Leo kept close to me most of the night, refusing to answer Chad’s unsubtle questions about what was going on with us, changing the subject smoothly each time. It was frustrating for Chad, amusing for me, and it kept the evening focused on the food. I did wonder how far things would have gone if Chad and Logan hadn’t shown up . . . but no matter. I was enjoying the evening with three gorgeous men, and I might get to see one of them naked very soon. Zombie Pickle Class was a total success.

Zombie Pickle Class was also noticed by several passersby. How could you not stop to read a sign like that? Though the door was locked, that didn’t stop people from peering inside. Interesting . . .

“We should make more! I want enough to last the entire winter,” Logan proclaimed as he labeled his jar of hamburger dills.

“These are fridge pickles, so they’ll only be good for a few months. If you want pickles that will keep longer, that’s a whole different ball of brine. You have to cook them a bit, same as making jelly or jam.”

“Yes! Let’s make jam too!” Chad chimed in enthusiastically.

“Okay, everyone settle,” I said as Leo smothered a laugh. “We can definitely make jam, but not tonight.” I smiled at their eagerness as I scooped up a few jars of my own concoction—baby cucumbers in a zesty brine of spicy peppers and the tiniest drizzle of honey—and headed for the fridge.

“How about next week? Same time, same place?” Logan asked, and I nodded in agreement.

“Blackberries just came in, and by next week we’ll have raspberries too,” Leo said.

Mmm. I did love raspberry jam.

“Do you know how to make apple butter?” Chad asked as he cleaned up his station. “My nana used to make it every October, and I ate half a loaf of bread every day after school just for that apple butter. Can we make that?”

“No can do—sorry.”

“Why in the world not?” Then his eyes lit up with a wicked gleam. “What if I put on my old letterman jacket?”

Logan’s head popped around the fridge. “Let him wear the jacket, Rox. It’s hot as hell.”

“Oh, I remember. But apple butter making is in the fall.”

“So?” Chad asked, and Logan gave me an inquiring look.

“I won’t be here in the fall,” I said quietly, feeling Leo’s stare on the back of my head. It’s funny how a gaze can be physically felt from across the room. “I’m leaving once my mom gets back from her Amazing Race, remember?”

A silence fell on the kitchen, all the good humor of the evening seeming to fall away.

“Besides, the Jam Lady is going to kill me as it is, teaching you guys how to make jam. I can’t take away her apple butter clients too—she’d never let me hear the end of it.”

“You won’t be here to hear her. That’s kind of the end of it,” Logan muttered.

I rolled my eyes. “Okay, zombies, class is over. Next time jam, same time, same place,” I said, forcing my voice to stay light and bright.

Chad nodded, pulling me against him in a quick hug. “Tonight was fun—thanks for the pickles.” He dropped a quick kiss on my forehead before ushering Logan and their jars out the door.

Leaving me with Leo, who dropped his gaze when I turned around. “I’ll get a broom, help you get this place cleaned up,” he said, moving toward the utility closet.

There was nothing I could say to ease the sudden tension, because I was leaving. This . . . thing . . . was just for the summer. So he got the broom and I wiped the counters, and within a few minutes we began to chat about what other fruits might be ready soon for jam. Light and bright.

Light and bright means no expectations. No demands on time, no hard feelings, and certainly no tears. Which is why when he left with just a quick kiss on my forehead, I didn’t feel a suspicious prickle inside my eyelids, or notice that my chin wobbled at all.

I locked up, drove home, and didn’t sleep. Because officially, it was just a fling. And a fling made no demands on where he spent his nights.

Light and bright.

Chapter 15

I couldn’t believe the Fourth of July was almost here. It seemed like I’d barely arrived, but the bunting going up around town said the summer was half gone.

I swear to God this town kept the bunting business in business more than any other small town in the country. If it was a holiday, you can bet your sweet apple pie that Bailey Falls was dragging out the red, white, and blue and lashing it to anything that would stand still. Quaint. Homey. Pretty great, actually.

Finished at the diner for the day, I drove my big old American car down the middle of good old American Main Street, and thought about fucking my good old American farmer while holding two sparklers. Now that’s how I’d like to celebrate our country’s founding.

I pondered this while waving to familiar faces along the main drag. People I used to know and had come to know again, new people I’d met since coming home. With some I knew names; mostly I knew orders. Hey look, Scrambled with Rye Toast is coming out of the hardware store with cable ties. Wonder if he’s planning on using those on Miss Steel-Cut Oats with Nonfat Milk and Hold the Raisins. I just bet she liked her raisins held . . .

The thermometer on the bank said it was near ninety degrees, and I was glad of the breeze coming through my window. Turning on the radio, I head the strains of “Mysterious Ways” and snickered at the thought that Achtung Baby was being played on an oldies station. My mother would flip out if she knew that. Where was she right now? Brazil? Italy? Minnesota? Wherever she was, I hope she was enjoying herself.

As I drove home I saw a few teenage girls walking into the woods behind the high school, carrying towels and a beach ball. And I suddenly knew exactly where I wanted to spend my afternoon. And whom I wanted to spend it with.

I sped back to the house, stopping only to send a text to Leo.

Can you play hooky today?

He texted back right away, and I snorted out loud.

Will you be naked? I can only consider naked hooky requests.

It’s very possible. Come on, come and play with me.

Isn’t that a line from The Shining?

You should take me pretty seriously then, right? Also, don’t pay attention to that ax behind my back.

You’re lucky I like dangerous women. When?

Now. Drop your hoe and grab your swim trunks. I’ll be there in fifteen.

Swim trunks? Now I’m intrigued.

Intrigued enough to play hooky?

Make it twenty and bring snacks and you’ve got me.

Done.

Also naked. Remember the naked.

I’ll do my best.

I threw on a bikini, making sure to double knot the strings. Because, Leo. I grabbed a cooler, threw in ice, beer, the sandwiches I’d made at the diner that were originally going to be my dinner, and then grabbed my mom’s old CD boom box. It was big, square, covered in knobs and switches and dials, and exactly the kind of thing you want for playing hooky at the old swimming hole.

Every town in the Catskills either had a swimming hole or was within a few miles of one. There were so many creeks, streams, ponds, and small lakes—if there was water, we’d swim in it. It was how you survived the hot summers when you were a kid, and where you learned how to French kiss when you were a teenager.

There were multiple great places to swim around Bailey Falls, but The Tube was my favorite. Close to the edge of the Bryant Mountain House hotel property there was a small spring and pond that fed the larger lake on the hotel’s grounds. Clear cold water, rocky bottom, and lots of outcroppings if you were feeling daring and wanted to jump. It was a cool respite on a hot day, and it was exactly where I wanted to take Leo today.

When I pulled up to the big stone barn, it occurred to me that I still didn’t know where Leo lived. He’d said he didn’t use the main house, as it was used for tours and tended to be the domain of his mother when she visited. Which I gathered was rarely. So where did he sleep at night? There were guest houses that he’d converted into dormlike quarters for the summer interns in the apprentice program, but I doubted he stayed there.