Page 42 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

The so-called pool is basically the size of a clawfoot bathtub and barely large enough for Logan to fit alone. It’s certainly not big enough for both of us. At least not without me, say, straddling him.

Logan is taking in slow, shallow gulps of air as if threading a delicate balance between not breathing and not passing out. “You go first. I’ll wait.”

I squint at him. “That’s ridiculous. You’re miserable. I’ll wait.”

“For an hour?”

Okay, yes, that sounds like torture. My skin has started to burn, like maybe I scrubbed off too much and, instead of removing the skunk’s noxious oils, I only gave them an avenue to seep deeper. It’d be hell to sit on the grass with relief within reach.

“Fine.” I take a deep, steadying breath. We’re both adults here. “We’ll get in together.”

Logan, clearly still in both physical and some kind of mental agony, closes his eyes and swallows so hard I can see it trace down his throat. “Right. But I don’t know how much clothing we should wear.”

Um. Crap. Despite my fresh change of clothes, the smell has already seeped into the fabric. “Underwear?”

I’ve already seen Logan in a bathing suit—that time I dared him to jump into the irrigation pond with me. This should be the same thing, right?

He nods, jaw tight.

“You get in first,” I add. “Because you’re bigger.”

Logan stares fixedly for another moment before stepping toward the pool. Then he pulls off his shirt. And I try my best to look at the sky because I can’t trust my brain not to wander. Plus, it’s the respectful thing to do. Then again, I’m human.

My gaze drops. And my next few heartbeats flicker instead of thump.

This is nothing like that day in the irrigation pond.

Logan’s hair is still damp from our several showers, the droplets tracing the slope of his wide shoulders. His back muscles are defined, his frame fully grown, every line different from the boy I once knew. Moisture licks along the prominent ridges around his spine, soaking the waistband of his shorts as he loosens them. His plaid boxers sit low on his hips, clinging to defined hamstrings.

And shit.

This…this sure doesn’t feel like nostalgia.

I close my eyes and silently swear.

Logan plugs a foot into the pool, then another, and sinks down. He draws his knees toward his chest, like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible with that massive frame of his, but he’s too big for me to get in next to him.

“I think, um.” This was a terrible idea. “You’re going to have to straighten your legs.”

Logan’s jaw throbs, but he silently complies.

“Right.” My cheeks are as hot as a burn pile now. “That’ll work.”

Logan has his face pointed toward the sky as I tug off my pale blue linen dress. Underneath, I’m wearing white cotton underwear and a bra, both old and almost threadbare. Despite the heat in my face, I shiver as wind stirs the branches nearby, sending goosebumps racing across my skin. Then I move toward the pool, radiating in bright sunshine.

Fortunately, warm water scales my leg as I slide a foot into the surface. I bring the second leg in, and this time, my toes glance off Logan’s thigh. He tenses. I almost recoil but instead press forward, lowering myself until I hit the silty bottom.

Then, I settle into his lap.

Familiarity, I tell myself, clenching my teeth so hard I can feel my jaw popping. Emotional residue.

I can’t get caught in the riptide of the past.

But, right now, the past isn’t so much the problem as the way Logan is incontestably present. The backs of my legs are pressed against his quads. My hip slots into his torso. The creek’s faint current twirls around us, bringing with it warm silt that runs over my skin and slips between our bodies.

But also.

My lungs feel…They aren’t burning?