“Three dozen strawberry and shoofly for next Saturday?” Nora swept both hands over her apron in a single sharp stroke. “I suppose. You can pick them up Saturday morning, eight o’clock.”

She sealed her lips to check the goofy grin welling inside. “Thank you so much.”

“Three hundred and six dollars.”

“That’ll be fine—wonderful!”

“Rebecca, fetch my notebook.”

The girl vaulted, catlike, and sprinted into the house.

With a flourish, Tessa signed her name and formalized the order. She had done it. And escaped with her life, no less. Flush with success, she bounded into the front seat, reached for her keys, and froze.

Jonas, his emerald-green shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, emerged from the barn. Spotting her van, he, too, drew up short. His lips curled into a lopsided smile.

Somehow, he managed to nod and shake his head at the same time, honey hair glinting in the afternoon sun. She risked a wave. He was laughing at her again—though definitely not with malice but with something else. Something she still couldn’t identify. Regardless, his smile at seeing her melted her insides. Beneath a gaze that bordered on admiring, she executed a flawless, three-point turn and caught him in the rearview mirror.

He leaned against the barn, twirling his hat in his hands and watching her go.

“Dude, you’re married,” she said with a giggle. “Okay, then. See you in a week.”

****

When Tessa returned to the Rishels’s farm, she wore a skirt. Despite relentless humidity and thanks to a healthy dose of leave-in conditioner, her curls were under control, and she left them loose around her shoulders. Though the calendar hadn’t made it to July, she was already sick of ponytails and messy buns. Besides, her hair looked so much prettier down. The question was, just whom was she trying to impress: the ladies on the volunteer committee or one Jonas Rishel?

Bracing herself for another encounter with Nora, she slammed the van door and twisted her skirt aright. At least she didn’t have to worry about bumping into the woman at the supermarket or the gas station. Although, those places were neutral territory, at least. Showing up at the farm was like covering herself in chum and jumping into a shark tank. She crossed the front yard, mounted the porch, and paused at the door. Did they have a doorbell?

“Hello!”

She recognized that voice. Like a copper penny. Whirling, she spotted Jonas striding from the barn.

He broke into a broad smile.

Her quads reverted to a gelatinous state. “Hello.” She slid a hand to the porch railing for support. “I’m looking for your wife.”

He stopped short. “Who?”

The warmth seeped from his smile. She swallowed. “Ah…your wife? I’m here to pick up some pies.”