Page 15 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“Morning,” he says.

He’s trimmed his beard since yesterday. More of his face is visible and it’s unfairly good—the line of his jaw sharper, his lips easier to read. One side of that mouth hitches higher. His familiar half-crooked smile, framed by the sweep of my trees, triggers something deep and primal inside my brain.

Oh. It’s you.

“You’re here early,” I say, lifting my hat just enough to slide my fingers underneath and push my curls off my face. “Calling my bluff?”

“I know better than to think you’d joke about these trees.”

“Good.” I grin. “Farmers don’t mess around about sunrises. It’s in the standard operating procedures.”

Logan’s eyes move to my knees, the slice of exposed skin just between the hem of my flowy midi dress and the top of my boots. “And are florals part of those procedures, too?”

I gesture at my hem. “This is what we call a ‘temporary modification to protocol.’ ”

For most of my life, I’ve worn clothes that blended in—when you’re new to a place, the goal is not to stand out any more than you already do. Even though I stayed for years in Florida, I kept the same wardrobe of beiges and neutrals, partly because it was what I had and partly because I worried other people would find it jarring if I started wearing polka dots.

On the orchard, my attire has always been as loud as I’ve wanted.

It started the day I found a vintage dress in the back of a closet—possibly something that had belonged to my mom or, more likely, my grandmother. Tentatively, I asked if I could have it and Uncle Martin clapped his hands and told me, “Wear it now if you want!”

“But we need to work,” I said.

He guffawed. “Who’s going to care? The trees?”

That year for my birthday—in July, so I nearly always got to spend it on the orchard—he bought me four more dresses. And I never went back to pants.

“Ali,” Logan says. “Did you grow up to be a lawyer?”

“Consultant, actually,” I say.

He studies me. It’s the same unbroken concentration he used to bestow on his notebooks when his parents called out measurements, or on his sketchbook as he frowned at a curling leaf, half shadowed in dappled light.

“Unexpected,” he says without elaborating.

I cross my feet and lean against a tree branch to steady myself. “Did you have something else in mind?”

“I’ve pictured you in all sorts of careers,” Logan says. “But none of them quite fit.”

And there’s something about the way he says this—I’ve pictured you—that makes my next breath feel sharper in my lungs. Maybe because I’ve pictured him in a thousand lives, too. Although none of them were here in Apple Valley.

“And how about as a farmer who gets up at dawn and confuses the neighbors by wandering around her orchard in a sundress and boots?”

Once more, his gaze drags downward, tracing the A-line of my dress, and pausing briefly at my waist. Heat trails in the wake of this path.

“Yes,” he says evenly. “I can picture that one just fine.”

My insides curl like I’m that leaf, half-baked in sunlight. I clear my throat. “Want me to take you back to the house? Or are you hungry? I got some extra scones at the farmer’s market yesterday.”

Now his gaze clears my shoulders, pinging down the rows that lead to the barn and the farmhouse beyond it. His expression changes again, shifting from the crooked smile to a quiet wariness. I’ve noticed this too has become more pronounced with age: Logan takes his time to think. He never answers a question, even a simple one, until he’s examined it from every angle.

His energy firms, like he’s readying to yank a splinter out of his palm.

“How about company, instead?” he asks. “With the wandering.”

“That works, too.”

After Logan parks his truck in the grass, we start down the nearest row. Side by side, we steer around the sprinklers, boots crunching over the occasional dry leaf and snapped twig.