Page 72 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“You were the one who asked me to dance,” I remind him.

“You’re in that dress,” he argues.

I grin. “I see you’re not such a bastion of self-control in the face of my pockets.”

He chuckles as we draw apart, and I feel his gaze skate down the length of the fabric before he curls me in close again. “I never stood a chance.”

As we move, I’m too aware of my pulse. The strong planes of his torso. The cuff of his jacket tickling the inside of my wrist.

The music shifts, easing into something softer. A few other couples have drifted to the floor, but they barely register. All I feel is Logan—his hands steady on me, the warm press of his body, his earthy scent. I want to hold this sliver of time close, tuck it somewhere safe and let it thrum over my skin forever.

“What does this mean for us?” I ask, voice unsteady, even though I know there really isn’t an us. It’s only been a few weeks, and I still have so much to learn about this man who’s holding me like he’s afraid I might break. He’s different than his teenage self—more assured, more stoic, more magnetic. But if this curse is real, then why would I submit myself to another heartbreak, knowing that our end is inevitable?

I watch him working over thoughts, cycling through unseen emotions and contingencies. There’s a definable moment where something solidifies and he seems ready to speak, because his lips part.

But then two things happen in quick succession.

Over my shoulder there’s a bang, followed swiftly by a loud curse.

“Damn it,” Logan mutters as he releases me. Behind us, Mason is now trying to use an old rag to smother a keg that’s spraying foam. “I’ll be right back.”

And just as Logan strides off, two figures at the door catch my eye.

A short woman with even shorter blond hair shakes rain off her coat. Behind her, a dark-haired man murmurs something to Val. And my aunt, who has always struggled with names and faces, is clearly oblivious to the identity of the two people in front of her. She marks her clipboard with no more than a perfunctory nod.

It’s Blake and Liv. They’re here together.

Chapter Seventeen

As Liv searches the crowd, one of her hands squeezes into a fist. It’s a tell, the same motion she used to make when she was working herself up to text a guy or check her bank account. Then, Blake grabs her hand, Liv’s fist relaxes, and their fingers weave together. The barn’s twinkle lights brighten and fade and for a moment the whole scene strikes me as nonsensical. I can’t understand why they’re here. Or why they’re holding hands. Blake doesn’t even like holding hands.

But then they ease into the room and heaviness settles into my chest as everything catches up. They’re here together. And they’re looking for me.

What do I do? Hide? Help Logan with the keg? I can’t imagine it will take more than two adults to get it under control, which means I’ll just be standing idly and in open sight.

I certainly can’t stay here. They’ll intercept me in the middle of my crowd of guests and I’ll be imprisoned in a spotlight of attention. These people paid good money to pull my farm out of its debt burden and I’m not going to punish that with a scene.

There’s only one option.

Mustering the most natural smile I can, I stride toward the pair, angling to intercept them near a hay bale topped with pumpkins. I’ll get this over fast. In and out.

This is fine.

From a few feet away, Liv’s eyes catch mine. Her smile widens and she tugs Blake’s attention in my direction. He releases her to cough into his fist.

“Ali!” Liv says, sounding almost breathless. “Hi.”

Maybe it’s muscle memory, or awkwardness, or maybe Liv genuinely thinks it’s an appropriate greeting, but the next thing I know, she’s diving in for a hug. Her woolen sweater scratches against my face as the familiar, sickly sweet smell of coconut shampoo strangles my nostrils. My body feels hot and tight all over, and I stand limply until she releases me.

When we step apart, Blake smiles.

“Hey, there,” he says with confidence that pairs perfectly with his mirror-polished oxfords and tailored suit in a muted navy. “How are you doing?”

If he’s uncomfortable, he’s hiding it well. It’s one of his superpowers—always knowing the appropriate thing to say with precisely polite phrasing, even when confronted with a demanding professor or a disagreeable neighbor. It’s something I used to admire, but it feels different now. Less respectful and more disingenuous.

I clear my throat. “Hello. You’re here. Both of you.”

Liv bites the inside of her cheek. Her hair is longer than when I last saw her—just brushing her shoulders now—and a wisp sticks to her forehead from the rain outside. She tucks it behind her ear. “I know this might be a little out of the blue. But we heard about the fundraiser and we wanted to be supportive. You know, to show that we’re—we’re here for you.”