“I’m sorry if I’m…if this job is causing problems. If you don’t want to do it—”

“My sister does not dictate my actions,” he bit out. “I will build your gazebo as we agreed.”

The passenger door wrenched open with a jagged squeal.

“I’ll see you Wednesday.” He pried the toolbox from under the dashboard, elbowed closed the door, and retreated to the barn.

Without saying goodbye.

Heart hammering, she gripped the steering wheel and tore down the lane. What was wrong with that woman? All Tessa ever did was track her down and pay her handsomely for three dozen pies. Wouldn’t a nice, fat, gazebo check put a couple more hens in the barn? A fresh coat of paint on the Dawdy Haus? The Rishels didn’t appear to be suffering, but she couldn’t imagine they amassed a fortune in whoopie pies.

A deserted Route 45 beckoned, and she stomped on the gas. Who was she kidding? Nora wasn’t the problem. She didn’t care what that sad, little woman said about her in any language. Jonas was the problem. She let him get under her skin. For no reason whatsoever—at least none communicated in a language she could understand—he went from climbing around her van like a kid on a jungle gym to scowling like a stone-faced stranger. Just what did Nora say?

As if the glove compartment might come to life and bite her, she trailed cautious fingers over the threadbare fabric where he sat moments ago. Until today, she felt like a trespasser in his domain. This afternoon, for the first time, she offered something in return: her world—with its pop-top vans and crazy gazebos. He seemed open to it and to her. But in an instant, he slammed the door in her face.

Sighing, she pressed a thumb deep into one temple. What was up with this family, anyway? Were all Amish women so creepily attached to their brothers? Where were Nora’s husband and Rebecca’s siblings, and who ran the farm? Farming was a massive undertaking, and many hands made light work. So, who actually worked the land? Jonas seemed to spend his days doing carpentry and selling Nora’s baked goods.

Home again, she flung herself, arms wide, on the front lawn.

A million miles…

A puffy white cloud shaped like a whale scudded across the sky. Jonas’s farm was barely twenty minutes from her house, but a million-mile chasm lay between them. No more fantasizing about his kiss. He was her builder, not her Amish boyfriend.

She rolled her head to the side, and feathery blades of grass tickled her inner ear. Oh, but she had been kissed. And kissed. And kissed again.