Page 59 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)

Chapter fifty

Noah

I t’s rare that I sleep well and even more unheard of to wake up as content as I did this morning.

It helped that when I opened my eyes, I found a gorgeous redhead nestled against my chest.

It’s been a long time since I’ve woken up beside someone other than Mercer, and that’s only when I’m shamefully crawling out of a low spell.

As I lay beside her, frozen, I ran through a dozen ways to face this situation in the light of day.

Eventually I settled on just going with it.

What happened last night in the field, then in the bathroom? None of it was in character for me. At least not the version of me that’s existed for the last nineteen months. But Sawyer has this way of seeping into the cracks between my broken pieces and making me feel capable and alive.

In the back of my mind, a voice whispers that this is wrong—that I should feel guilty—that I’m betraying the woman I lost and the relationship I thought would be my forever .

But Meg’s memory is bigger, louder than that voice, and there’s no doubt in my mind that she’d be disappointed as hell in me for how I’ve barely allowed myself to live since I lost her.

She’d hate the notion that the only way to honor her memory is to never move on.

I can practically hear her calling me out on my shit. Telling me she’s gone, but I’m not.

What’s the point of being alive if I’m not going to live?

I feel lighter this morning than I have in a long, long time. So despite the guilt and that insidious voice demanding I cling to the memory of my wife, I’m going to follow this feeling.

Rather than try to predict what comes next or attempt to control the outcome, I’ve accepted that a lot has changed in a short amount of time, and that’s okay.

I’ll embrace Mercer’s outlandish idea and see where this path takes us. Embarrassingly, I like the thought of a buffer between Sawyer and me. It feels less risky with Merce involved.

My intention is not to hold back, but if I withdraw, if there are days—and there will be—when I can’t be everything she needs, it feels better knowing someone else will be looking out for us both.

With a quiet optimism I haven’t felt in ages, I rise and start my day.

I’m screwing on the lid to my coffee mug when I sense her.

It’s not just the soft footsteps or the way her shadow slinks into the kitchen and disrupts the morning light.

It’s her presence. Her aura. Her soul reaching out, nudging mine in warm invitation.

“Good morning,” I say as she circles the counter and comes to a stop a few feet away.

She’s wearing one of Mercer’s shirts—a faded cream and black Oasis band tee that he’s had for years. Hell, he’s probably had it for longer than she’s been alive.

I strike that thought from my mind.

Sawyer is significantly younger than me, but in age only. She’s mature beyond her years, yet soulful and patient in a way that’s rare in people even my own age.

As I note the way the threadbare fabric clings to her breasts, a little zip of jealousy smacks me in the chest. It’s gone quickly, though, once I remember that she still hasn’t returned the flannel I lent her weeks ago.

My mood only climbs when I consider how, with any luck, she’ll be wearing one of my shirts the next time she stays over .

The next time.

As if it’s a given.

Turning to face her fully, I scan her from her bare feet, noting the bright-red polish on her toes—a color akin to a waxed Red Delicious—to the messy hair that’s twisted on top of her head.

She smiles up at me sheepishly, as if she, too, isn’t sure how to proceed.

“Coffee?” I offer.

She rolls her lips together and nods. “Extra creamer, please.”

Of course. Even if she hadn’t mentioned it, I could never have forgotten. I remember everything she does and says, the imprints of her etched into my mind with permanent ink.

The kitchen is covered with settling honey—a project I was in the middle of last night before she and Mercer arrived—making it appear more of a mess than it really is. Sweetness wafts from the open jars cluttering the counters as I turn my back and get to work.

I prepare her coffee the way she likes, putting it in an eggshell-white mug that’s one of my usual go-tos. She may be wearing Mercer’s clothes, but she’ll drink the coffee I make for her out of one of my favorite cups.

When I close the fridge and turn, I find her perched on the counter. I hand over the mug and, feeling bold, invade her space, hovering between her legs.

She eyes me and takes her first sip.

When a satisfied hum escapes her, my heart bursts with pride.

This close, it’s hard not to catalog features I’ve yet to allow myself to take in.

Her hair really is a mess. Her shoulders are relaxed, her light brown eyes alert.

The freckles on her nose and cheeks take me back to last night, to visions of the freckles sprinkled across her body like constellations.

She kicks her legs and takes another sip of her coffee, totally at ease in my kitchen. In my home.

How is it possible that she already fits? Like she’s supposed to be here?

Calmness settles in my bones, the usual volume of my internal thoughts and self-flagellation quieting to no more than a whisper.

With a yawn, she closes her eyes and stretches one arm overhead, causing her T-shirt to shift and expose more of her wide, creamy thighs.

I love looking at her.

But now I’m itching to touch her, too .

Gulping past my insecurities, I pull my shoulders back. And when she opens her eyes, I ask, “Sawyer… can I kiss you?”

Her answering smile sparkles like fresh dew in the early morning sun.

Eagerly, I cup the back of her head and press my lips to hers.

She opens for me without hesitation. Like she’s sure of us, like she trusts me completely.

I dip my tongue into her mouth, savoring just how soft and pliant she is. She tastes like a blend of minty fresh toothpaste and pumpkin spice–flavored coffee. She feels like healing and solace and home.

The last thought jars me, a sharp reminder that I used to kiss another woman in this kitchen, and that once upon a time, that other woman was my home.

It’s a knee-jerk reaction. One that I’m embarrassed by, honestly, because I came to the conclusion only this morning that Meg would want this for me and that I owe it to myself to follow this feeling.

Sawyer’s brows knit together, her hands loosening around my neck. Though she doesn’t release her hold. “Hey,” she says softly. “Where’d you go?”

I didn’t go anywhere. I simply gave in to the darkness that’s always clawing at me. Surrendered to the swamp of guilt and self-loathing that lords over me these days.

My throat tightens, making it difficult to swallow, and the muscles in my jaw and neck go rigid.

“Sorry,” I force out, running a hand through my hair. “I’m—I’m not sure how to do this. How to balance what I want with what I think I can have. This feels fast.” I drag my focus to her, only to find her watching me intently. “Like we’re rushing into something that won’t be enough in the end.”

She slides off the counter, placing her coffee behind her and tucks her hair behind her ears. Then, without breaking eye contact, she circles the counter littered with jars of honey and stops on the other side.

“What are you doing?” I ask, dread pooling in my gut.

She’s retreating already. Pulling back. Because I’m not enough.

She offers me a soft smile. “Showing you that I can give you space.” Her expression is gentle, patient, full of understanding.

“We don’t have to push this or keep going at the current speed. I don’t always need fast.” She smirks. “But I do want to keep going.” She licks her lips, her attention darting away for half a second. “That is, if you want it, too.”

It’s all I want .

And dammit, I have to fucking try.

Exhaling, I plant both hands on the counter and hang my head low.

This hurts, and there’s no easy way to navigate it. No instruction manual for the kind of grief and guilt I’ve let fester inside me for the last year and a half.

But despite how natural the darkness feels, as if it’s a vital organ, I feel less broken inside today than I did yesterday, or the day before.

She wants to keep going.

I want that, too.

“Thank you for not pushing me.” I sigh. “If it gets to be too much, or you don’t want to keep going—”

She’s back by my side, ducking under my arm and hugging my waist before I can finish the sentence.

“I’ve survived too much to scare easily,” she murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere unless you ask me to leave.”

She squeezes me tighter.

I drop my hands from the counter and return her embrace.

She wants to keep going.

And I want her to stay.