More importantly, I know that young men are often immature and break hearts.
So, I keep my arms folded, my voice measured, my heart guarded.
And when we finish walking the site, I’ll thank him, shake his hand, and climb back into the truck without letting my fingers linger too long.
Because I’m Addison Bennett.
And I don’t lose focus.
Even when the carpenter with the golden retriever smile keeps looking at me like I’m not just a checklist.
But something — someone — worth building toward.
9
APPLES & ALMOST-KISSES
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 1
Dylan
She Will be Loved plays as the truck noses beneath a sagging Honeycrisp limb. Addison leans forward, directing me toward a tuft of grass beside the half-built cedar arch, so I idle there, tires crunching over wind-fallen apples that burst under the weight.
“Playlist still holding up?” I ask while killing the engine.
Her shrug suggests nonchalance, but her smirk confirms I hit the mark. With the sun slanting through the leaves, half her face glows gold, the rest mysterious shadow — and I realize I’m grinning for no practical reason.
I hop out, jog around the hood, and open her door before she can reach the handle. “Contractor courtesy,” I insist, offering a hand.
Addison arches an amused brow but accepts. The instant her flats meet the ground an apple rolls beneath her heel — nature’s cheapest banana peel.
“Whoa — gotcha.” I clamp both hands around her waist. A jolt of heat zips straight through my ribs. She braces herself on my forearms, cheeks going rosy.
“Totally fine,” she chirps, breath catching. We release each other like kids caught passing notes and do that awkward straighten-clothes, clear-throats routine.
“First item on the punch list,” she declares, smoothing her lake-green blouse, “hazard pay due to unruly fruit.”
“Noted. I’ll log it under fruit-related incidents. HR will be happy.” That earns me a reluctant, dazzling smile.
We fall into step, pushing through ankle-high grass. On the left, tidy rows of apple trees march toward the lake, every tree heavy with red-gold globes; on the right, the ceremony clearing sprawls — a canvas of mown turf framed by Mason-jar centerpieces, lumber stacks, and Brenda’s lone starter arch. It feels both hopeful and half-finished, like a sketch begging for ink.
Addison looks at her notes on her clipboard. “Benches along this axis, six-foot aisle, arch centered on that maple stump.” She points with the pen that was tucked behind her ear, precise and sure.
I whistle. “Your binder needs an OSHA permit.”
“It’s not just a binder. It’s a precision instrument,” she fires back, handing me a unicorn-bright spreadsheet that makes my eyes water. “Bench layout is cross-referenced to the seating chart and photographer’s shot list.”
I squat and flip the page, sketching boxes on the blank side. “Tilt rows five and six eight degrees and the photographer wins an unobstructed aisle shot.”
She studies my crooked doodle. “Better symmetry. But that means an extra bench.”
“I’ll mill it out of the scrap stack — free lumber, no dent to the budget.”
“Look at you — saving trees and budgets.” She tries not to smile, fails, and records the change in bubble-gum ink. She’s devastating when she smiles.
A rickety orchard ladder leans against a gnarled branch above the arch frame. I test it — sturdier than it looks, though it groans like an arthritic pirate.
“You’re really climbing that?” she asks, eyes narrowing.
