The rain is relentless. It beats against your skin like a thousand tiny needles, soaking you to the bone as you shiver beneath an old tree. Then, as if the situation couldn’t get any worse, a voice—a boy’s voice—cuts through the downpour, calling your name.

And then, because fate has a cruel sense of humor, that person turns out to be Gilbert Blythe.

“What in the heck are you doing out here?” He scoffs, his voice thick with surprise and amusement.

You glare up at him, rain dripping down from your lashes. “Oh shut up and leave me alone, Blythe.”

Gilbert Blythe, with his ever-present smirk and infuriatingly perfect hair (somehow still charming despite the rain), leans casually against his wagon. “Tempting. But I figured I’d be the bigger person and offer you a ride home.” He tilts his head. “Unless you’d rather stay here and be one with the trees?”