Page 69 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“No,” Logan cuts in. “We’ve talked about respecting personal space and asking before touching.”

Mason ducks his head. “Right. That.”

They break apart, and I realize that Logan is…wearing a suit. I’ve never seen him in anything but cotton or flannel, yet it fits him beautifully, hugging his shoulders, tapering at the waist. Sharp lapels form clean lines that frame his wide chest. It’s perfect but for one detail: the sleeves are a hair short for his long arms. It’s a little flaw that makes him more Logan—and somehow more perfect—than any expensively tailored jacket ever could.

“A suit,” I say. “This is a first.”

He clears his throat, tugs at those slightly too short sleeves. “We agreed this event should be formal.”

I smile, still unable to look away, even though the words cursed to solitude are ringing in my ears. “I’m not complaining.”

Logan’s gaze runs down my dress, lingering on my waist and hips. Usually, I wear dresses that flow and breathe—bohos in bold patterns, swing dresses made of cotton or chiffon. But this one is reserved only for special occasions because it’s not like the others. It’s a rich shade of burgundy that plunges at my neckline and hugs my curves.

Logan’s grip on the mallet tightens. “I’m not either.”

Our eyes meet and it’s so intense that I can almost feel the echo of the blossoming tree. His lips crashing onto mine, like a dam breaking—hungry, flooding, no pause. His shoulder anchoring me against the trunk as his hand worked up my dress. His fingers finding me.

I shudder.

“Soooooo,” Mason says, “just to recap: Logan is wearing a suit, Ali has a banger of a dress, and I’m standing here, continuing to draw breath.”

“We’re all very impressed,” Logan mutters.

“Well, you should be,” Mason says, “considering the suffocating tension in the room.”

My cheeks warm. “Can we circle back to my dress?” I stuff my hands into the velvety material that clings to my hips. “Because I haven’t yet had a chance to point out that it has pockets.”

“Why do women always need to say that?” Mason asks.

“I think it’s in contract law,” I tell him. “A woman wearing a dress with pockets is obligated to mention the existence of said pockets upon receiving a compliment on said dress.”

Mason laughs.

“I really appreciate you coming all the way down here to help,” I add. “We desperately needed you.”

“No problem at all,” Mason says over his shoulder as Logan nudges his brother toward our bar—a wooden plank laid across two hay bales, wrapped in burlap to soften the edges. I follow in their wake and help arrange glasses as Logan slides the last keg off the dolly and Mason rocks another into place.

He glances up as he twists in the coupler. “You know, my eldest brother was a bit vague about why you’re having this fundraiser in the first place.”

“It’s a thin crop.” I repeat the line Val gave everyone while selling tickets. “And China had a big year. It was looking like we wouldn’t break even.”

“Huh.” From his squat, he slants his eyes at his older brother. “Logan didn’t mention any of that.”

I raise an eyebrow as Logan murmurs to me, “I don’t lie to my brothers.”

Mason, of course, doesn’t miss this, and shoots to his feet, eyebrows leaping into his hairline.

“Explain,” he demands.

“It’s your choice,” Logan tells me. “But he’d take it well.”

“He’d take what well?” Mason asks, voice climbing to a fever pitch.

I tip my head and stare at Logan for another meaningful moment, silently questioning, You sure?

He nods. “He’s always been into this kind of stuff.”

Before Mason can shriek out What kind of stuff, I say: “My orchard is cursed.”