“— plus a backup plan if the groom suddenly hates cedar grain.”
“Bring on the poplar.” I lean forward. “Humor aside, I’m serious. Let me help.”
She takes her first bite, chews, exhales. “Okay. But we do this right, I mean the whole 9 yards. Handshake and everything.”
“That’s why I need you. For the fundraiser. Consider this your unofficial recruitment.”
She twirls the spoon, tracing circles in her cup. “You won’t be offended if I still scout a professional tomorrow morning — just in case?”
“Not offended. I’d do the same if I hadn’t found the perfect event planner.” I lay my palm face-up on the table. “Partner for now?”
She studies my hand, then sets hers on top. A handshake snaps like static, warmth buzzing up my arm. She’s the one who lets go first, blinking.
“Thanks,” she says, clearing her throat.
A long beat passes while she searches my face. “You’re remarkably unfazed by chaos.”
“I run into burning buildings for fun.”
“Point taken.”
She laughs again — third time in five minutes — and it sounds less brittle, more like sunlight after rain. When her phone buzzes once more, she flips it over, face down on the table.
“You’ll lose points with the bride if you ignore her,” I warn.
“That’s Maggie being a nag.”
“You seem like lifelong friends?”
Addison contemplates her melting ice cream. “It feels like I’ve known her forever.” She sighs. “I haven’t missed a deadline in three years. Losing a contractor feels like a crack in the dam. I keep telling clients I can handle everything. What if I can’t?”
“Then you ask for backup.” I lift my cup in salute. “Which is scarier — admitting you need help, or facing the Langfords without that arch?”
She winces. “Fair question.”
A sudden boom of laughter from the kids pulls our attention.
Addison smirks, then sobers. “Alright. Let’s do this. Carpenter swap for full-service fundraiser.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
She extends her hand. “Deal.”
We shake, and the spark this time feels less jolt, more glow — warm enough to bank for later.
“Thank you,” she murmurs as cars start rolling out of the lot. “For offering. For not making me feel incapable.”
“I never confuse panic with incapability. You just need a new team roster.”
“Teamwork,” she echoes softly, as if the word is fragile and new. Then she chuckles. “If this turns into an epic disaster, at least we met over double-scoop diplomacy.”
“Triple-scoop dreams,” I correct.
She nudges my elbow. “Promise me no chili cookoffs at this year’s fundraiser. I’ve heard horror stories from last year’s event.”
“Scout’s honor. We’re thinking barbecue and a silent auction.”
Her eyes light. “Silent auctions rake in money if you spark a bidding war. I once got a groom to drop two hundred bucks on a lattice-crust apple he thought his bride baked. She hadn’t, but his face was priceless.”
