Stroke by stroke, the dough blossomed. She relaxed and let her eyelids drift shut. His chest was warm against her shoulder blades, and his breath stirred the hairs at her temples. With any luck, rolling out this crust would take hours.

“See, that wasn’t so hard.”

“Is it done?” She fluttered open her lashes. Before her was a perfect circle of dough.

“Flawless.”

Trapped between the table and his body, she swiveled. “You’re flawless.” She kissed him, and just when she was certain they’d abandon the pie altogether, he moved away.

“Ready to make the filling?”

She swallowed a curse. “Just so you know, I’m totally stealing your recipe and entering the county fair.”

As the sun vanished behind the ridge, she sat by his side on the front porch bench and ate hot blueberry pie with fresh whipped cream. While the pie was in the oven, he’d done the evening milking, and she peeked at the catalogs and periodicals in the living room rack. “I didn’t know you had your own newspapers,” she said between bites.

“Several. I prefer the New York Times.”

Lowering her fork, she gave him a sideways look. “You get the Times?”

He shook his head. “The library does. Nora likes Die Botschaft.”

“Die Botschaft,” she repeated, trying out the unfamiliar sounds.

“The Message.” He licked his plate, catching her gaze over the rim. “My sister hates when I do that.”

“Does she?” With a smack of the lips, she licked hers, too.

The sky glowed a shade of blueberry filling. The air was perfectly still.

He shifted, and the bench creaked. “You have flour on your cheeks.”

On television, men always found flour-dusted women irresistible. She just felt grungy. “I’m a mess. I’m still pulling straw from my underwear.”

His brows shot to his hairline.

She had to admit she loved shocking him.

“Wait here and come inside when I call.” Taking her plate, he withdrew into the house.

Crickets chirruped in unending chorus, and in the distance, she heard the clop of hoofbeats on asphalt. She pressed her lips and inhaled the lingering scent of baking. Sitting on Jonas’s porch with her belly full of pie and her limbs heavy from work, she basked in peace. She was unemployed, and Jenn chose Adam, and Richard would likely never speak to her again, and none of those things mattered. Today was a productive day spent in the company of a genuinely good man. If she could say the same about the rest of her days, she would die a happy person indeed.

Her name floated through the window, and she shivered as much from the sound of his voice as the evening chill. She slipped inside. He hadn’t lit the propane lamps, and as she crossed the living room, her eyes adjusted to the dim.

“I’m in here.”