Maggie glances between us, clearly dying to say something, but for once she keeps her mouth shut.
I hesitate. Riding alone with him for twenty minutes feels like a setup for something, I just don’t know what. Or maybe I don’t trust myself in close proximity to this hunk. Still, I nod. “Fine.”
He opens the passenger door of his truck with a flourish. “After you.”
I climb in, trying not to notice how clean it smells — cedar, mint gum, and something warm and distinctly masculine. The seats are worn but comfortable, and a Birch Harbor Hawks bobblehead nods at me from the dashboard like it knows things I don’t.
Dylan slides in behind the wheel. “Playlist preference? Or should I just assume you’re a ‘90s pop revival girl?”
I lift an eyebrow. “What gave you that idea?”
“You give off strong Lilith Fair meets Shania Twain vibes.”
“That’s... oddly specific,” I mutter, adjusting the seatbelt.
He shrugs, throwing the truck into reverse. “I’m an observant man. And the youngest and only man in a family of four kids.”
He plugs in his phone and plays around for a couple of seconds. When he puts it down, Letters to Cleo’s ‘Cruel to be Kind’ starts blaring.
“Impressive choice in music,” I muse.
“I aim to please.”
We roll out of the lot, the truck humming over the gravel. For a minute, neither of us speaks. The window’s cracked and warm air filters through, carrying the scent of pine and late summer. I catch him sneaking a glance my way, and I look out the window, heart doing an unnecessary hop.
“You always carry a clipboard?” he asks.
“Only when I’m trying to impress people.”
“Mission accomplished,” he chuckles.
The road curves past the lake, shimmering gold under the dipping sun. Dylan drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “So, this wedding... How panicked is the bride?”
“She has color-coded binders for each day of the week. You tell me.”
He whistles low. “Sounds intense.”
“She wants a ‘rustic, fairy-tale orchard vibe’ with precisely spaced benches, reclaimed wood accents, and an arch that looks like love itself manifested out of cedar and wildflowers.”
“Not ambitious at all.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re telling me. Brenda was building the structure. She’s our woodworking wizard.”
“And I need someone to plan a fundraiser, so here we are,” he says, no bitterness in his tone.
“Here we are.”
“And you’re... skeptical.”
I glance at him. “I’m pragmatic.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
I cross my arms. “It’s not personal. You’re very — helpful. But I don’t know your work, and I can’t afford anything less than perfect.”
Dylan lets out a low laugh. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously!”
