“Oh no! We don’t sell the celebrities.” She swallowed a giggle, unsure if he was teasing. He smiled that half smile again, cheek creasing in a delicious wrinkle just to the side of his raised lip. “We sell things that were autographed or owned by famous people—you know—to raise money for the hospital.”

“No, I didn’t know entirely.” The other side of his mouth completed the smile. “But it sounds interesting.”

“Well, I’ve never been to one so…I guess.” She grabbed a stack of crates. It was heavier than she expected and teetered in her arms. Stumbling backward, she sucked a hissing breath.

In an instant, he reached from behind and steadied the pile.

His inhalation was a warm whisper just above her ear, and his chest grazed her shoulder blades. She straightened. “Thank you, I can manage.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

Just as quickly, he was gone. Unmoving, she clutched the stack. Hard plastic dug into her palms as the phantom touch of his pecs tingled on her back.

“You coming?”

She blinked.

He was outside, propping the door with one arm and hefting a towering pile of pie in the other.

“Yeah.”

Balancing the crates on one knee, she trundled open the van’s side door and lowered the pies to the floor. After one more trip, the van was full.

Jonas stepped inside and wedged the crates in place. Pies secure, he sat on the back seat, propped his elbows on his knees, and surveyed the interior.

Ergonomically designed with cabinets and drawers tucked into every nook and cranny, the vintage van was something of a design masterpiece. At least she thought so. “Neat, huh?”

He nodded. “Very neat.”

An invitation to pop the top and offer the grand tour quivered on the tip of her tongue. However, for the first time that morning, she thought before speaking. The tour could wait. She unzipped her backpack and retrieved her checkbook. “Who should I make the check out to? Nora…?”

“Beiler,” Jonas said.

“Beiler. Right.”

He looped his thumbs through his suspenders.

She snuck a glance at his left ring finger. No ring. Then again, did Amish men wear wedding rings? How old was he, anyway? Didn’t these guys marry at, like, nineteen? His face was deeply tanned, and he had those heart-stopping laugh lines around his eyes. The mark of years working in the sun, she supposed, as much as years on the planet. He didn’t wear a beard, but he had to be in his late twenties, at least. Maybe older. She peeked again. Something else lay hidden in his face. A heaviness. Something dark in the lines around his mouth. Something sad in the creases on his forehead. What caused those lines? She handed him the check. “When should I return the crates?”

“You can bring them by Monday. Around sundown.”