Page 1 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

Fourteen Seasons Ago

I’m considering tying myself to a pear tree in a desperate ploy to stay on this orchard forever, but my mother has a talent for ruthlessly cutting through knots and dreams. When the woman has her sights set on a new move—in this case, Fairbanks, Alaska—she’s like a honey badger in a beige turtleneck. And after today’s phone call in which she informed me of my new fate, and then hung up when I started to cry, I need the comfort of the trees.

Climbing one will have to be good enough.

I brace my hands against the flaky bark of a thickly curved bough, mapping my ascent. A strong, steady branch crawls skyward, disappearing into olive-colored leaves and miniature bobbling pears. Casting a final glance over each shoulder, I hitch up my dress and hoist myself aloft, my sandals slipping for purchase. Then, with as much grace as I can manage, I swivel to a seat and throw my arms around the trunk.

Every ounce of tension dissolves from my chest as I hug tight and the wind carries the leaves in a whispered song. Here, in a tree, I’m not the girl who gets funny looks when she can’t remember her mailing address. I’m not the only high school student with an immaculate yearbook, a naked locker, or blank bedroom walls (because what’s the point of tacking up a poster if you’re going to take it down in a few months?).

I am a person with a past and a place. I have roots. I belong.

The wind picks up again, riffling my dress against my bare knees. Next to my fingertips, a caterpillar pauses its ascent of the trunk. It twists to administer a beady stare, like it’s here to report my misdeed to Uncle Martin. As much as my uncle might relate to my love of these trees, he’d still be disappointed to see me risking a branchful of product, particularly given we’re so near picking season.

Imagining a firm look in Martin’s usually twinkling eye is more than enough to make me consider climbing back down, but then—

“Ali.”

Crap.

I try to spin to see who said my name, but I can barely move my torso, wedged as I am into this U-shaped branch. Thankfully, the voice is male, so it’s not my honorary aunt (and uncle’s forewoman), Val. If Aunt Val found me up here, she’d tell me she doesn’t care that I’m in high school—if I’m young enough to be climbing a tree, I’m also young enough for a good spanking.

A figure ducks under the canopy.

My heart stills.

Because not only have I been caught, but I’ve been caught by him.

Logan.

I’m so used to watching him from far away, usually separated by rows of trees or a rolling hillside. Up close, I have to remember to breathe as I take in his face. His serious brown eyes, rimmed by dark eyelashes. His defined chin. The firm press of his full lips, like he’s holding in a secret.

“Oh, it’s you,” I say, striving for cool and indifferent even though my heart beats out the same words in a different rhythm.

Oh. It’s you.

Logan’s eyebrows pull together as he scans my spot among the branches. He must be done with the barn for the day because his T-shirt is damp with sweat around the collar, and he’s got a sketchbook tucked under an arm. It draws my attention to his biceps, where his skin transitions from light to honey tan, accentuating the rough edge of his muscles.

“You’re in a tree,” he observes.

I wince and scrounge around for a reasonable explanation for my behavior. But I can barely think. Logan’s presence is like a chemical bloom flooding this tree’s understory.

Which is probably why my next words are, “I’m looking for caterpillars.”

Now I want to kick myself. What am I going to say next? I’m planning to run them off with hand-to-hand combat?

Logan’s gaze brushes past my bare knees to the daisies on my sandals. “Without a ladder.”

This, I’ve noticed, is how Logan asks questions—without a question mark. Like they are a frivolous adornment at the end of an otherwise perfectly utilitarian sentence.

“What are you doing?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you be off on a hill somewhere, glaring at the trees while you draw and then rage-erase everything five seconds later?”

He blinks. “Specific.”

Warmth glances up my neck. “Just, uh, something I’ve noticed.”

Logan’s lips work like he’s silently tasting the words before he speaks. Then he says, “Maybe I’m just surprised you aren’t parading through the orchard with that speaker, half shouting, half singing about how you were born this way.”

Now it’s my turn to blink. “Only the trees are supposed to hear my singing voice.”