“Need branch clearance.” I set a boot on the second rung. “Spot me?”
She braces the rails. “Break your neck and I’m telling Chief Hale you ignored professional safety advice.”
“Duly noted.” The scent of sap thickens as I climb — three rungs, four.
“Watch your head,” she calls, just as my shoulder brushes a leaf cluster.
“Head’s fine. Question is, will this rung—” Crack. Wood splinters; adrenaline spikes. I jump clear, years of catcher squats earning their keep. The ladder wobbles drunkenly. Addison squeaks. I lunge, catching her shoulders while pivoting my body between her and the falling rails. We topple into grass, chest-to-chest, the ladder thunking harmlessly beside us.
For a breath, we just stare — her palm flat against my sternum, my pulse racing beneath it — then laughter bursts out of both of us, giddy and relieved.
“Told you it was unsafe,” she says, bright-eyed.
“I call it stress testing in real time.” Only when her fingers fist in my T-shirt do I realize we haven’t moved. A dozen rom-com lines crowd my brain; none feel safe, so I ease us upright.
“New rule,” she pants, brushing grass from her tights. “I pick the ladders.”
“Deal.” I rotate my ankle — no damage. “But clearance is perfect. Arch will sit like it was born here.”
“Risk totally worth it,” she deadpans, though the warmth in her smile says she means it.
Together we collect fallen apples, tossing bruised ones into a wheelbarrow that belongs to Mr. Caldwell’s cider dreams. The sun slides toward the treetops; the sky shades apricot and lavender. Addison kneels to grab a glossy Gala near my boot.
“Never thought I’d spend Monday afternoon on orchard cleanup,” she muses.
“Could be worse. You could be volunteering for the fire-hall dunk-tank shift.” I lob an apple; it thuds into the barrow.
She chuckles. “Do you volunteer for every civic event in a thirty-mile radius?”
“Basically. Dad raised me that way.” I flip an apple, let the memory sting and settle. “He’d haul me out for harvest drives — paid in cider and stories.”
Her face softens. “Sounds… nice.”
“It was.” I smile at the memories.
Apples thunking — that’s the only soundtrack for a while.
“Thanks for sharing,” she says at last.
“Your turn — deep, dark secret.”
“I don’t do deep dark,” she protests. “I do color-coded.”
I arch a brow.
She sighs, drops a flawless McIntosh into the pile. “Fine. I’m… terrified. This wedding is the biggest Bluewater’s hosted in years. If I blow it —”
“You won’t.”
“— I nuke my reputation with every vendor. Small towns hang onto failures like heirloom china—fragile, irreplaceable, and endlessly displayed.”
I rest my palm on the barrow rim. “Addison, look at me.”
She does, wary but curious.
“We’ll nail this — literally and figuratively.” I rap a knuckle on the cedar leg. “Angled half-lap joints and pocket holes for sturdiness.”
A shaky laugh escapes her. “If a hurricane hits Ontario, we’ve got bigger problems.”
