She passed the early part of the afternoon tending her new cutting garden while he used a post hole digger to make deep holes for the massive support beams. Not coincidentally, the garden offered fairly unobstructed views of the sycamore. With her knees in the dirt, she watched as hour after hour he plunged the digger into the ground, twisted it back and forth, and wrenched out huge amounts of earth. At the scraping thud of iron against rock, he’d take up a crowbar and shovel, digging and prying until he extracted the stone. At some point, he removed his hat, and with every thrust of the digger, every spade of soil, his breath escaped in grunts, and his hair swung in wet clumps around his face.

Sweat-stained and dirty herself after a few hours, she fetched blueberry cake and sun tea. She’d awakened early, feeling adventurous. After foraging through her mother’s recipe box and laying out each ingredient with precision, she tackled the cake. The procedure took all morning, but gazing at the caramelized crust on each hunk, she had to admit the finished product didn’t look half bad.

Legs extended and feet flopped to the sides, Jonas leaned against the sycamore and rested his plate on his belly. He forked a healthy bite of cake.

She sat cross-legged facing him, balancing a plate on her lap and holding her breath. Would he like it?

Rolling his shoulders, he groaned. “Delicious.”

She suppressed a squeal. Stay cool, Meadows. “It’s my mother’s recipe. She’s a wonderful cook.”

“It’s good as Nora’s.”

Not wanting to encroach on his sister’s territory, she shook her fork and crumbs flew from the tines. “Oh no. Nora’s a genius in the kitchen. My cake is just beginner’s luck.” She took a taste. The sugary top crackled between her teeth, and the fluffy inside dissolved on her tongue, leaving behind a tang of sour berry. Not bad, indeed. Maybe she inherited the baking gene after all.

Jonas finished his slice in three bites and, dropping his head against the tree, closed his eyes.

He looked tired. He likely rose before dawn to do farm chores. Gazing at him with his eyes closed, she had a flash of the boy he’d been, sneaking behind the barn to listen to forbidden music. Boys will be boys—Amish or no.

“Tell me about yourself, Tessa Meadows,” he said without opening his eyes.

Did he feel her gaze? “I’m sorry? Me?” She constantly doubted her ears when he was around.

“How do you come to be planting flowers and designing gazebos in Green Ridge?” He cracked one lid and raised the attendant brow.

Just what shade of blue were his eyes? Not cornflower. Not quite sapphire. Maybe this man merited a whole, new color—miraculous-blue or impossible-blue…make-me-want-to-marry-you-blue. She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. The wind whispered, “Tomorrow…tomorrow…tomorrow.”