“Point stands.” I extend my hand. “Partners?”
Her fingers slide into mine — cool, steady — and a spark snaps between our palms. “Partners.”
The sun slides over the orchard, turning the leaves indigo.
I eye the lumber pile, flex my fingers. “I don’t think it’ll be a problem to get this done in three weeks.”
“Overconfident much?”
“Baseball rule: less than two outs, runner goes on contact. Translation — commit hard.”
“I have no idea what that means.” But she lifts her phone, snaps a picture of my grin framed by cedar. “Evidence for the bride.”
“Get my good side.”
“Both sides are good,” she murmurs, then flushes. I feel the heat crawl up my neck, too.
“You sure that wasn’t flirtation?” I tease.
Her shoulders lift. “Maybe it was.”
My pulse spikes, but professionalism clicks into place for both of us. She steps back, twirling her pen like a baton. “All right, Coach, let’s build something strong and beautiful.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I salute with the tape measure. The orchard hums with August’s final breath, and suddenly everything — wood grain, evening breeze, her smile—tastes sweeter than any apple I’ve ever picked.
10
SUDS, SUNLIGHT, & SUDDEN SPARKS
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 1ST
Addison
A lazy patchwork of white clouds drifts across a robin-egg sky as Dylan hauls a coil of faded green hose toward the lumber stack. I need to clean the area was his reasoning to seek out a hose. Sunlight filters through the apple branches, making silver freckles on the half-framed cedar arch. It’s barely three-thirty, but the late-August heat has already baked the orchard dust into every board. “Pinterest rustic” does not include visible pollen, so the wood needs rinsing before my bride’s inevitable progress photo request.
Dylan flips the handle on an ancient hand-pump spigot. The pipe groans like it hasn’t been summoned since flip phones were a thing, then coughs up a thin brown trickle that instantly quits.
I cross my arms. “Your fancy half-lap joints will be lovely — provided the arch doesn’t look like it rolled in a sandbox.”
He wiggles the nozzle, biceps flexing. “Patience. This hose and I are finding a mutually beneficial communication style.”
“Pretty sure its love language is early retirement.”
He grins, unkinks a loop, and the hose shudders alive. Water surges into a respectable stream. He tests the spray on a nearby plank, peeling sap and dust in tidy ribbons. “See? Whisperer credentials extend beyond soda machines.”
I arch a brow but the sight of those boards gleaming clean shoots a dose of blessed event-planner relief straight through my veins. “Skepticism partially rescinded.”
“Only partially?” He gestures to the nozzle. “Grab the loose end, we’ll tag-team. Faster.”
I squat for the handle. The hose smells like sun-warmed rubber and childhood sprinklers. “Ready.”
“Three… two… rinse!”
Water cascades across the cedar. I pivot to reach the back rail — and that’s when the orchard rebels.
A kink buried deep in the coil snaps loose with a sharp pop. Pressure rockets forward; the nozzle bucks like it’s possessed. A geyser slams my torso. “EEP!” Half shriek, half gasp, because that water is mountain-stream cold. I spin to wrestle control — and sling an accidental fountain directly at Dylan.
He reacts on pure instinct. “Heads up!” He lunges, arms wide like a very heroic, very ineffective human shield. The spray ricochets off his chest and soaks us both head-to-toe. I flail to clamp the trigger; water finally sputters off, leaving afternoon sun glittering on every drip.
