He sampled the hot dog and groaned. “Even better than Fenway Park—and that’s saying something.”

Courage waning, she scarfed her dog in four bites, downed half the fries in two, and glanced at her watch. “Okey dokey. We should get you back to work, Dr. Saint-Luke’s-Would-Grind-To-A-Halt-Without-Me.” She’d give Jonas her design another time…without Richard.

He checked his phone. “Just enough time to pick up a pie.”

“A pie?” The utterance emerged as more of a squeak than a word.

With a slurp, he polished off his soda. “Tyler’s in-laws are coming tonight. Our mission, if we choose to accept it, is to acquire one of those shoofly pies you brought to the auction. Don’t know about you, but I never turn down a mission.”

“Oh…” She tossed her nearly empty cup toward the trashcan and missed. “That stand is way down at the other end—it’ll take forever to fight the crowds. Look, that vendor right there has pies.”

Humming the Mission Impossible theme song, he scooped up her cup and dunked it along with his own. “Nope. If I don’t come back with the right pie—and believe me, Claire will know the difference—she’ll be disappointed. Ain’t nobody wants to see that happen. They’ll get divorced. I’ll get fired.” He grabbed her hand. “My future’s at stake, my dear.”

She slung her backpack over one shoulder and forced a smile. The hot dog and fries heaved in her stomach. Why was she so nervous? Jonas would see her hold hands with Richard. Richard would see her give the design to Jonas. No big deal.

Then why were her palms so sweaty?

Rebecca spotted her first. She tugged her uncle’s pants and pointed.

Jonas met her gaze and smiled broadly.

She blushed all the way to her ears. Just what she needed—blazing lobes.

“Tessa!” Rebecca called.

“You’re on a first-name basis with them?” Richard said under his breath.

She waved. “As you might recall, I bought a ton of pies.”

Checking his phone, Richard picked up the pace.

Rebecca tapped Jonas on the arm. He bent, and she whispered in his ear.

With a glance, he stood, and an invisible veil descended over his face. Dropping Richard’s hand, she wiped her palms down the front of her sundress. “Hello, Jonas.”

He inclined his head in greeting.

Not a man to waste words. She snugged her backpack tight to her shoulders.

Richard cleared his throat.

She started. “Oh, I’m sorry. Jonas, this is my friend, Richard Bruce. Jonas Rishel.” The men clasped hands in what appeared to be a very strong handshake. The little muscle in Jonas’s jaw fluttered, and Richard’s knuckles went white. She shifted her gaze between them. Two men who still made a living by their hands, yet they couldn’t have been more different.

“Tessa tells me this is the place for pies,” Richard said.