10. Suds, Sunlight, & Sudden Sparks
SUDS, SUNLIGHT, the nozzle bucks like it’s possessed.
A geyser slams my torso. “EEP!” Half shriek, half gasp, because that water is mountain-stream cold.
I spin to wrestle control — and sling an accidental fountain directly at Dylan.
He reacts on pure instinct. “Heads up!” He lunges, arms wide like a very heroic, very ineffective human shield. The spray ricochets off his chest and soaks us both head-to-toe. I flail to clamp the trigger; water finally sputters off, leaving afternoon sun glittering on every drip.
For one stunned second, we just stand there, dripping and blinking. Dylan flicks his head like a soaked Labrador, scattering diamonds into the light.
“Well,” I croak, pushing curls off my forehead, “looks like we’ve added a fancy water feature to the ceremony.”
“Water feature’s extra,” he says, laughter rumbling.
I plant fists on hips. “Excuse me... my budget can’t be messed with at this point.”
“Madness.” He sloshes a step closer. “I demand hazard pay — at least two pie slices. Pecan.”
“Pie slices belong to the fundraiser column, not the wedding column. Read the fine print.”
“Fine print?” He nods at my rainbow binder, now wilting like a bedraggled peony. “That thing weighs more than the arch.”
“Should’ve hired a lawyer,” I retort, though I’m laughing too hard for it to sting. Sunshine, cold water, and his ridiculous grin dissolve every shard of formality.
We’re inches apart, clothes plastered, steam rising from our shoulders as the afternoon heat works on the drench. His navy tee clings to muscles I have no professional business cataloging, and sunlight halos every droplet in his hair. Abruptly, the orchard feels too small for the oxygen I need.
A buzz jerks me back — my phone shivers inside a very wet pocket. I fish it out and thumb the smeared screen: Langford Wedding Chat .
My stomach drops. “Oh no.”
Dylan’s smile fades. “Trouble?”
I read aloud: “‘Hey Addison! Just checking in — any sneak-peek photos this afternoon? Can’t wait!!!’ with a star-eyes emoji!” Triple exclamation points and a star-eyes emoji — never a good sign.
He winces. “How many sneak peeks do we actually have?”
“Zero.” Panic prickles my scalp. “Your boards are clean, thanks to Niagara Falls, but the arch still looks like a T-square and a prayer.”
He rests a reassuring palm on my shoulder; warmth seeps through wet cotton. “Breathe. We rough frame it, right now.”
“It’s almost four.” I gesture at the sun inching westward. “Golden-hour photos are in ninety minutes.”
“I can set the skeleton before then. You snap pictures mid-build, caption them with something upbeat like ‘Making great progress out here!’ She’ll swoon.”
“I still need to update the timeline spreadsheet, ping the florist —”
“And I have a framing nailer begging for action.” His confidence feels like standing in bright sun after a storm. “We’ve got this.”
I draw a deep breath, taste apple tang on the breeze. “Okay. I’m in.”
We slap a high-five that morphs into a hand clasp. Neither of us lets go for a beat too long — the zap of earlier returns, sparking through wet fingers. When we finally separate, my pulse is ridiculous.
Dylan works like he’s racing a pitch clock — measuring, notching, bracing.
I fetch screws, hold boards, snap progress shots.
Adrenaline keeps me warm even though my shirt clings like shrink-wrap.
He arches cedar strips into a graceful header, fastens cross-lattice, and levels the legs before my camera counter flips past fifty photos.
“How did you curve that so cleanly?” I ask, genuinely awed.
“Strip-lamination round a spare barrel.” He nudges a brace with his boot. “Brenda had the pieces pre-cut. I just persuaded them to cooperate.”
The angle of sun reaches that magic stage where it paints everything honey-gold. I frame the arch against a backdrop of apple rows, capture the glow glinting off fresh wood, and add a shot of Dylan — grinning, sawdust on his cheek — because happy contractors imply happy clients. Text, emoji, send.
Moments later my screen lights up with Meredith’s name.
THIS IS STUNNING!!! You’re incredible!!!
My blood pressure drops ten points. “Crisis averted.”
Dylan wipes sawdust-flecked water from his brow with the hem of his tee. “Told you. Now, about that pie hazard pay…”
“You’ll get your slices,” I say, softer than intended. “Truly — thank you.”
He meets my gaze, earnest. “Anytime, Addison.”
We coil the now-obedient hose, stack tools into the truck, and kill the portable speaker that’s been piping throwback tunes all afternoon.
The sun hangs low but bright, edges of the orchard glowing like stained glass.
We start toward the car; the grass, still slick from our mishap, betrays me again.
My flats skid; I pitch forward with all the elegance of a baby giraffe.
Strong fingers clamp my elbow. Dylan steadies me, thumb brushing the sensitive skin inside my arm. My balance returns, but the rest of me wobbles.
“Maybe riding in the same truck wasn’t such a terrible idea after all,” I mutter, mortified and thrilled in equal measure.
“Coach’s logic: minimize risk of repeat wipeouts.” He releases me only after verifying I’m stable. The touch lingers like sunlight even when it’s gone.
At his pickup, he grabs a clean flannel blanket from behind the seat. “Toss this over your legs — the vents have a mind of their own.”
“Thanks,” I say, unfolding it. “Trying to impress me with your high-end climate control?”
He smirks. “Nothing but the best.” He taps the bobblehead on the dash, and it nods along.
We roll down the orchard lane, windows open, warm wind scenting the cab with grass and ripening fruit. After the first curve, I break the comfortable quiet. “You realize rumor mills will marry us off by suppertime.”
He chuckles. “Only if the hose story leaks.”
“It will. Bluewater’s faster than Twitter.” I picture Maggie’s ecstatic grin and groan. “She’ll weaponize every detail.”
“Let her try. I can handle gossip.”
I almost say I’m not sure I can, but I swallow it. Instead, I tuck the blanket tighter and watch afternoon light strobe through branches overhead.
At the county road he slows. “Need me to accompany you into town or do I drop you off at your car?”
I consider the familiar ache of responsibilities waiting in my hatchback — emails, budgets, the florist’s call sheet. And then I think of heat, laughter, and a playlist that hasn’t missed once all day.
“Straight to my car,” I surprise myself. “I got some work to do.”
He nods like he saw that coming. “Alright, Partner Extraordinaire, let’s go.”
His arm brushes mine as he shifts; sparks, again. The bobble-head jiggles agreement, and Dylan shoots me a sideways smile — fleeting, warm, entirely too charming.
We discuss fundraiser logistics on the drive: dunk tank vetoes, the merits of bubble-machine rentals versus confetti cannons (he’s pro-confetti, until I threaten to invoice post-event cleanup).
Ideas bounce fast, fizzing like the hose before it betrayed us, and by the time we hit Main Street I’ve mapped half a schedule in my head.
Indigo Girls’ Romeo and Juliet starts playing, and I have to look out the window because if I look at him, I might just believe the Indigo Girls are trying to convince me to give this a chance.
There’s a ding on my phone. Meredith again.
Just saw the pic you posted from the orchard. Is that him? The concession stand guy? Addy, please tell me he’s a contractor and not, like… a flirty farmhand with a side hustle. Clear lines are important.
I give a side glance to Dylan, who’s making an effort to give me privacy, eyes on the road. But I can’t help but notice his backwards cap and forearms holding the steering wheel.
Dylan’s a certified, qualified carpenter. He’s donating labor in exchange for me organizing the Birch Harbor Fire Station Fundraiser, but all work meets professional codes.
Hmm. I just don’t want whispers that my planner is hiring eye-candy over expertise. Optics matter, darling — especially when one is, well, “seasoned.” We wouldn’t want anyone assuming you’re… distracted.
A flutter of heat — not the good kind — creeps up my neck. I look out the window to try to hide my fluster.
Completely focused, I assure you. The crew is vetted, insured, and on-schedule.
See that it stays that way. Daddy will be inspecting the site on the 18th, and he has an eye for loose bolts and loose boundaries. Chat soon!
I inhale a bit too dramatically.
“Everything OK?” Dylan asks.
“Yup, everything’s peachy with the one who is gunning for the Bridezilla of the year award.” I exhale and stare absentmindedly at the scenery passing us by. What if Meredith is right?