12. Fairy-Light Fumble
FAIRY-LIGHT FUMBLE
Addison
T hursday evening. I don’t know why I brought wine. I said I’d bring pie.
It’s not exactly standard protocol for a professional site check, but the bottle ends up in my tote bag anyway, wedged beside a fresh copy of the blueprint, a revised bench layout, and two plastic cups that still have tiny party hat graphics from a kid’s birthday years ago.
I tell myself it’s a peace offering. A reward. A thank-you.
But maybe it’s because I haven’t stopped thinking about Dylan’s expression. The quiet way he looked at me like I was something worth staying for.
Or maybe it’s because I want an excuse to linger.
The orchard hums in the soft glow of evening.
It’s the kind of summer night Bluewater Cove is famous for — lavender skies, cicadas buzzing lazily, the scent of fresh earth and apples warming in the dusk.
The kind of night that whispers, slow down .
I park by the stone bridge and walk the rest of the way, sandals crunching over gravel, bottle clinking gently in my bag.
Dylan’s truck is already here, backed up near the trees.
The tailgate is open, tools arranged with obsessive precision.
He’s at the arch, sleeves rolled, sweat darkening the collar of his t-shirt, the soft thunk of his hammer rhythmic and unhurried.
A pencil is tucked behind one ear, and his hair is damp from effort or the humidity, or both. He hasn’t seen me yet.
So I pause.
The arch is already beautiful. The frame curves like an invitation, smooth joints and clean lines, the kind of craftsmanship that whispers instead of shouts. It fits the orchard perfectly. It’s clear he hasn’t just built it — he’s listened to what the space wants to become.
That alone makes something in my chest tighten.
I clear my throat, trying not to startle him.
He looks up and breaks into a slow grin. “Evening, Boss Lady.”
I groan as I approach. “If you call me that at the fundraiser, I will revoke your pie privileges.”
“Scout’s honor,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag. “You came bearing gifts?”
I lift the tote slightly. “Blueprint updates. And, um… a peace offering.”
I pull out the bottle and cups. He arches an eyebrow.
“You’re full of surprises,” he says, accepting the wine. “Want to split the last daylight on the universe’s most romantic construction site?”
“If by romantic, you mean ‘smells like cedar shavings and impending back pain,’ then yes.”
He chuckles and pours. We settle on the edge of the platform, legs dangling. The sunset filters through the orchard, drenching the trees in gold.
For a moment, it’s quiet. Comfortable.
“How’s our bride?” he asks, sipping. “Still typing in all caps?”
“She sent me a seventeen-item email about the ribbon situation. I told her we’re elevating rustic chic to a new philosophical plane.”
“You do that a lot.”
I tilt my head. “Do what?”
“Fix panic with humor.”
That makes me pause. “People need to laugh before they can breathe.”
He nods, studying me like he’s collecting puzzle pieces. I take a sip and glance at the arch. “This is amazing work, Coach. Really.”
“Thanks.” He sets his cup down and leans forward slightly. “So, what about you? Ever wanted to leave Bluewater Cove?”
“Oh, all the time. When I was younger, I imagined working for a high-end events firm in Montreal. Or maybe New York. I even applied to one. Got an interview.”
“And?”
“I turned it down. My dad got sick. Then my mom needed help. Then business picked up here and...” I shrug. “I got rooted.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “You regret it?”
“Sometimes. But not because I don’t love this town. I just wanted to prove I could matter somewhere else.”
“You do matter,” he says, voice low and steady. “You make things happen. Here, people lean on you. That’s not small. That’s everything.”
It’s ridiculous how fast my throat tightens. I stare at the cup in my hands. “You say things like that and expect me not to unravel on the spot?”
“No unraveling, don’t do that. Just being honest.”
We fall into a softer silence.
The wine tastes sweeter now. Or maybe it’s the air — still warm, tinged with honeysuckle.
“I brought some twinkle lights, I wonder if we can try them on to see if they’ll work?” I ask, rising.
“Let’s see them,” Dylan walks to the arch.
He starts looping a strand through the cedar lattice while I try to untangle a knot, with some tie-wraps wedged between my teeth like deranged popsicle sticks.
“Hold still,” he says, reaching to tug the cord out of my hair. Naturally, it tangles harder. Great. Between the reel and the lattice, it’s still coiling tight.
I try to laugh it off — mouth still full of tie-wraps — just as the timer clicks and every bulb explodes to life. Soft gold light spills over us, and Dylan’s face is suddenly Hallmark-movie perfect: scruff, grin, and those too-curious eyes.
He pries the tie-wraps from my teeth. “Pretty sure wine is a better flavor than plastic.”
I snort, immediately choke on my own dignity, and lose my grip on the cord. It slithers through my fingers and loops around his boot. Before I can react, he shifts to step back — pulling the cord taut — and I stumble forward, arms flailing like a marionette cut loose.
My momentum slams me into his chest with an awkward ‘oof.’ We teeter like a pair of drunken bowling pins, and then, of course, we slip on the slick grass. My heels slide out from under me, and my spine meets the arch post with a solidthunk.
Somehow, I’m half sprawled against the post, half tangled with him, breathless, blinking up at a man who now knows far too much about my center of gravity.
“Hi,” he says, completely unfazed.
“Hey,” I croak, palms plastered to his unfairly sculpted pectorals. I should step away. I do not.
Somewhere a cricket orchestra starts its encore. Dylan’s eyes drop to my lips for one dizzy second, and every rom-com I’ve ever mocked queues up in surround sound.
The sensible voice in my head fetches a megaphone — professional boundaries, age gap, charter of perfectionism, judgmental brIDEZILLA — but my heart is busy leaning in.
He also leans in — slow, asking. But panic pops like a flashbulb. I turn my head so his lips land on the corner of my cheek instead. It’s still electric, but it’s not quite a kiss. We both breathe out, shaky.
Then I hear “Addy! This looks so great!” The bride decided on a surprise visit, and I’m caught in this unprofessional situation.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“It’s OK,” he says, pulling away. He lifts a hand, brushes a stray curl back, fingertip tracing the spot he’d just head-butted accidentally. My pulse does cartwheels.
“We had a bit of an accident trying to test out the twinkle lights,” I offer as she reaches us, wide-eyed with a certain curiosity, disdain, or ‘I knew it’ attitude. She recovers quickly, like a pro.
“This is amazing, Addy,” Meredith Langford coos, already circling the arch like a curator inspecting a priceless sculpture. A clipboard materialises in her hand — because of course the bride packs office supplies for evening strolls.
“We, uh, wanted to surprise you by sending a picture with the lighting test,” I say, praying the wine bottle isn’t visible. Dylan straightens beside me, expression so calm you’d think near-collisions were part of his daily woodworking routine.
Meredith beams. “It’s perfect. I can picture the photos already.” She snaps half a dozen shots on her phone, thumbs whirring. “But could we maybe shift the arch two inches left? I’m worried the sunset will hit my veil weird.”
Dylan flashes the kind of grin that should be licensed. “Five centimeters left? Easy. We’re basically in the making-it-perfect business tonight.”
I exhale — professional hat back on, romantic-tangle hat shoved deep in the tote bag. “We’ll mark the ground first thing tomorrow.”
“You’re the best, Addy!” Meredith sings, then waltzes off toward her fiancé’s truck, already dialing what is undoubtedly another seventeen-item text thread.
The orchard falls quiet again, save for the fairy lights pulsing like they know secrets. Dylan and I exchange a look — a shared, silent well, that was close.
“So,” he murmurs, voice still warm from the almost-kiss, “when are you doing your next walk through?”
I swallow, cheeks buzzing. “Beginning of next week? We could meet to select a stain color?”
He steps back but keeps my gaze. “Sure thing. And Addy? When you’re ready for the real version of what almost happened, I’ll still be right here.”
My heart executes a squeaky cartwheel. “I’ll get back to you on that.”
He laughs, taps the arch like it’s our very own ‘save the date,’ and the fairy bulbs wink agreement while I head for my car — barely aware my feet are touching the ground.