Page 11 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“But,” June says. Teddy has clearly woken up because I can hear burbling noises emanating from the sling. His mom increases the pace of her back-patting and toe-to-toe-jumping. “I have another idea for you. That is, if your deal includes housing?”

I pause, not overeager to invite a stranger to live with me. Then again, I’m not sure how many more names Val can supply.

“We don’t have any cabins for pickers,” I hedge. “My uncle sold the tract of land they were on a while back. But depending on who it is, I could offer up a room in the farmhouse.”

With an encouraged nod, June drops her cheek to Teddy’s bald head. His babbles are now interspersed with hiccupy whimpers. “Well, then, my husband and I have this friend. He lost everything to a fire a week or so back, and he’s been sleeping on the couch and helping out at the stand in the meantime. He’s too polite to complain, but I can’t imagine this little guy is doing wonders for his eardrums.”

I smile, but when I don’t rush to agree, June hastens to add, “I wouldn’t offer this if he weren’t a really good guy, super trustworthy.” She nudges her chin toward the sign by the wagon’s wheel. “He’s the one who’s been carving that for us.”

My eyes find the nearly finished wood sign again. I take in the smooth, meticulous cuts. The way the letters are raised just enough to play with light and shadow. The careful flourishes at the edges—miniature broken hearts littered with apples.

And, in the corner, a tiny butterfly.

June is still talking in a confidential murmur. “And I’ll tell you, Ali, he could use a break. Life sure has had a way of kicking him down. First he lost his mom when he was barely grown, then his dad a few years ago, and now the fire and—Oh, here he is now.”

I whirl to find a broad figure, shadowed by the sun. My heart stalls into that weightless sensation you get at the apex of a roller coaster or a playground swing. Right before you start to fall.

Logan Wright is striding toward me.

He’s taller than I remember. His jawline, once bare, is covered in the scruff of a slightly unkempt beard. He’s wearing a plaid shirt, crisp enough to look ironed. The sleeves are rolled to the elbows, the fabric tapering over his now very broad chest. There’s still a serious intensity in the stroke of his mouth and the curve of his eyes, but it’s all hardened now, etched into place by fine lines.

One thing hasn’t changed a bit, though. He’s still the most attractive man I’ve ever seen.

And now he’s in front of me, a loose grip on some kind of metal-tipped tool, gazing back at me with the same Oh shit expression I think might have come over my face.

“Ali Reid.” Logan’s voice is maybe a touch deeper now, but my name sounds just the way I remember on his tongue. A fullness around the vowels, a deep baritone on the consonants.

Somewhere I register that a customer has approached the counter and June is chatting brightly with them. But I’m trying to figure out what to say.

I’m trying to remember how to breathe.

If Logan registers my awkward silence, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he’s looking at me like I’m the first green shoot following a hard winter.

“Hi,” I finally manage. It’s not revelatory, but at least it’s a well-known word in the English language.

Logan takes a small, almost unconscious step toward me. “You came back.”

The words dredge up memories. An idling car in the driveway. A tearstained kiss. Sobs racking my shoulders as I dragged my feet across asphalt.

“You, too,” I manage.

“Never left, actually.”

I blink, itching to ask him about that, to resume a conversation that’s more than fourteen years old, picking up like we’ve gotten a phone call disconnected. But instead, Logan says, “And you cut your hair.”

I touch the ends of my curls. I started chopping it short a few years after college. One of the partners said it made me look brighter. “After fourteen years, I can’t imagine that’s the only difference.”

“Nope. I count six so far.”

Warmth rides up the back of my neck. “Hopefully not too many for the worse.”

His gaze hasn’t released mine. “Haven’t found one yet.”

And maybe it’s because June’s customer has cleared off and she’s turned back to us—bouncing from foot to foot with a bemused expression—but the way Logan’s looking at me feels intimate enough that warmth spills over my cheeks.

I clear my throat. “You’re in the sign business now.”

He blinks, a microscopic reorientation behind his otherwise controlled expression. Then he says, “Only circumstantially.” He nods toward June. “A small installment on a second debt to the Harts.”