. The man very clearly caught me moaning over pie.

“Hi,” I choke out.

Edna, who’s not bothering to hide a snicker, circles me, returning to her work. Like she isn’t the reason I’m behind this counter in the first place .

Noah watches her, eyes narrowed, then crosses his massive arms over his chest and homes in on me. “What are you doing back there?”

“Um…” I wince. “Taking pictures for the project. And trying Edna’s new recipe.”

“Well, get out,” he snaps.

Edna gasps. “Noah Augustus. Do not scold her,” she admonishes. “If you want to take your grumpy attitude out on someone, you take it out on me. I asked her to come back. Practically dragged her here myself.”

I stifle a laugh. Drag me, she did not. All she did was tempt me with sweet treats. Nevertheless, her willingness to come to my defense warms me all the way through.

Noah draws out a long sigh and rubs at his brow. Evenly, he says, “Sawyer, will you please come around to the other side of the counter? I understand Edna lured you back there, but my insurance adjuster won’t care about that minor detail if you get hurt.”

Oh.

Suddenly, Mercer’s lecture about where students could and could not go during site visits, specifically because of safety concerns, surfaces in my mind.

Shit.

Cringing, I set my plate down and scurry back to the customer side of the bakery.

“Hold it.” Edna bellies up to the counter and holds my half-eaten pie over the glass partition.

Sheepishly, I take the plate. Rather than release it when I’ve got a good handle on it, she holds on, forcing me to inch closer.

Only when we’re both leaning over the glass case, our eyes locked, does she whisper, “Don’t let his gruff exterior scare you. He’s as sweet as this pie in the middle.”

Eyes twinkling and lips tipped up, she finally releases the plate.

I turn around slowly, a little wobbly. Not only am I still flustered after being caught mid-orgasmic bite, but now the unsolicited advice has left me a little off-kilter.

It’s silly, really, her concern. I don’t find Noah the least bit off-putting. His softer side was on full display the day I met him, and my fondness for him has only grown over the last several weeks .

I come to stand next to Noah, avoiding eye contact and at a loss as to what to say.

Thankfully, he breaks first, nodding toward my partially eaten pie. “You gonna finish that?”

I study it, then him, my nose scrunched.

He gives me a pointed look, then waves at a table on the opposite wall. “Sit down and eat. I was coming in for coffee. Want some?”

I perk up, any unease plaguing me instantly vanishing. “Yes, please.”

Once I’m seated, I dig back into the salted caramel goodness Edna has created. It’s genius, honestly. Creating a recipe based on a beloved coffee drink. I bet the students could do a whole social media series featuring the bakery offerings.

“How do you take it?” Noah asks me from behind the counter.

Straightening, I give him a smile. “Do you have any fall syrups or sweeteners?”

“I—we’ve—there might be a bottle of pumpkin spice cream in the fridge,” he stutters out. “Will that work?”

“That would be perfect.”

He turns on his heel and takes off. Edna, who’s now cleaning up, follows him with her eyes .

My heart aches in the best way. It’s clear she cares for him in a deeply rooted, motherly way. Even the scolding proves it.

I’ve finished my pie by the time Noah returns, holding out a to-go cup.

“Try this.”

Standing, I accept the proffered tumbler and take a tentative sip. The pumpkin balances perfectly with the warm notes of cinnamon, nutmeg, and clove, the flavor instantly bringing a smile to my face.

“Oh. That’s perfect .”

“Yeah?” He breaks into the brightest smile I’ve ever seen from him.

I survey him over the lid as I take another drink. “Yes. Thank you.”

For a moment, we stand like that, sipping our coffees, looking at each other, then quickly glancing away.

I’ve silently convinced myself to say goodbye so I can check on the students assigned to the apple room when Noah inhales sharply, like he’s going to speak.

Breath held, I wait. Thankfully, he doesn’t keep me hanging long. “Are you busy right now?”

I deflate a little. “I need to check on some of the students.” Coffee in one hand, I pick up my plate, intent on setting it and my fork in the dish bin by the garbage.

Noah takes it out of my hands and does it for me. When he turns back, he looks at me, then at the floor. Then, with a curt nod, like he’s garnering his courage, he steps up to my side.

“After that, though? Do you have a few minutes? I want to show you something. But only if you have the time.” He scratches at the back of his neck, his head lowered. “It’s not that big of a deal if you can’t…”

He’s babbling. He does it pretty regularly. I haven’t yet determined whether he’s always this flustered when he talks to people, or if it’s specific to me.

A tiny part of me hopes it’s just for me.

On instinct, I rest my hand on his exposed forearm just below where the rolled sleeve of his plaid flannel rests.

He tenses on contact but quickly relaxes and straightens.

“I have time. Let me just swing through the apple room.”

“I’ll come with you,” he insists.

I dip my chin, and after one more sip of coffee, I skirt around him.

He follows, his hand finding the small of my back.

It’s a chivalrous gesture, and it could mean nothing.

But he’s touching me. My instincts are telling me to slow down, to maybe lean into his hold, but I keep my pace steady, afraid I’ll spook him.

We walk like that for three paces before I’m the one who gets spooked. Discreetly, I take a bigger stride, putting more space between us.

On the way to the apple room, we pass the holiday décor as well as shelves of baking mixes and rows and rows of honey.

The space where the students are working is much more bare.

It’s a utilitarian space where the staff is constantly cleaning, sorting, and bagging apples to keep the crates stocked on the weekends.

I approach slowly, not wanting to disturb them or interrupt if they’re actively recording.

Tytus isn’t in this group, which gives me a strange sense of unwarranted relief. It shouldn’t. He knows Noah owns the orchard and that I’ve met with him on several occasions for this project. But a little voice in my head tells me that I should keep the connection I share with Noah to myself.

A woman my age with jet-black hair, blunt bangs, and a bold assortment of facial piercings stands behind a little counter, turning the handle of an apple peeler. “How many more apples are you going to make me peel? ”

The group lead—Max, I think—replies on behalf of the others. “Um, just one or two more. If it’s not too much trouble. Ma’am.”

The goth girl freezes, her eyes narrowing to slits. “Ma’am? Seriously? Did you really just ma’am me?” She plucks another apple from the basket beside her, slams it onto the work surface, then stabs it with a paring knife.

Harsh.

“Bella,” Noah says, his tone calm but serious. “Cut it out. You promised you could behave if I put you in charge of a station.”

She sticks her tongue out at him in response. “Relax. I haven’t even tried to talk any of them into sticking their fingers or other appendages”—she glares at poor Max—“into the peeler. This is me behaving.”

With a pointed look at the woman, Noah cups my elbow and guides me away. “They’ll be fine,” he mutters.

I’m silent as we wind through the storefront and toward the exit, but my mind is brimming with questions.

And, unfortunately, images of an unidentified underclassman trying to impress her or the group by sticking his manhood into an apple peeler.

A shudder works its way through me, and I bat the visual from my mind. None of them are that stupid. Right?

Once we’ve stepped outside, I ask, “Has Bella worked here long?” I can’t imagine sticking out my tongue at a supervisor. But maybe there’s a connection there I don’t know about. Maybe he has a thing for younger women in general.

He laughs under his breath. “She’s worked here for at least a decade. Probably longer.”

I frown. More than a decade? She can’t be much older than I am.

“Bella is Edna’s granddaughter,” he clarifies. “And my second cousin.”

Ah. They’re related.

A little ripple of relief works through me. It’s ridiculous, since I have no claim on this man, but it’s there, nonetheless.

“You’re sure you’ve got time?” Noah asks as we make our way into the side yard. The orchard is straight ahead, the rolling vista off to the right behind the house.

I check my phone, then make a show of setting an alarm so I don’t lose track of time. The class has another hour here, and my only real job is to check in with all the groups and make sure everyone is staying on task, which I’ve already accomplished .

With a hand shielding my eyes from the sun, I smile up at him, noting how light his blue-gray eyes look. “I’ve got an hour, and I’m all yours.”