Page 94 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“I barely remember the woman,” he adds. “And I have no desire to change that, but even still, I know you’re nothing like her. That you could never be anything like her. I think if you talk to her, you’ll figure that out, too.”

Logan’s face goes slack for a moment, but when he raises his head, his gaze doesn’t go to Mason.

He looks to me.

I put a hand on his forearm and squeeze. “Whatever you choose.”

He holds my gaze. “Together?”

“I’m with you.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The storefront’s tall windows glow against the gray afternoon, Holloway Woodworks and Design spelled out in tarnished brass. A gust of wind scatters a handful of dry leaves across the sidewalk as a customer slips out the door with a twinkle of bells, letting out a slice of warm air. They pause to hold the door open for us, but Logan remains mutely fixed in place and I wave them off with a polite smile.

His eyes haven’t stopped tracing that brass lettering.

“Don’t feel like you have to do this,” I say. “We don’t even know for sure that this is your mom’s shop.”

“It is.”

“The point is that you’re not committed.” Logan’s mouth opens with a protest, but I cut him off. “And don’t you dare say anything about cursed pears.”

His fingers brush against the back of my hand. “What if I also care about cursed pears?”

“Do you?”

“You care about them, and I care about you.” He grabs my hand, threading his long fingers through mine. “Let me care about you, too, Ali.”

Warmth glides along my limbs as my heart cycles through pleasure and longing.

I let out a long breath and my hand relaxes into his. “Just this once.”

Logan keeps hold of me as he pushes open the door, eliciting another round of chimes.

“One moment,” someone calls.

Logan’s gaze roams over the burnished concrete, antique workbenches that have been repurposed as display tables, and ambient lighting from bronze sconces. When he reaches the wood samples—fluted columns, mantelpieces, and crown molding profiles—his already tense shoulders stiffen, registering a significance I can’t see.

A few moments later, footsteps signal the arrival of a woman with round cheeks, gray-streaked hair pulled into a loose bun, and a waxed canvas apron.

“Hello, there, what can I—”

Her easy, customer-service smile freezes, drops away.

Even if I’d never laid eyes on her before, I’d know this is Lydia. I can tell by the way her face has transformed, the way Logan’s entire body has gone rigid. I tighten my grip on his hand and he holds on right back.

“Logan,” she whispers.

Customers drift around the store, conversations buzzing around our pocket of frozen silence. Lydia’s fingers twitch uncertainly and she takes a tentative step toward the son she hasn’t seen in fourteen years. My mind goes red as I remember the sensation of Liv’s coconut-scented hug at the gala. I shift, angling between them.

Lydia stops. Stuffs her hands into the pockets of her high-waisted trousers.

“Planned or accidental?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“Planned,” Logan says flatly.

Lydia’s eyes flick to me, and I wait for Logan to decide how to introduce us.