I ended up having coffee in a small café in the barn with The Chad Bowman and his husband, the equally charming and handsome Logan O’Reilly. Actually, I bet he was someone’s The Logan O’Reilly. And while my high school self would have been incredibly nervous about sitting at the cool kids’ table, I found myself surprisingly at ease. Perhaps I could remember who I was this summer after all.

“I can’t believe how easy it is to talk to you,” I admitted, taking a big bite. Bagels on the West Coast had nothing on these. Nothing.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Chad asked, looking confused.

“You’re Chad Bowman,” I replied simply, licking a glob of cream cheese from my thumb.

“And?” he asked after a pause.

“You’re, like, the guy. And I’m sitting and talking with you like I’m a cool kid from way back! If we were still in high school, I’d assume you wanted me to help you with homework —which doesn’t actually make sense, since you were in honor society. I mean really, how blessed can one guy be?”

“Oh, very. Blessed,” Logan added, which made me giggle.

“I remember you were a little shy back then,” Chad said, ignoring Logan’s comment despite the color creeping into his cheeks.

“That’s like saying you were a little gorgeous. Fortunately I’ve moved past most of that, though I admit I had a little nervous pang when I drove into town yesterday, wondering if it would all come screaming back.” Not at all, scrambling for nuts and peas on the floor. Changing the subject smoothly, I asked, “So, how are you? What have you been up to since high school?”

“Things are really good. We moved back into town about a year ago from the city.”

“And where are you from, Logan?” I asked.

“Iowa, then Manhattan.”

“Wow, that’s a big difference.”

“Totally. Which is why, after Chad brought me up here to meet his folks and I got a look at life along the Hudson, I knew this is where I wanted to live.”

Chad picked up the conversation. “We’re renovating a house on Maple. Remember the old pink house on the corner?”

“The one with the lace curtains fluttering out of those broken windows?” I made a face. That house was hideous.

“That’s the one, though you should see it now. It’s come a long way. We’re having a painting party next week—you should come!”

“A painting party?”

“Yeah, all the new Sheetrock just went in, and the floors are being sanded this week. Now it’s time for paint,” Logan explained. “Please come.”

I smiled and raised my bagel in solidarity. “I’m in.”

And just like that, I had a date with Chad Bowman. And his husband. I had a sudden mental snapshot of what an actual date with these two gorgeous men might entail, and I filed it away for a lonely night with a deliciously naughty shiver.

I visited with the two of them for another half hour or so, catching up on all the high school gossip, town gossip, and gossip in general. Chad had gone from our small town to Syracuse, then on to grad school in the city, getting his MBA. He was working for a financial firm on Wall Street when he met Logan at a competing house. They’d dated, fell in love, and decided to move upstate. Investing everything they had, they opened a financial advisory company and now The Chad Bowman helped little old blue hairs with their retirement plans.

“So now you’re back from LA to run the diner while your mom’s out of town. Are you here just for the summer, or . . .” Chad asked as we were finishing up our snack.

“Is there a town crier?” I asked, making a show of looking around.

Chad rolled up his menu and held it to his mouth like a megaphone. “Oh please, like you don’t remember how fast news travels in this town. For instance, how in the world did you manage to catch Farmer Leo between your thighs?”

I choked on my chai. “Keep your voice down!” I whisper-yelled, horrified.

“Oh please, you’ve got all the single ladies in this town pissed, not to mention half the married ones. Everyone wants to know how you made that happen, on your first day back in town, no less!” Chad exclaimed, and Logan nodded agreement.

“Okay, seriously, stop. I slipped and fell, and took him out as well. I don’t know anything about him, except that I heard that he works over at Maxwell Farm—”

“Works over at Maxwell Farm?” Logan interrupted.

I nodded, continuing, “—which I think is great. I can’t believe those blue bloods let that land just sit around for so many years. What a waste! And if he works there and is helping that family do something good for a change, instead of just sitting back and counting their money, then good for him.”

They grew silent.

“Owning a farm, ha! It’s not like a Maxwell is ever going to get his hands dirty—that’ll be the day.”

As I paused to sip my chai, two hands suddenly appeared in my field of vision. Rough. Ready. And . . . dirty? These hands set a small basket on the table, filled with . . . sugar snap peas. Oh man. I looked at Chad and Logan, both of whom looked positively delighted at the turn this morning was taking. Dammit.

I sighed, then turned slowly in my seat to find Leo standing behind me, wearing an equally delighted look.

“Your last name is Maxwell, isn’t it?” I asked, looking up into his eyes.

“Oh yeah,” he replied, making sure to wave his “dirty” farmer hands. “Brought you some sugar snaps. I picked those with my very own blue-blood hands.” His eyes danced.

I picked up the peas, prepared to eat crow. Standing up, I turned toward him to apologize for the other day and the snarky comments I’d just made. But as I turned, I tripped on the leg of the chair, my forehead hitting his chest as I pitched forward into him, taking us both to the floor once more, sugar snap peas flying everywhere again. Only this time I landed on top of him.

Facedown. Between his thighs. As you do.

The Chad Bowman and The Logan O’Reilly applauded and took pictures.

The next moments unfolded in slow motion: those rough hands on my shoulders, lifting me off and brushing my hair from my face, one corner of his mouth raising again as he surveyed me from this reverse vantage point. He groaned as he sat up, no doubt because my frozen body was still draped across his. His chuckle as he brushed off the peas that clung to his farmery chest muscles. And then the flash of mischief in his eyes as he watched me look around wildly, trying to figure out how to get any shred of dignity I may still have left.

I could see people watching, faces I recognized, that knew me. I knew the story would be all around town within the hour, with nothing better to do in Bailey Falls on a Saturday morning than to tattle on Trudy’s daughter, back in town one day and as klutzy as ever. The Hippie and the Trippie. Still on the floor, tangled with this gorgeous man, I could feel my old self telling me to run, to hide, and pretend this never happened.

Fuck all that noise.

“So, was this your idea of a peace offering?” I asked, plucking a pea pod from his sandy blond hair and twirling it between my fingertips. For the record, I was still draped across his lower half.

“I suppose so,” he chuckled. “Although technically, you’ve now literally thrown yourself at me twice. Shouldn’t you be offering me something?” His eyes were warm, and a little challenging. He seemed to be asking me to play.

Okay Farmer Boy, let’s play.

I propped myself up, hand under one chin, like I was sitting at a desk instead of hovering over his plowshare. “I’ve got half a bagel on that table up there. You’re welcome to it.”

“Before I eat your bagel, we should be formally introduced, don’t you think?”

He licked his lower lip. I very nearly did the same. I’d lick his lower lip till the cows came home.

“Roxie.”

“Leo.”

“Dying!” Chad proclaimed from the table above. I looked up and grimaced as Chad and Logan peered down, gleeful. Understandable. We were covered in peas.