“No, I never met him. Though I probably would have hit that, if I had. Hey, how weird would that be?” She laughed, rolling onto her side and looking at me carefully. “If I’d banged the guy you were in love with.”

“Hey, how weird would that be if I killed you until you were dead?” I replied.

Natalie and Clara dissolved into giggles, but all I could think about was Leo.

And the fact that when she called him the man I was in love with, I hadn’t corrected her.

Shit.

That night something specific kept me awake instead of the usual insomnia. I Googled Leo after the conversation with the girls, and I was swiping away at two in the morning, looking at a slice of his life that’d been captured by publicity photos.

This was a Leo I didn’t know. He seemed cool, more detached, very blue blood. I saw nothing of the Leo I knew.

Who would rather be riding in an open Jeep than in a town car. Who would rather have his hands full of sweet-smelling earth than martinis. Who was made happy by wet-with-morning-dew sugar snap peas. Who was caring sweet kind loving tender gasping panting moaning groaning rocking thrusting slipping sliding living life to the fullest, because it was a life he’d created exactly the way he wanted, and he wouldn’t live for anyone other than his daughter.

I tossed and turned most of the night, wondering if I’d made a terrible decision leaving Bailey Falls the way I did.

“Coffee. I require coffee,” I mumbled as we wove down an already crowded 17th Street.

“We’ll get it, don’t worry. We just need to get there before it gets too busy.”

“When did Natalie start getting up so early on a Saturday morning?” Clara whispered to me.

“Better question, when did she start caring so much about where her produce came from?” I whispered back.

Natalie turned around to make a face at me. “I heard that,” she singsonged.

“I meant you to,” I singsonged back.

“Seriously, Nat, what’s the rush? I don’t remember you ever being so concerned about getting ‘farm-fresh produce’—although I understand the draw of eating local as much as possible.”

“Now, when you say eating local, I assume you’re referring to Leo enjoying a trip downtown?” Natalie replied with a grin, leading us into the fray of the Union Square Greenmarket.

Clara laughed. “You have a one-track mind.”

I didn’t laugh. I was thinking about Leo’s eyes as he watched me, when he did in fact enjoy a trip downtown. And I Kegeled right there, just thinking about it.

“I have a multitrack mind,” Natalie said. “I just make sure one of those tracks is always on sex with guys who like to take a taste.”

A very good-looking man who was heading away from the farmers’ market with a bag full of leafy greens did a double take, then a complete about-face. Was he aware that he was licking his lips?

Natalie didn’t notice; she was on a mission. She consulted a map, smoothed her already perfectly messy hair, and took off across the market.

“Hey, hey! Can we please get some coffee before stocking up on your suddenly-so-important groceries?” I asked.

She slowed. A bit. “Yes yes, there’s a stall just around the corner from where I’m going. We can get coffee afterward.”

I hadn’t been here in years, and the place was humming. Stall after stall was packed with beautiful produce, eggs, poultry, meat, flowers —everything you could ask for. Many of the stalls were from farms in the Hudson Valley, and I wondered if Maxwell Farm had a stall here. And then I wished I’d brushed my hair before we left.

“Let me see that map,” I asked, and she handed it back to me. I quickly scanned the list of producers, and breathed a sigh of relief when Leo’s farm wasn’t mentioned.

As we made it to the end of the first row, Natalie suddenly slowed down, pulled out her linen drawstring bag, and started to . . . strut.

I knew that strut well. I’d trailed behind it in many a club and restaurant when she was on the prowl. Something she mentioned on a call weeks ago bubbled up in my memory, and I realized exactly what was going on.

“You got us up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday to go cruise for some cute farmer?” I asked.

She whirled around. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, eyes wide and innocent.

“You’ve got the hots for a farmer too? What the hell is going on? When did Old MacDonald become the new Hot Guy archetype?” Clara asked, her face full of amusement.

“To be clear, he’s not a farmer; he’s a dairy guy. He has a bunch of cows upstate and makes the best fucking triple-cream brie I’ve ever had. He melts in my mouth.” Natalie sighed, arching her back. I’d say without knowing it, but she knew how good it made her boobs look. The guy who’d been trailing us since we got there actually gasped.

“You mean his brie melts in your mouth, right?” I asked, arching my eyebrow.

“Well,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. “For now.”

“Oh boy,” I replied as she set off in her strut again.

And imagine my surprise when she strutted right over to Bailey Falls Creamery, run by none other than . . .

“Oscar? The hot dairy guy is Oscar?” I exclaimed.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, nonchalantly looking at a display of homemade churned butter. We were at the edge of the stall, surrounded by gorgeous wedges of cheese, beautiful glass-bottled fresh milk, and yes, some pretty delectable-looking butter.

And behind the counter, a head taller than everyone else, was Oscar. Leo’s neighbor, winner of Bailey Falls’s Conversationalist of the Year, and the man making Natalie’s cheeks blush.