“You do hide a ruthless streak.”
“It’s my job. People think weddings are hearts and flowers, but half my day is logistics warfare.”
“Sounds like firefighting without the helmets.”
We stand shoulder to shoulder while Owen says his goodbyes, mist settling on our hair.
“This could work,” Addison says quietly, almost to herself. “Fundraiser, arch — everything.”
“It will,” I tell her, and I don’t just mean boards and nails.
At the lot’s fork, she pauses. “I’d better email the bride before she schedules a meltdown.”
“Tell her the arch is in good hands.”
She hesitates. “See you tomorrow?”
“After clean-up. I’ll bring coffee and sample cedar planks.”
“Then I’ll bring revised budgets and silent auction strategies.” She backs into the mist, flashing a grin. “Goodnight, Coach.”
“Night, Addison.”
Her lavender jacket melts into the shadows, but the glow she leaves in my chest burns steady. The scoreboard reads tie, yet tonight feels like the first inning of something better. And for the first time in a long while, I can’t wait for tomorrow’s pitch.
8
FIRST BUSINESS MEETING
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 1
Addison
The 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.”
