Page 20 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

Look at this, I type. Like the one we saw a few days ago, but thicker.

The message whooshes away.

“And here too,” Logan says.

I hurry toward him, and we peer into the thick canopy. The breeze stirs the leaves and high up—strangely—a pear gleams. It’s not matte like it should be or waxy like the others. At the base, that coating is shiny, like a pearl.

“What the hell?” I mutter.

My phone buzzes. That the only one?

No, I type, frowning. Many. Different trees, too.

Her dots bounce immediately. Need to see for myself. Be over in a sec.

“Can you reach it?” I ask Logan as I tuck my phone back into the shaft of my boot.

The pear with the pearly underside sits well above my arm’s length, but Logan is much taller. Yet even standing on his toes and reaching, he can’t skim it with his fingertips.

“I’ll do it,” I say when he gives up. I hitch my thumbs skyward as I click my tongue. “You can lift me up.”

Logan arches an eyebrow. “Lift you. Like with my hands.”

His wide palms have gone still by his sides. And then I’m picturing it—those hands, both unknown and achingly familiar, spanning my waist.

“Right, okay,” I stammer out. “Maybe you’d rather not…I have a ladder at the—”

He steps toward me, his gaze feathering with mine. “I’ll do it. If you want.”

Warmth rides up my neck. “That would be easier. Quicker, I mean.”

Logan takes another step and suddenly he’s towering over me, so close. Close enough to wrap me in his arms. We’ve been like this before. We’ve kissed and touched before. In the trees. Next to the burn pile. Under the old equipment shed during a thunderstorm, my shirt clinging to my back, his breath warm against my cheek. He used to trace the freckles on my shoulder like he was mapping an escape from Apple Valley. Once, we shared a pear from cold storage, so perfectly preserved that juice dripped down my chin and onto my forearm. Logan licked it off my wrist before kissing me, grinning like he couldn’t help himself.

But that was a different Ali. A different Logan.

Not this version of me, the adult with a college degree and a former client list and a broken engagement.

And not this Logan, with a rough scratch of beard, a slow smile, and lines around his eyes.

Still, I lift my arms and he reaches toward my hips. But then, as though thinking better of it, his hands rise to my waist, still hovering inches away.

“I, um.” He takes in a breath. “Please tell me how I should touch you.”

Heat singes my cheeks and a tingle traces the circumference of my waist. “I can…” I set a hand on his shoulder. It’s practically solid under my touch, and noticeably wider than I remember. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” he breathes.

Slowly, Logan squats and wraps an arm around my hips. My heart jackknifes as he squeezes close. Thank god he’s not looking at my face right now because I’m pretty sure my eyes would give away every one of my tortured thoughts.

“I’m going to stand now,” he says.

I nod in hurried little motions that he must see because he’s looking up at me now, and those golden flecks in his eyes are practically glowing.

He presses higher. I wouldn’t say that I am anywhere near weightless, but my mass doesn’t seem to bother him because soon he’s fully upright. Ignoring the squeeze in my chest, I reach as high as I can, skimming the smooth underside of the pearly pear.

The branch wobbles, the fruit darting in and out of my fingertips.

“A little more?” I say.