Page 47 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)

“Technically, I live in a condo downtown,” he says flatly. “One of those new builds near the esplanade. Walking distance to Mae’s. Exceptional amenities.”

He absently brushes the pad of his thumb over my knuckles, his focus set on our hands.

I keep my mouth shut, silently begging him for more information. I’m on the cusp of opening my mouth and urging him on when he tightens his grip, releases, and sighs.

“Noah’s world turned upside down a year and a half ago. I stayed here a lot right after it happened. My motivation was selfish. I felt like if I was physically here, at least I was doing something to help.”

That doesn’t sound selfish at all. If anything, it sounds selfless. Like something one would do for a brother. Or a lover .

Finally, he looks up, letting me see the vulnerability and candidness behind his eyes.

“Some days, when Noah couldn’t, I managed the business.

Other times, I served as an extra set of hands, or a silent companion, close by in case he needed me.

I couldn’t change the shape of his grief.

” He lets out a self-deprecating scoff. “But being here, knowing he wasn’t alone, curbed my own anxiety.

It gave me purpose when I was desperate to be strong for him. ”

Realization clicks into place. “Your sabbatical?”

He peers back at the barn, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I was here.”

I rock back on my heels, letting the confession settle.

It’s not unheard of for tenured professors to take sabbatical.

My dad took two during his career. The first involved three months of road tripping around the United States, traveling from university to university in a rented Winnebago we nicknamed Minnie Winnie.

Atty and I were six, and we hadn’t met Ty yet.

The other was longer. Nine months, I think. We were eleven, and Ty had just come to live with us. When questioned, my dad insisted he was burned out and just needed a break. But we all knew he wanted to be around more to help Tytus—and the entire family—adjust to our new living situation.

A gust of wind sends my hair flying wildly around my face and fallen leaves swirling around our ankles. Sweeping all my hair to one side, I look up at Mercer.

His attention is still set on the barn.

Tentatively, I cup his cheek. He flinches on contact, though he quickly sags and tilts his head, leaning into my touch.

“You care about him,” I surmise as I brush my fingers through the windswept tendrils on his forehead.

He catches my hand and brings my knuckles to his lips. “Deeply,” he murmurs, placing a chaste kiss across my knuckles.

Alarm bells ring in my head. Their closeness. The unusual connection between two people who are seemingly opposites… “Are you romantically involved? Or have you two ever––”

“No,” Mercer says with a small shake of his head. “We’re best friends, but just friends.”

My shoulders sag with unexpected relief.

He studies me, once again proving just how emotionally intelligent he is. He’s perceptive as hell, as if he can sense there are still questions lingering in the back of my mind .

His directness can be unnerving, but I can’t deny that it, as well as the ease with which he communicates, largely helped this rapport between us develop so quickly. I know that anything I want to ask, I can. Anything I need to say, he’s willing to listen to and consider.

“I like everyone,” he says. “I’m bisexual. Noah, though…” A good-natured laugh escapes him. “Noah doesn’t like anyone. Although he did marry a woman.”

I slap a hand over my mouth. He— what ?

Good grief.

Is it possible that for all this time, while I attributed the stammering to a crush, when I checked out his forearms or cuddled up in the flannel shirt I have yet to return, I’ve been lusting after a man who’s in a committed relationship?

Despite my panic, I keep my tone even when I ask, “Noah’s married?”

Mercer narrows his eyes. Dammit, the man is far too perceptive. He senses that I’m freaking, though he doesn’t push.

It’s another trait I admire. He’s an open book, but despite his natural ability to see beneath the surface, he doesn’t call me out.

“Noah was married. His wife died nineteen months ago.”

A pitiful gasp escapes me.

Good grief.

For a second there, I believed Noah Henry was a secret sleazeball for almost kissing me behind his wife’s back. But the reality is so much more tragic.

My heart aches for the gentle, quiet man. “That’s awful. What happened?”

Mercer peers over my shoulder at the house.

I turn, following his gaze, and find the man we’re talking about standing on the front porch, clad in his typical work jeans and flannel.

“That’s his story to tell.”

I nod quickly, understanding, more than he knows, how frustrating and dehumanizing it can be for others to share tragedies that don’t belong to them.

“Come on.” Mercer snags his oversized cloth bag from the ground. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

I adjust the strap on my shoulder and dutifully follow him along the pavers that make up the path to the house. As I track his long strides, it occurs to me that I still don’t know what he’s carrying.

“So what’s actually in the bag? ”

He glances back, wearing a sheepish expression.

“Laundry.” He shrugs. “I have a washer and dryer in my unit, but they’re on the small side.

I’ve been hauling my dirty clothes out here since high school anyway.

Sometimes Edna even agrees to fold them in exchange for organizing the supply closet.

But I don’t even bother to ask unless she’s in a good mood. ”

I giggle at the prospect of Mercer trying to convince Edna to do anything she doesn’t want to do.

With a renewed spring in my step, I trail along behind him, stealing one last glance around the property to appreciate the views.