The sun slipped behind a nearby building, and the light dimmed like someone slid a switch. With the room in shadow, talking freely came easily. “I think he does. You know how people say in every relationship one person is the flower and the other’s the waterer? All my life I’ve been the waterer—just dousing cacti. Now, I’m the flower. So weird.”

Leaning back on her hands, Jenn rested her feet on the table and wiggled her toes. “Um, I think you mean so awesome.”

“Maybe…but I might be drowning.” She nibbled the whoopie pie, and the rich odor of chocolate immediately summoned a memory of Jonas’s peace offering. Her mouth watered. Bordeaux was nice, but what was sweeter than a humble, brown bag of farm-baked treats? “And the thing is—well, to mix my metaphors—”

Jenn pressed a hand to her chest. “Horrors. Go on…”

“I’m not sure Richard makes my heart sing. I really like being with him. He makes me feel attractive and well taken care of—”

“And drenched…” Jenn waggled her brows.

“So to speak.” Her neck flushed hot. Outside, light shone from at least a dozen other apartment windows. So many homes—so many families—so very close. On first impression, the city felt concrete and sterile, but life teemed in staggering density on every block. Likely, more romance thrived in a square mile on the Upper West Side than in all of Green Ridge. She licked squelched cream from between the last bite of cake. “But my heart doesn’t skip a beat when I hear his voice.”

“And it does when the Amish dude calls his cows?”

She barked a laugh but kept the food inside her mouth. “It does. I know—I sound insane. I doubt Jonas would even consider being with me—dating me is likely flat-out forbidden—but he inquired about Richard the other day. We were sitting on my porch, and he asked point-blank if I was in love with him.”

Jenn gaped. “He knows about Richard?”

“He saw us holding hands at the Farmers’ Market a few weeks ago.” Scrunching her shoulders to her ears, she shivered. “Talk about awkward.”

“Holy cow. You’re starring in a Smallville soap opera out there. What did you tell him?”

She looked back out the windows. The sunset sky between buildings was the same salmon-tinged violet as back home. “That I don’t know. Which is the truth. And I don’t know what he thought about that. When I told him Richard is a doctor, he said, ‘that’s good,’ so he probably thinks Richard is the perfect guy, too.” She hugged a velvety pillow. “But sometimes…sometimes Jonas looks at me, and I feel like he sees me, you know? Like I’m the only person in the world. And then he touches my face—”