“Have a seat anywhere that’s open,” I called, leaning over the counter to see if there was a booth or table free. There was one in the back, and Mrs. Scott was able to waddle uncomfortably over and sit down.

“Looks like someone is making a name for herself in this town,” Chad said over his menu.

“I don’t even know why you’re pretending to look at this—you always get the same thing. Tuna melt, potato salad, cherry Coke.” I rolled my eyes, smacking the top of his head lightly with his menu.

“She knows her customers’ orders, she’s becoming famous for her sweet treats, she’s emphatically not crushing on a farmer—what a summer Roxie Callahan’s having,” Chad said.

I smacked him again, not trying to hide my smile.

After sending his order to the kitchen, I started rifling through one of the old cookbooks my mother kept behind the counter. An old Betty Crocker from the fifties was chock-full of American classics: sponge, angel, devil, coconut, pound . . . And then came the mother lode: the European Dessert section. Tiramisu, Black Forest, Pavlova, and Irish Mousse. I was about to read the recipe for the boozy take on mousse pie when Mr. Scott approached the counter.

“God, I haven’t seen that in twenty years!” he exclaimed, pointing to the picture of an Apple Amber pie. According to the recipe, it was a whiskeyed-up meringue pie. Fresh farmyard apples sweetened with cider, sugar, and lemons, blanketed with rich, brown meringue piled high.

As Mr. Scott leaned closer to stare at the cookbook, he looked like he was about to drool. “Are you making this?” he asked hopefully.

“I don’t know—maybe. I’ve never made it before.” But I could, easily, and the regulars would love it. Hmmm. Apples weren’t in season yet, but peaches would be soon. I mentally started converting the recipe from apples to peaches: maybe less cinnamon, a splash of bourbon. Did Leo have peach trees? Hmmm, sweet, luscious peaches. And sweet, luscious Leo.

Zombie Pickle Class. A phrase never before uttered in the history of phrase uttering, let alone printed on a sign. But there it was in the diner’s front window, propped up by a ten-gallon plastic pickle tub. Which was high art apparently, according to Chad. “It’s ironic, it’s homey, it’s perfection!” he’d said when he’d dropped it off earlier that day and strong-armed me into letting him put it in.

Though I tried to insist that teaching him and Logan hardly constituted a “class,” he’d insisted more. So here I was, surrounded by cutting boards, cucumbers, garlic, and a few dozen jars, waiting for my first class to start. The diner was quiet, the front lights turned down and jukebox off, just the faint hum of the fridges audible in the kitchen.

I yawned, leaning on the countertop. I’d only managed about three hours of sleep the night before, and it’d been a long day. One of the line cooks had called in sick, so I’d worked both the breakfast and the lunch shifts on the grill. My back creaked, my shoulders ached, my finger was burned by a sauté pan.

But I was also surprisingly . . . exhilarated. I’d worked a hard day, did everything I needed to do, put out fires—literally, and made sure every single person who came through the door enjoyed the hell out of their lunch. I’d made a new version of tomato soup today. I’d slow roasted the tomatoes with basil and a bit of chervil before pureeing them, rather than using the standard canned. I’d used crème fraîche instead of half-and-half. Then I added brioche croutons, tossed with gruyère and black pepper. Did we sell out of that soup before 11 a.m.? Possibly. Did we get way more take-out orders for soup than we’d had since I’d been home?

Yes! Tons of take-out orders!

Along with the exhilaration, I also felt a sense of . . . comfort? Belonging? That would seem a perfectly natural reaction, since it was my hometown—yet I’d almost never felt it before. And along with the exhilaration and the comfort of belonging, add one dash of . . . butterflies?

No, that’s not it.

A heart murmur?

Pretty sure you’re healthy, cardiacwise.

Indigestion?

With your cast-iron stomach? Hardly.

So what is it?

Hopefulness? Joy? Intrigue?

Indigestion. That’s it. Too many croutons.

Croutons are giving you butterflies?

Mmm-hmm.

I pondered this while I held a cucumber in my hand. Which naturally brought up other thoughts. Thoughts I didn’t have time to explore, because the owner of the cucumber I wished I was holding came through the front door, his eyes searching for mine. Cue the butterfly croutons.

When Leo saw what I was holding, his face broke into a movie star grin.

In that instant, all of the air left the room. In that instant, all I was aware of was his face and those eyes and that grin . . . and a quickly warming cucumber. In that instant plus one second . . . I realized I was in deep trouble.

Because this guy was incredible.

Because this guy was real and sweet and kind, and he knew about the kinds of things that could wiggle through every chink in my armor and into my heretofore unbreakable heart.

Food.

Orgasms.

Food.

Sweet.

Food.

Strong.

Orgasms.

Oh boy.

And funny.

Caring.

Kind.

Not afraid to get his hands dirty.

Not afraid to talk dirty.

And the surprise of all surprises: I already missed him in my bed.

“Hey, Sugar Snap,” he said. “What kind of plans do you have for that cucumber?”

Officially, I came up with a clever comeback. Officially, I offered some witty banter to keep things light and flirty. Officially, I shot down every butterfly crouton that was fluttering around inside me.

But unofficially? The feeling of being somebody’s Sugar Snap made me grin widely. Nothing witty came from my mouth; it was too busy smiling. And then the smiling became a kiss, then two, then three. Because I nearly vaulted over the counter, ran to Leo like a fool in a Nicholas Sparks film, and threw myself into his strong arms, kissing him as if someone had threatened to take his mouth away from me.

His arms enveloped me, his surprised chuckle quickly muffled by my face. Which he covered in equally urgent kisses, his lips pressing against my forehead, my cheekbones, the tip of my nose, and finally my mouth again. Lifting me right out of my clogs, he set me on top of the counter, coaxed my legs apart with no resistance from me, and stood between them. I wrapped my legs around him, crossing them high on his back as he let his head tip forward, resting on my breasts, his hands digging into my hips, hard.

“You drive me crazy, Sugar Snap,” he groaned.

“Call me that again, and I’m canceling pickle class.” I ran my hands through his hair and kneaded his scalp, getting a satisfied moan in response.

“Sugar Snap? That’s what brought this on?” he asked, and I tilted his head up toward mine.

“That’s it. Class is canceled.” I was about to tell him to lock the door and ravage me up against the Fryalator when I heard a slow clapping, à la every movie from the eighties.

“Well done. Will all classes begin this way?”

Chad and Logan stood just inside the door, wearing enormous grins and bearing cucumbers.

I slumped down against Leo’s chest, breathing in his heady scent, and breathing out my frustration at being interrupted. When I looked up again, Logan made a decidedly ungentlemanly—okay, totally juvenile—gesture with a cucumber, and I snorted in spite of myself. The moment broken, Leo helped me down off the counter, and I faced my peanut gallery.

“You boys ready to pickle?”

They were in fact ready to pickle. And pickle we did. They were surprisingly good students, once they got all the jokes about pickle size out of their systems. They paid close attention, they followed directions, and within about ninety minutes we had several jars ready for the fridge. It was fun, and I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed teaching people how to do things like this.