Page 71 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“Good,” I say, returning it. “I wanted you to myself, anyway.”

He takes me in with his severe gaze, but he still holds himself back, a few determined feet of space between us. Not for the first time this evening, I think about the curse. And the tree. And whether Logan will insist on going back to distance.

Then the song changes. It’s Adele and she’s singing about someone like you—timeless and emotional—but I’m hit with a different kind of nostalgia. A memory of this song, a couple of days before I was supposed to leave for Alaska. Those late afternoons, Logan and I would carry my portable speaker to the creek after we each finished our work. That day, we settled back in the sun-warmed grass and Logan’s fingers tangled in my hair and clouds roved overhead. Adele’s lyrics about heartbreak and yearning and a long-unspoken grief unspooled in the air between us.

“Is she singing about us?” I asked—pure adolescent self-centeredness, utterly sincere. “What’s coming for us?”

Logan, who clearly hadn’t yet developed his adult edge of realism, said, “I think she is.”

And I sighed wistfully and he kissed my hairline and we both ached.

“Do you remember this song?” I ask him now.

“Ali,” he chides.

“Steel trap memory again?”

“Only sometimes.”

I smile, but there’s an ache in my chest. “It wasn’t about us, not exactly. But it wasn’t entirely off base.”

Something flashes in Logan’s eyes as his throat works through a swallow. For a fleeting moment I’m convinced he’s going to step away.

But instead, he offers a hand. “Dance with me?”

I feel that gesture like a steel rod through my sternum, and I put my hand into his. An electric crackle rides up my spine as our fingers meet.

“I didn’t know you dance,” I whisper.

Gently, Logan tugs me forward, one hand on my low back, steering us toward the entirely empty dance floor.

“Not usually,” he says. Then his lips barely brush against my ear. “But tonight, I do.”

He gathers me into his arms, and we’re moving together. My cheek finds the slope of his shoulder. His hands settle at my waist. The music carries us in slow, unhurried circles and I breathe him in. Despite the suit, Logan’s familiar smell meets me, that hum of cedar and wind-worn cotton.

Across the floor, I catch Mason at his bar, a glass in one hand and a watchful gaze trained on both of us. I have only a moment to register an oddness to the tilt of his head before Logan spins me again so I’m angled toward the barn doors instead.

“I talked to Val about the curse,” I say softly. “And I was right.”

“That it forces people to leave?” he asks, and even though his tone is soft, it carries the same quiet doubt he had about Saturn placements.

I nod into his chest, even though I still have more questions than actual answers. How strong is it? How fast does it work? What’s the trigger? Does the person get an undeniable urge to leave or will circumstances eventually compel them to do so?

“That’s what my uncle thought happened to your mom,” I say. “And mine.”

Logan hums thoughtfully, considering, but not quite relenting.

“And maybe,” I say tentatively, “it’s what already happened to us. When we were kids.”

Now he does pull back, but only so he can look down at me. “You think?”

“I don’t know. Val said Martin thought the curse only affects the owner, but she also said no one understands the full extent of it.”

He hesitates before saying, “I would have left with you, if I could.”

“And I would have stayed, if I had the choice,” I answer softly. “It’s what I wanted. More than anything else.”

And even though he’s leaving—cursed to leave—and even though this might be exactly the mistake I made fourteen years ago and again two days ago, I don’t care. I ease in closer, my hand slipping higher on Logan’s shoulder. I hear him draw in a breath as his fingers tense at my low back.