8. First Business Meeting
FIRST BUSINESS MEETING
Addison
T he parking lot smells like wet grass, sunblock, and bittersweet endings.
Maggie stands beside me, arms crossed, eyes on the field. “Well, that’s that. We’ve cleared the concession stand.”
“Yup,” I murmur, clutching my clipboard like it might stop my brain from spinning.
“So... you have your big date today?” Maggie nudges me.
“What are you talking about?” I say, already regretting telling her that Dylan offered to take over Brenda’s work. “We have three weeks until the Langford wedding. We need to get moving.”
As if summoned by a narrator’s cue, Dylan approaches from the other end of the lot.
He’s ditched the ballcap but still wears that navy Hawks hoodie like he was born in it.
He has a clipboard under one arm and a smoothie in the other and somehow manages to look completely unbothered by the weekend chaos.
“Ladies,” he greets, raising his drink in salute. “Perfect day for a post-tournament construction consultation.”
“You mean a beg-the-guy-with-the-tools session,” I mutter.
He grins. “Tomato, tomahto.”
I blink at him, disarmed. He doesn’t look smug, just... amused. Relaxed. Like he’s enjoying this more than he should. I clear my throat. “We should head out to the wedding site. It’s at the Caldwell family orchard — the south end, just past the stone bridge.”
He gestures toward the lot. “Then let’s go. My truck’s got room.”
“I have my car,” I say quickly. “I’ll follow you.”
“Or,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “we save gas and ride together, and we can talk business. I’ll drop you back here after.”
Maggie glances between us, clearly dying to say something, but for once she keeps her mouth shut.
I hesitate. Riding alone with him for twenty minutes feels like a setup for something, I just don’t know what. Or maybe I don’t trust myself in close proximity to this hunk. Still, I nod. “Fine.”
He opens the passenger door of his truck with a flourish. “After you.”
I climb in, trying not to notice how clean it smells — cedar, mint gum, and something warm and distinctly masculine. The seats are worn but comfortable, and a Birch Harbor Hawks bobblehead nods at me from the dashboard like it knows things I don’t.
Dylan slides in behind the wheel. “Playlist preference? Or should I just assume you’re a ‘90s pop revival girl?”
I lift an eyebrow. “What gave you that idea?”
“You give off strong Lilith Fair meets Shania Twain vibes.”
“That’s... oddly specific,” I mutter, adjusting the seatbelt.
He shrugs, throwing the truck into reverse. “I’m an observant man. And the youngest and only man in a family of four kids.”
He plugs in his phone and plays around for a couple of seconds. When he puts it down, Letters to Cleo’s ‘Cruel to be Kind’ starts blaring.
“Impressive choice in music,” I muse.
“I aim to please.”
We roll out of the lot, the truck humming over the gravel. For a minute, neither of us speaks. The window’s cracked and warm air filters through, carrying the scent of pine and late summer. I catch him sneaking a glance my way, and I look out the window, heart doing an unnecessary hop.
“You always carry a clipboard?” he asks.
“Only when I’m trying to impress people.”
“Mission accomplished,” he chuckles.
The road curves past the lake, shimmering gold under the dipping sun. Dylan drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “So, this wedding... How panicked is the bride?”
“She has color-coded binders for each day of the week. You tell me.”
He whistles low. “Sounds intense.”
“She wants a ‘rustic, fairy-tale orchard vibe’ with precisely spaced benches, reclaimed wood accents, and an arch that looks like love itself manifested out of cedar and wildflowers.”
“Not ambitious at all.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re telling me. Brenda was building the structure. She’s our woodworking wizard.”
“And I need someone to plan a fundraiser, so here we are,” he says, no bitterness in his tone.
“Here we are.”
“And you’re... skeptical.”
I glance at him. “I’m pragmatic.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
I cross my arms. “It’s not personal. You’re very — helpful. But I don’t know your work, and I can’t afford anything less than perfect.”
Dylan lets out a low laugh. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously!”
“Well, now I have to build that arch and make it the best arch you’ve ever seen in your life!”
I laugh despite myself. “You’re really okay with this?”
“Sure. I like building things. I like being useful. And I’ve already saved you from a soda machine meltdown and rogue hot dogs. Might as well keep the streak going.”
I glance at him, heart thumping harder than it should. He’s casually charming in a way that sneaks up on you — like you’re laughing and then you realize you’ve been leaning in too close for too long.
“Should we go out for coffee to celebrate this arrangement?”
I sit straighter. “This is a professional arrangement.”
“Understood,” he says, but his smile doesn’t budge. “Strictly business. You drive a hard bargain, Addi — Addison.”
I catch the slip. Or maybe it wasn’t one. Still, I press on. “I just want to be clear. People talk in this town.”
“OK,” he says lightly.
“You’re young…” I say.
He glances over. “And you’re not? Not sure why we’re talking about each other’s age right now.”
“I don’t want people to start rumors. You weren’t around for the Great Library Flirtation of 2018,” I mutter. “Two people dated across a six-year age gap and it turned into weekly gossip column material.”
“Wow. I’m honored that our hypothetical coffee date could rival that much drama.”
I glare, but there’s no real heat behind it.
“Okay, okay.” He lifts a hand. “Professional. I get it. No jokes. No flirtation.”
“You’re literally doing it right now.”
He grins. “What, this?” He gestures between us. “This is just friendly banter. The kind contractors do while discussing lumber types and joint angles.”
I shake my head. “So, you’re this suave with all your clients? Independent of the gender?”
“OK you got me,” he says, easing the truck onto a side road. “I may have turned on the charms for you, to secure this arrangement — professionally speaking, of course.”
“Professionally speaking, of course…” I chuckle. I see you.
The orchard comes into view — rows of trees casting long shadows over the grass, the clearing for the ceremony tucked just beyond a stone path.
It’s beautiful in that undone, wild way that weddings dream of capturing.
But all I can think about is the way my stomach keeps flipping every time he smiles.
He parks the truck and hops out, rounding the front to open my door like he’s in a rom-com. I ignore the flutter that gesture sends through me and step down carefully.
“Alright,” I say, getting into planner mode. “Let’s talk logistics.”
He nods, all business now. “Layout, materials, dimensions. I’m yours for the next hour.”
My cheeks heat at the phrasing. I don’t respond.
We walk side by side down the path. I point out where the arch will go, where the benches should line up. He takes measurements, jots notes on a notepad he pulled from his glovebox. It’s absurdly endearing.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear Maggie’s voice: Maybe it’s time you let yourself do something unexpected.
I ignore it.
Because the truth is — I like the way Dylan looks at me. I like his steadiness, his dry humor, his maddening confidence. I like how he listens. How he takes the chaos in stride.
But I also know how small this town is. How fast people talk. And how easy it is to mistake kindness for something more.
More importantly, I know that young men are often immature and break hearts.
So, I keep my arms folded, my voice measured, my heart guarded.
And when we finish walking the site, I’ll thank him, shake his hand, and climb back into the truck without letting my fingers linger too long.
Because I’m Addison Bennett.
And I don’t lose focus.
Even when the carpenter with the golden retriever smile keeps looking at me like I’m not just a checklist.
But something — someone — worth building toward.