Page 61 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

Because he’s warm and close—his wide back and steady presence shielding me from the wind, carving out our own personal microclimate.

“Can I touch you?” I ask, then add quickly, “A hug, I mean.”

His jaw tenses, but he doesn’t pull away. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Now that I’ve put the thought out into the night air, I’m aching for his touch. I can’t stop thinking about the way his skin felt against mine when I was curled in his lap in the pool. The way he held me in his arms, steady and unyielding. The way he kissed me, careful and exploring.

I’m aching for it so much I can’t help but ask, “Why?”

He’s silent, holding back an answer I can see flickering on the tight set of his lips.

“Logan, tell me.”

His jaw works over a swallow. “Because I don’t have enough self-control around you.”

These words draw a ripple of heat across my skin, a pool of desire that tugs low through my belly.

“But not,” I clarify, as I inch closer, “because you don’t want to touch me.”

“Ali,” he says, and it’s a clear warning.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t.”

“Because I don’t want to hurt you.”

My chin lifts. “I can handle it.”

“You’ve already been through enough,” he says softly. “With your uncle. Your ex. I know you can handle it. The question is whether you should have to take on more.”

“Or maybe”—my hands close into fists—“the question is whether I want to.”

Logan’s holding himself so taut he might as well be a tree trunk, braced against the valley’s relentless wind.

“Maybe it will hurt,” I say pointedly. “Maybe at some point in the future, I’ll have to experience the pain of losing you for a second time. But that’s my choice, right? And that’s not happening now. Right now…”

I tip my face toward him. The flicker of a tremor passes over Logan’s lips, and in that moment, I see his resolve crack.

“Right now I’m saying I want you,” I finish. “Whether or not it’s going to hurt. I say yes.”

For a split second, even the trees seem to hold their breath, as if the orchard, too, is waiting for his answer.

Then, without a word, without looking away, he gathers me into his arms.

Chapter Fourteen

Logan’s hands span my waist and a weightless sensation soars through me as his arms draw me onto tiptoes. I cling to his shoulders and burrow my nose into the soft, worn collar of his shirt. When I inhale, I find a smell that is more than Logan. Or maybe it’s fully him: deep and earthy, like sweat and sagebrush, tinged with sweetness.

“You smell like an orchard,” I tell him, twisting in his arms so that we haven’t separated, but I can still lift my face to his.

Logan’s eyes are all shadow and weight, framed by dark lashes, but for those flecks of gold, still glowing.

He smooths back a wisp of my hair. “If I didn’t know you,” he says, “I would wonder whether that’s a compliment.”

“Hmm,” I say thoughtfully. “You know that’s one of your best qualities?”

“My smell?”

“Knowing me.”