Page 46 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)
Chapter thirty-nine
Sawyer
A s a familiar Dave Matthews Band song plays, I survey the console with all its blue LED lights and fancy knobs, then sneak another glance at Mercer. “I didn’t know they still put CD players in cars,” I tease.
“They don’t,” he grouses. With one arm resting on the open window frame, he navigates the streets I’ve come to know well. His grip on the steering wheel is tight, making the cords in his forearm tense each time he makes a turn. “I had it installed when I bought the car.”
I stifle a laugh, but when he turns, glowering at me, there’s no holding back.
“I’ve been collecting CDs since middle school,” he defends, giving me a look that suggests he blames me for the rise of digital music and streaming services. “I won’t just abandon physical media because it’s the trendy thing to do.”
I can’t resist. “Since middle school, huh? And was that during this century or last, Professor Eden?”
Nostrils flaring, he grumbles a “Little Nuisance” without taking his eyes off the road.
I turn toward the passenger window to hide my smile. He can call me Little Nuisance anytime .
It’s wild how so many of the things I loathed about him weeks ago are suddenly extremely attractive. Now that he isn’t acting as if I’m the bane of his existence or the grand saboteur of his plans, it’s easy to see his charm, intelligence, and sex appeal.
Two orgasms and a little detour to subspace will do that to a girl.
He’s conventionally handsome, but the air of pomp and confidence he possesses elevates him above convention.
His intensity still unnerves me sometimes, but I appreciate that I don’t have to read between the lines with him.
He shares what he’s thinking, and he doesn’t shy away from emotion the way so many people do.
He goes from serious to playful in a flash, but where he stands is always clear.
Our banter and his quick wit are unparalleled.
Debating feels safe, because he doesn’t take cheap shots or pull the rug out from under his opponent.
When I told him about my plans to film content at the orchard tonight, he insisted on tagging along. And that we ride together. Which is how I ended up in the front seat of his black Audi, coasting down the leaf-littered road on Friday evening.
With the windows down, the brisk fall air whips through the car, bringing with it the smell of burning leaves. As it mingles with the sharp, aquatic notes of Mercer’s cologne, I can’t resist inhaling deeply.
It’s a heady experience, being in such close quarters with him. Especially after our encounter on Monday.
This isn’t the first time we’ve seen one another since then, but it’s the first time we’ve been alone.
Mercer canceled our one-on-one on Wednesday morning, but he was very clear it was due to a department meeting he was required to attend, ensuring that nothing had changed since we parted ways on Monday.
I believe him. He’s refreshingly candid, as proven by the way he’s gone above and beyond to check in over the last few days.
And there’s no doubt in my mind he’s still fantasizing about Monday each time he glances my way. It made class more than a little tense, trying to keep my simmering attraction in check in front of an audience of thirty students, but I’m more than happy to be discreet.
He’s sent me three emails since Monday.
The first, to praise the orchard content that’s been collected so far and to encourage me to keep pushing the students to do more .
The second, to tell me he’s still thinking about the titillating conversation we shared on Monday morning, and how he can’t wait for our next engagement.
Finally, he sent me the link to the Holt University human resources portal, suggesting I peruse the pages that categorize graduate assistants as nonunion staff, as well as the policy on staff-student relations and employee relationships.
As I read through the information in the portal last night, relief washed over me. According to the university’s policies, Mercer and I are both considered employees of the institution. Although I am a student, I’m not his student, making whatever encounters we share above board.
I have no plans to go flaunting our hookup around campus, but it’s reassuring to know that being involved with Mercer Eden and daydreaming of our “next titillating engagement” won’t jeopardize my position or my education.
As Mercer turns into the gravel parking lot, I let out a contented sigh.
This place is special, and regardless of what happens with the class project or any other opportunity, nothing will keep me away from Evercrisp Orchard in the future.
Since my parents died, I’ve failed to find a place that felt like home.
Yet every time I arrive at the orchard, I’m bombarded with a sense of familiarity and contentment.
With each visit, that sense of rootedness grows.
The pull of this place is more visceral with every day that passes, bringing with it an awareness that being here is more than just a requirement for my job.
I want to be here; I want to belong to this place.
“You like it here.” Mercer catches my eye for a heartbeat before he turns to look over his shoulder and shifts into reverse. Bracing his right arm on the back of my seat, he eases the car into the spot. Even after he’s come to a full stop, he lingers, his eyes boring into me.
My heart rate kicks up a notch as I glance his way.
I’m not nervous in his presence anymore. Instead, I’m filled with anticipatory hope and this bright, vibrant flavor of joy I’d almost forgotten existed.
Being here with him has triggered a giddiness that bubbles to the surface and makes my tongue feel too thick to form coherent sentences.
We haven’t defined this connection we’ve been exploring all week, although Mercer made it clear that he doesn’t view us as temporary or disposable.
I appreciate that—his directness and the open communication from the jump.
But hooking up with my supervisor in his office and letting him cream my tits isn’t exactly the same as being in a committed relationship .
Not that I want to be in a committed relationship.
I don’t.
Or… shit. I guess I never have before. But what we’re doing doesn’t feel like anything I’ve done before. Maybe casual isn’t the only option I’m willing to consider.
“I really like it here.” I unbuckle, then shift in my seat, pulling one leg up and under me.
“More than that, I really like how I feel when I’m here.
” Maybe the confession is silly. Maybe the sensation is one few people would even notice, let alone talk about.
But for the last three years, I’ve endured a lonely existence.
I was isolated. Intentionally unseen, because that was the best way to ensure Atty, Ty, and I could escape that fateful night without any additional fallout.
I haven’t allowed myself to connect to a place or person in any meaningful way.
But now I’m here. And for the first time in a very long time, I like the way I feel. I don’t want to hold back anymore, and I don’t want to be afraid to admit that out loud.
Head lowered, I focus on the soft, frayed fibers along the tear in my jeans, plucking at a few loose strands to give my hands something to do.
Long, tan, hair-dusted fingers slide over my thigh and stop over the hole.
My breath hitches. His touch is casual, yet his grasp is firm and assured.
Instinctively, I lift my head. When I find his dark brown eyes boring into me, a small shiver dances up my spine.
“Astute observation, Ms. Davvies. It feels like more than just a place to me, too. It has for years.”
I readjust in my seat but cover his hand so he knows I want him right there. “For years?”
I’m dying to know what this haughty professor with the deliciously dirty mouth and sharp debate skills has in common with the gentle giant apple orchard owner who stumbles and stammers when he’s nervous.
“Noah and I met in second grade. We’ve been best friends for three decades.”
I make a garbled hum of acknowledgment.
Three decades ? That’s longer than I’ve been alive.
Mercer catches my chin and gives me a pointed look. “Yes, I said three decades. Now let’s go before you make another joke about my age.”
In response, I nip at his hand. His eyes heat and his lips turn up in a wicked smirk. But he leaves it at that, silently climbing out of the car .
I follow, then pull open the back door to retrieve my oversized tote while Mercer circles the vehicle and pops the trunk.
While I wait for him, I rifle through my bag, confirming that I have everything I need: extra phone for recording, charger, backup batteries, and tripod.
I plan to set the camera up against the barn, facing the vista. That’ll allow me to get the storefront and bakery in the shot, along with a lot of the orchard in the distance.
“Ready?” I ask as I adjust the strap of the bag on my shoulder.
“As I’ll ever be.” He heaves an enormous sack over one shoulder, then pushes a button to close the trunk automatically.
“What’s with the rucksack?” I ask as I follow him toward the house. “Are you moving in?”
He gives me a surly glance over one shoulder. “No. Technically, I already have a room here.”
My steps falter. “Wait. You live here?”
It would make sense. He and Noah are close, and he’s extremely familiar with the property.
That room I stumbled upon on the first floor of Noah’s house, the one that was part bedroom, part office, with the guitar and the neat and tidy desk…
could that be his? The books in piles on the floor would suggest it’s possible.
The yellowed Dave Matthews Band poster on the wall as well.
Now that I think about it, it smelled faintly like him, too.
He stops and turns, dropping his bag at his feet. With an arm outstretched, he drags his fingertips down my forearm and interlaces our fingers, then pulls me a bit closer.