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"Ethan."

"Yeah."

"My grandmother's trees are watching."

He breathes out a laugh against my temple and rests his forehead on mine. "She did say I couldn't be trusted."

"She was an excellent judge of character."

"Earlier you said she wasn't."

"I've revised my opinion."

When he lifts his head, his smile is slow and lazy. "Lead the way, then. Before I forget I was raised with manners."

We climb the third row with wet grass soaking our boots and cold stinging our faces. My skin feels awake in a way it hasn't in years. He keeps one hand at the small of my back, steady. Whenever I slow, he slows. When my boot catches a root, his fingers close around my elbow and stay there after I've found my balance.

The farmhouse comes out of the dark at the top of the hill, white and sagging, with the porch light off and the swing creaking on its chains. Familiar enough that I have to stop for a second on the bottom step.

He stops one step below me. This puts us almost eye to eye, with the whole orchard black behind him.

"Last chance to be sensible," he says, rough.

"I've never been sensible in my life."

"I find that very hard to believe, Ms. Whitaker."

"How do you know my last name?"

"You told the whole tent." His mouth curves. "You said it to Danny when he asked about the cider deposit."

"I did not."

"You did. Very commanding voice."

I take a fistful of his flannel and pull. He comes up the last step in one smooth movement. The porch boards complain under both of us. His hand slides to the small of my back and presses. I fit against him from chest to thigh, every curve of me pushed into the hard line of him. For a moment we're both still.

"Is that a yes?" he says.

"Does it feel like a no?"

His kiss tastes of cider and cinnamon, and it isn't polite. His mouth takes mine like he's been waiting a long time, one hand going up into my hair and the other spread wide across my back. He hauls me in until there's no air left between us. The groan he gives against my mouth goes right through my chest.

I hold his shirt in both fists. My back finds the porch post and he follows me there, beard rough on my chin, mouth hot. I make a noise I would deny under oath. His thigh slides between mine. His thumb traces my jaw.

Far below us the speaker crackles and announces that Margaret Doyle has won the pie contest for the third year running. Somebody boos her fondly.

"Carolina," he says against my lips, wrecked. "Inside. Please."

I find the key by feel and drop it twice. He's kissing the side of my neck, slow, just beneath my ear. My hand shakes and the lock fights me. He closes his fingers over mine and steadies them. The door swings open into the dark, breathing out dust and old wood and lavender.

"Your grandmother's going to want a full report," he murmurs.

"Then you'd better give me something to put in it," I say, and pull him inside by the shirt. I kick the door shut behind us.

Chapter 2 — Ethan

She has me against the hall wall before I find the light switch. Her mouth goes to my jaw, then my throat, then the open collar of my shirt. She bites down lightly on my collarbone. The back of my head hits the plaster hard enough to rattle something hanging beside it. When I turn my face I can just make out a cross-stitched sampler in the dark, crooked in its frame. BLESS THIS MESS.