27. Final Touches
FINAL TOUCHES
Dylan
We’ve got silent auction tables under the big canvas tent, a dunk tank tucked beside the playground fence (with its new, regulation-compliant splash guard), and two food trucks parked in formation like they’re about to compete on a cooking show.
Addison’s spreadsheet is burned into my brain by now.
Color-coded, timed to the minute, cross-referenced with the weather app.
She said she needed to check on the signage — something about a typo she couldn’t unsee — and maybe bribe the print shop with cinnamon scones.
I didn’t ask. I trust her brand of chaos.
“Hey, Dylan?” Leah jogs over, phone in hand. “Is Butter & Crust here yet?”
I glance around, scanning for the signature pastel-striped van. “They’re not?”
“They were supposed to deliver the pies an hour ago.” Her voice tightens. “There’s no answer at the bakery. The site says ‘closed for private event prep.’”
My stomach clenches.
We built this fundraiser’s whole identity around those maple pecan pies. Local, photogenic, and — according to Addy — emotionally vital. Without them, the dessert station looks like an afterthought.
“Okay,” I say, pulling out my phone. “Let’s not panic.”
I call the bakery’s emergency number from the spreadsheet. It rings. And rings. And rings.
Voicemail.
I try the driver’s number Addison flagged. Straight to voicemail.
Leah looks at me. “Want me to tell Addy?”
“No,” I say, already pulling out my truck keys. “I want you to start setting up the tasting tables like they’re on schedule. I’ll be back in fifteen.”
She doesn’t argue. That’s why I love this team.
The bakery’s barely fifteen minutes away, tucked behind a florist shop on Main. When I get there, the front door’s locked, but I spot a teen through the side window — apron dusted with flour, clearly mid-bake. I knock, hold up my hands like I come in peace, and smile.
Turns out, the driver called in sick, and no one thought to check the calendar for a delivery window. The pies are baked. Chilled. Packed. Just… still in the kitchen.
I load them myself. Eighteen maple pecan pies, six gluten-free, three labeled vegan for the allergy table. They barely fit in the truck bed. I drive with my windows down and my heartbeat steady.
By the time I pull up at the firehouse again, Leah’s set the tables.
I carry the pies two at a time, laying them gently into their places like crown jewels. The pie tent transforms instantly from sparse to spectacular.
I’m wiping pie crumbs off my palms when I hear someone call out, “Smyth, you just saved the fundraiser’s soul.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Morgan adds, handing me a wet wipe.
I laugh, the tension finally starting to slide off me.
Then I hear her.
“Looks like someone beat me to quality control.”
I turn, and there she is.
Addison, hair half-up, clipboard in hand, confidence and elegance wrapped into one fitted green dress. She’s the kind of calm that doesn’t ask permission. And she’s exactly what this morning needed.
“You’re late,” I say, smirking.
“Because someone let the banner say ‘FUN-draiser.’ With sparkle font. Sparkle font, Dylan.”
“I thought it was intentional,” I tease.
She gives me a look. “That banner was two puns and a comma splice away from being a crime scene.”
“Well, it’s gone now?”
“Replaced. Burned. Possibly cursed.”
I hold up a coffee. “You’ve earned this.” I hand her a coffee that’s cold, infused with hazelnut creamer, just how she likes it, and we start our final walkthrough
Her eyes scan the setup, then the pie table, and I watch that flicker of realization pass over her face. She sees what almost went wrong, and that it didn’t.
“You got the pies.”
“I got the pies,” I confirm. “Driver bailed. I made a pit stop.”
She shakes her head, eyes a little shiny. “I appreciate you.”
“Yes, you do,” he says with a smirk.
The tables are perfect. The signage looks custom. The dunk tank is already drawing kids like it’s a magnet.
“I think we might actually pull this off,” she says.
I bump her shoulder. “We already did.”
We move like clockwork the next hour. She checks with the auction volunteers, I triple-confirm the fire safety waivers. She sweet-talks the espresso truck guy into offering two-for-ones. I fix the broken mic cable before the band’s sound check.
At one point, I find her by the dunk tank, arms crossed, lips twitching as she watches a seven-year-old try to hit the target with a tennis ball the size of his head.
“I don’t think he’s strong enough,” she murmurs.
“Think you are?” I ask, holding out a spare ball.
Addy takes it, winds up, and nails the target.
The firefighter in the tank splashes down, and the crowd erupts in laughter.
She does a mock bow, then turns to me, face flushed. “That felt good.”
“I’m just glad Gerald MacDonald isn’t here to see this.”
“Oh, he’s watching,” she says, voice low. “From his office. Through gritted teeth.”
“Let him.”
Just as Addison and I finish our first slow sweep of the event site, pie safely in place and guests starting to filter in, I spot trouble coming in the form of two familiar silhouettes striding toward us like they own the blacktop.
Morgan’s got that sparkle in her eye that says ‘I have questions and I will not be subtle about them’, and Leah’s smirking like she’s already halfway into a roast.
I sigh. “Brace yourself.”
Addison arches a brow. “For what?”
“Sisters. Multiplying.”
Morgan reaches us first, arms crossed, smile wide. “So. This is the famous Addison Bennett.”
“I told you not to call her famous,” I mutter.
“Too late,” Leah chimes in. “We’ve heard so much. Honestly, it was starting to feel like Dylan had invented a stunning, hyper-competent wedding planner just to get out of talking about his feelings.”
“I have feelings,” I protest.
“Yeah,” Morgan says. “Mostly about power tools and pecan pie.”
Addison laughs, full and unbothered. “I’ll take stunning and hyper-competent. That’s a first.”
Leah sticks out a hand. “Leah. I’m the nice one.”
Morgan scoffs. “I’m the cool one. You’ll like me better once I show you our group chat where Dylan asked seven times whether ‘fancy fairy lights’ and ‘practical fairy lights’ were the same thing.”
I feel my ears go red. “They weren’t, and you know it.”
Addison just smirks. “He takes lighting very seriously.”
“You should’ve seen him with the hummingbird arch,” Morgan says, eyes twinkling. “He was practically emotional. I thought we were going to have to write it a eulogy.”
Addison grins, but there’s something softer in her gaze now. “Well, he rebuilt it. Stronger than before.”
Morgan raises her brows. “Oh, she’s good.”
Leah leans in. “Be honest... are you just here for the maple pie? Because if not, I have a very cute, very single firefighter I can introduce you to. Blonde. Makes a mean chili.”
Addison looks at me, then back at Leah. “I’m good. I like brunettes. Especially the handsome, overly prepared kind.”
Morgan gasps. “She’s flirting. With our baby brother. In front of us. She’s brave.”
“I like her,” Leah says.
“Same,” Morgan nods. “Although I should warn you, Dylan once cried because someone stepped on his cardboard firetruck in kindergarten.”
“It was a very detailed replica,” I mutter.
“And he wouldn’t go to sleep unless someone played him the Rescue Heroes theme song,” Morgan continues.
“I was five!”
“Six,” Leah corrects.
Addison’s laughing so hard now she has to put her coffee down. “Okay, okay, this is honestly the best laugh I’ve had in years.”
“You get used to them,” I say dryly. “Or you invest in noise-canceling earbuds.”
“But then we wouldn’t get to vet your crushes in person,” Morgan says sweetly.
“Not a crush,” I mumble.
“Uh-huh,” Leah says. “Sure. That’s why you drove across town for pies and panic-ordered whipped cream just in case she changed her mind last minute.”
“ Leah. ”
“See?” Morgan stage-whispers to Addison. “Blush level three. That means he likes you. Level five is full tomato.”
Addison grins. “Good to know.”
“I need to go check on the band,” I say, backing away with zero dignity.
“Take your time!” Morgan calls. “We’ve got questions!”
As I escape toward the fiddlers, I glance back once. Addison is laughing with both of them, relaxed, right at home. No awkwardness, no nerves. Just her, shining in the sun like she belongs here.
And I think, not for the first time, she really might.