Page 101 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

How much time do we have?

“When do you think you’ll leave?” I ask.

“I said I would help you pick. That hasn’t changed.”

“Thank you,” I say, although I haven’t missed the fact that he didn’t answer. We start picking in less than a week. A few weeks later, we’ll be done. And then what?

Maybe this is some kind of a test.

Last night I told Logan that I didn’t want to make any big, long-term decisions. That I wanted to live in the moment instead. But that concept was much easier to accept when the end felt far off and intangible. Before I understood how important it is for him to leave.

I’ve spent my whole adult life clinging to people. Places. Stability. Specific versions of the future. And maybe, in a different way, so has Logan. But where has that gotten either of us?

I twist in my seat so I can unclip my belt, letting it curl away from my shoulder as my eyes find Logan.

He tilts his head. “Ali. You have that look.”

“What look?”

With a thumb, he rubs the furrow between my eyebrows. “You get a little divot right here when you want to ask me something.”

I grab his wrist, capturing his hand next to my face. His fingers splay and I let my cheek sink into his callused palm. “That’s not my ‘wanting to ask’ divot.”

“What is it then?”

I scrape my fingernails along the rough material of Logan’s jeans, just inside his thigh. “That’s just me wanting.”

Logan’s breath stills as he takes me in. His hand wraps around the back of my head, fingers riding into my hair. That look tells me he’s memorizing, not just seeing. There’s reverence in his expression—something that undoes me more than his touch alone.

Then he leans in and kisses me, slow and sure.

And, oh.

It’s overwhelming how much I want him. Maybe it’s the emotional roller coaster we’ve been riding over the last few days interrupted by the stillness of this driveway. Or maybe it’s the fact that, somewhere deep down, my heart already knows that although Logan might not be cursed to leave or that I might not be fated to solitude, this is not going to last. One way or another, it can’t.

Logan tugs me closer and I’m propelled into his chest. In a moment, I’m straddling him again, steering wheel brushing against my hip, and his hands in my hair. When I lower myself, I can feel how hard he is. My throat releases an involuntary sigh against his mouth. There’s steam riding up the windows and we’re pressed so close together that I feel, rather than hear, him groan.

“Ali,” he says, that warning in his voice again.

“Don’t tell me to stop,” I say breathlessly between each kiss pressed close to his mouth. This isn’t the time for his self-control. “I will get out of the truck if you tell me to, but I—”

Logan’s hands move from my shoulders to the sides of my face, holding me steady in a tilting world. “I never want this to stop.”

I sigh with relief as my lips crash to his. Every hesitation we’ve carried folds into this single, unstoppable pull. The truck seems to shrink around us. Our exhales fog the window. Logan’s hands ride up my back, under my shirt. He unhooks my bra and his thumb catches my nipple. I feel the shiver all the way to my throat.

I want more of him. With each unsteady beat of my pulsing heart. Each swipe of my tongue. I want time.

“Is it too much,” I say, breathless, “to hope you have a condom in this truck?”

“Mason gave me a few,” he admits, hitching me upward so he can pull it out of his pocket.

And I practically laugh with relief. I reach down to his belt. It’s awkward, messy even, because we’re wedged in the tight space between his seat and the steering wheel. Still, somehow, I manage to unclasp his buckle and lift my hips while Logan pulls himself free of his zipper and rips open the wrapper.

I’m aching and pulsing with so much need and impatience that when I pull aside my underwear and lower myself again, he pushes inside me almost easily. I release a tight gasp, pulled in two with friction and pressure. Logan is watching us, watching me, eyes glued to my movements.

“Ali,” he says again, and this time it sounds so different in his mouth. Full of reverence.

I lower myself farther, feeling the push of pressure higher still, and maybe it would be too much if it also weren’t incandescently pleasurable.