Excerpt of Wicked Charm by Amber Hart

The walk is littered with stones and broken twigs. Leaves
rustle like crackly paper. The wind brushes my skin so
lightly that it’s almost a sigh. And then, only a few
minutes later, I see the thing Beau wants me to see,
sitting in the middle of it all.

“What is this?” I ask.

I bound over to it. Tree roots pop up from the ground like
veiny scars intersecting a path. The crazy boy has made a
platform for us out of wood, with four stilt legs beneath
it digging into the ground. The wood is pine and smells
like it, too. I run a finger along the edge, feeling where
he smoothed it. It’s newly made, I can tell by the flakes
that pepper the forest floor like pencil shavings and the
rich wood smell. Atop the platform are another four posts
with a fifth in the center, and draped over that is a
canopy of white fabric. It sways in the breeze like
spider’s silk.

“I wanted us to have a place to hang out,” Beau replies.
“Where we won’t run into Old Lady Bell, Charlotte, or
Grandpa, and where we can both be alone to relax.”

His eyes roam the swamp around us.

The makeshift pavilion is smaller than my room, but still
it’s the most beautiful thing. Clear lights are strung
around it, reminding me of fireflies. There is not enough
space in my lungs for the quick breaths of excitement I
find myself taking. I gasp at the beauty of it all.

“How did you get them to light up?” My question is filled
with wonder.

“Battery powered,” he says, his grin growing. “Wait till
you see inside.”

He helps me onto the platform that protects us from
wandering critters below. It’s easily five feet up. I try
not to catch my feet on the lights.

Beau pulls back the drape. A small cluster of cushions sits
on the ground, fronted by a tiny wooden table topped with
freshly fallen leaves and sticks, reminding me of a bird’s
nest. A pink magnolia marks the middle, the source of the
floral smell that sticks to the air.

“You did this?” I ask, mesmerized.

“All by myself,” he says.

It’s hard to imagine. Sure, I can see how Beau would bring
the cushions and lights and tools to the island by boat,
and how he could use the resources already here—the trees
and stump for the table, the sticks and flower and leaves—
to construct everything, but what I can’t see is why Beau
would go through the trouble. Isn’t he the boy Jorie warned
me about—the one who breaks hearts? Isn’t he the one Gran
swore was darker than the night? That Beau doesn’t match
the one standing before me, watching my reaction.

“I love it,” I say.

And then I wrap my arms around this surprising boy and
press my lips to his.