Page 120 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

I grab his hand and force him to look me in the eyes. “It’s art, Logan.”

He flashes the smile he reserves only for me: open and vulnerable and exquisitely him.

“Art in Maplehurst,” I whisper, not only proud of him, but hopeful for myself.

“Maplehurst,” he confirms.

“It doesn’t bother you knowing Lydia will be so close? I imagine it’s a small community. You’ll run into her, surely.”

“Maybe if I’d seen her without warning. But I think the fact that I went to her first makes it easier. If I see her again, it’ll be on my terms.”

“That makes sense,” I say, thinking of the farmer’s market. I’ve caught glimpses of Blake and Liv in town a couple of times since and, even though we haven’t talked, I haven’t flinched, either. They’re here, and it’s not what I’d choose, but also, it’s okay.

Logan pulls back slightly, surveying the nearby trees, the branches already losing their scarlet leaves and dotted with unblemished pears. Mom, Val, and I have gotten down most of the fruit, but it’s slow going, especially with the shorter days.

“I won’t start the apprenticeship for a few months,” Logan says, “and I still owe you some time on a tree ladder.”

“Hey,” I say, grinning. “You want to help me pick pears in exchange for a room in my house?”

“I was thinking…” Logan brushes his nose against mine. “Maybe this time, we share.”

I close my eyes. “I’m a little messy, you know.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

My heart wobbles as the world splinters, light and shadows shifting. A butterfly lands on Logan’s shoulder, wings the color of spilled sunlight. I pull back to find another twisting around our bodies, flashing peacock blue. A third, as silver as moonlight on crystal pears, drifts between us, scattering the light to pieces that dance over our skin.

“Remarkable,” I whisper.

“Not just the butterflies.”

Then Logan’s hands close around my waist as he lifts me into his arms. He tilts up his head and I lower my mouth to his. And as we kiss, it doesn’t matter where in the world I am, because in his arms, I feel at home.

But, even better than that, I’m with him and I’m home.

Three Seasons Later

Golden light slants through porch railing, casting shadows across the sun-bleached boards and gilding our confetti cake. Insects hum in the grass like a winding-down engine, and the faint musk of dust and soil fills the air between the scrapes of forks, carrying voices, and laughter.

At the head of the table, Mom sits primly, expression hovering between a smile and a frown as she watches Val gesticulating with a fork and monologuing about pruning best practices. Logan’s hand rests on my knee. Across the table, Mason and Andrew track Val’s windmilling arms like they’re watching the progress of a Ferris wheel.

“And Ali here,” Val says, pointing a fork at me, even as she steers her voice to the rest of the table. “Never listens to my advice.”

“I listen to literally all your advice,” I protest. “What advice didn’t I listen to?”

“In the spring, I told you to prune aggressively while the trees are young and flexible. Otherwise, you’ll be in your seventies and wrestling with stiff wood.”

I roll my eyes. Val sits back triumphant, eyeing my mom, and I wonder if that entire speech was a setup to garner her reaction.

Mom, to the surprise of the entire table, crosses her arms and retorts, “Valentina. What on earth do you know about stiff wood?”

Mason guffaws, Andrew laughs, and Logan chuckles as Val blinks with barely repressed adulation before leaning in to kiss her temple. Mom flushes with pride.

“Damn,” Mason says, sounding half impressed. “Even I wouldn’t have dared a genital joke in this company.”

Andrew leans toward Logan and says, under his breath, “Now that the floodgates are open, though…”

“But now that the floodgates are open,” Mason bellows, “I have about—”