The multitude of occasions he could have mentioned that he had a kid ran through my head like a newsreel. In the next reel, all the occasions where anyone in town might have mentioned this little nugget. Seriously, how could no one have mentioned this before?

And his daughter had just unpacked, which meant she’d been away. With her mother? Was Leo divorced? Separated? Still married?

Dread struck low in my belly as I wondered if I’d been sleeping with someone’s husband. But no—Chad would have told me if he was married.

“Bleagh,” I muttered, clutching my stomach. What a fucking mess. So much for summer flinging.

Just ask him.

Yes, I would do just that. But now I wondered what else Leo might have been hiding. Now that I thought about it, it seemed strange that I’d never been here. Everything had always happened at my house. Or my diner. Or my swimming hole.

I felt a sharp pang inside my chest as I thought about all the things I’d done with Leo, and wondered if it was all over now.

Get the intel.

Right. I took a deep breath, then looked around.

The house was as beautiful inside as it was outside. The chimney was the focal point of the entire lower level, stacked fieldstone with a gorgeous firebox made of deep green glass bricks. Rich chocolate brown wood floors, wide planked and shiny smooth. A two-story great room, anchored by deep built-in bookshelves, and comfortably plush couches and chairs scattered about in conversation areas. The kitchen, which was filled with high-end appliances and work surfaces made of stunning poured concrete, was wide and open; the island counter I was sitting on was big enough to seat six comfortably. The fridge, a Sub-Zero large enough to store a year’s worth of food, was covered top to bottom in schoolwork. Tests, homework assignments, pictures drawn with crayon and marker.

And pictures of the two of them were everywhere. Leo holding a tiny Polly, who was wrapped in a pink blanket, one clearly wailing and one absolutely beaming. Leo holding Polly by the very tips of her fingers as she took what looked like her first steps. Leo and Polly at the farm, her hands buried in the dirt with a flat of seedlings next to her, her very own spade sticking out of the earth. Leo’s face was split by a wide grin in every one. He was clearly over the moon for his daughter, and rightly so. She was a pistol.

Then I heard Leo come in through the front door.

“Butter’s soft, but not too bad. Fridge?” he asked, carrying in my bags and pie pan. I nodded. “Did you stay put?” he asked, his back to me.

“Yes, I stayed exactly where I was told to.”

He turned from the fridge, his expression warmed up some since he’d left. “Roxie, I—”

“Dad? My laundry is sorted. Can I go play now?” a voice called down from above.

“Come on down,” he responded, eyes still on me. He offered me a sheepish grin, and I couldn’t help but smile back. That grin always got to me.

“I want to go see the pigs, see how big they got while I was gone, and—what’s that?” Polly had come running down the stairs, flew into the kitchen, and was now staring at the baking supplies.

“Roxie brought those with her. Something about a pie?” Leo answered, looking at me with a twinkle in his eye.

“Oh yeah—a pie,” I said. “Someone was promising me strawberries, so I thought I’d—”

Polly burst out, “I love strawberry pie. Can I watch you make it? Is it hard? Do you make your own crust? Sometimes strawberry pie has rhubarb, will this one? There’s a diner in town that makes cherry pie, but I really like strawberries better. Daddy has a new variety of strawberries this year called brown sugar strawberries. I haven’t tried them yet, but he told me all about them. Are you using those? Can I help? Can I—”

“Hold on there, Pork Chop, you’re talking a mile a minute. Let’s slow it down a little, let Roxie catch up,” Leo interjected.

He called her Pork Chop.

“Catch up to what?” she asked, totally unaware. “I can help, you know. After all, I’m seven years old.”

“Well, then, you’re practically driving,” I joked.

She looked at me seriously. “I can’t drive for another nine years.”

I blinked. “Of course.” I looked to Leo for help, but he was unpacking my bags. “Wait a minute—baking a pie here obviously isn’t the best idea.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Why not?” Polly echoed.

“Um, well . . .” I looked around wildly. “The sink! It’s out of commission, and you can’t bake without having running water. Beside the fact that . . .”

Leo had grabbed some tool, disappeared under the sink for thirty seconds, popped back up, and turned on the faucet.

“Right. Well—”

“You need strawberries, right?” Leo said, lifting a small bag from the counter and spilling the world’s sweetest, juiciest, most perfect brown sugar strawberries into a bowl.

“So, pie?” Polly asked, bouncing a little as she clapped her hands.

Oh, for Pete’s sake . . .

“So, pie,” I said, squashing my flight reflex.

Leo’s phone rang and he raised his eyebrows.

“Sure, go ahead,” I answered, climbing down off the counter and testing my leg. It barely hurt.

Leo had gone into another room, so I asked Polly, “Where does your—” Good lord, I can’t call him Daddy. “Where does he keep the mixing bowls?” She was only too happy to show me.

In minutes, we had an assembly line going on the countertop: bags of flour and sugar, measuring cups I’d brought from home, a cutting board, and my best paring knife. I decided to start with the crust, and put Polly to work.