A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “The men will deliver the van once it’s running. It’s high time you learned to bake a pie, Tessa Rose.” He produced a container of blueberries from the refrigerator. “I picked these this morning. Open up.”

She obeyed.

He popped a berry into her mouth.

It exploded in a tangy burst of summertime. “I’m not the only person who can’t bake a pie, you know.”

He simply grinned and removed unrecognizable kitchen gadgets from the drawers.

She skated her hands across the tabletop and lowered her cheek to the surface. “None of my friends can bake pies either.”

“Well, you can teach them. Now pay close attention. The importance of measuring precisely cannot be overstated.”

Under his gently teasing tutelage, she managed to heat the oven and measure the flour, salt, and shortening. Pastry cutter in hand, she attacked.

He laid a hand on her arm. “Gentle. Don’t over-work the dough.”

Choking a laugh, she dropped the cutter. “My mother’s going to love you.” Cold water and a tablespoon of vinegar joined the pastry, and the dough came together in a crumbly ball.

He extracted a rolling pin from a drawer and dusted it in flour.

She bounced a blueberry off his forehead. “Hey, you know what they say about the size of a guy’s rolling pin.”

Brow furrowed, he blinked. “Don’t they just come in a standard length?”

Nearly convulsed with hysterics, she made a sudden dash for the flush toilet. After ten minutes struggling to roll out a piecrust, however, she was no longer laughing. The irascible dough stuck to the pin and tore apart the second she made any progress. Annoyance snowballed into red-cheeked vexation. She dropped the fully gunked pin and collapsed into a chair. “This dough is impossible.”

Planting his hands on the table, he faced her. “Do you want pie or not?”

As if baking the pie was her idea in the first place. “Let’s have ice cream instead.”

“I don’t have a freezer.”

“Then we’ll go shopping. Does Esther King sell ice cream? You can take me for a ride in the buggy.” She dangled the offer like a particularly delicious carrot on a stick.

He narrowed his eyes. “Am I to conclude my sister can make a piecrust, and you can’t?”

Thrusting out a hand, she glared. “Gimme that stupid rolling pin.” With a grunt, she faced off against the recalcitrant pastry and plunged the pin in flour.

He came behind her and slid both arms around her waist, covering her hands with his. “You’re pushing too hard. Let the rolling pin do the work.” He nudged the pin into the floury mass.