For one stunned second, we just stand there, dripping and blinking. Dylan flicks his head like a soaked Labrador, scattering diamonds into the light.
“Well,” I croak, pushing curls off my forehead, “looks like we’ve added a fancy water feature to the ceremony.”
“Water feature’s extra,” he says, laughter rumbling.
I plant fists on hips. “Excuse me... my budget can’t be messed with at this point.”
“Madness.” He sloshes a step closer. “I demand hazard pay — at least two pie slices. Pecan.”
“Pie slices belong to the fundraiser column, not the wedding column. Read the fine print.”
“Fine print?” He nods at my rainbow binder, now wilting like a bedraggled peony. “That thing weighs more than the arch.”
“Should’ve hired a lawyer,” I retort, though I’m laughing too hard for it to sting. Sunshine, cold water, and his ridiculous grin dissolve every shard of formality.
We’re inches apart, clothes plastered, steam rising from our shoulders as the afternoon heat works on the drench. His navy tee clings to muscles I have no professional business cataloging, and sunlight halos every droplet in his hair. Abruptly, the orchard feels too small for the oxygen I need.
A buzz jerks me back — my phone shivers inside a very wet pocket. I fish it out and thumb the smeared screen: Langford Wedding Chat.
My stomach drops. “Oh no.”
Dylan’s smile fades. “Trouble?”
I read aloud: “‘Hey Addison! Just checking in — any sneak-peek photos this afternoon? Can’t wait!!!’ with a star-eyes emoji!” Triple exclamation points and a star-eyes emoji — never a good sign.
He winces. “How many sneak peeks do we actually have?”
“Zero.” Panic prickles my scalp. “Your boards are clean, thanks to Niagara Falls, but the arch still looks like a T-square and a prayer.”
He rests a reassuring palm on my shoulder; warmth seeps through wet cotton. “Breathe. We rough frame it, right now.”
“It’s almost four.” I gesture at the sun inching westward. “Golden-hour photos are in ninety minutes.”
“I can set the skeleton before then. You snap pictures mid-build, caption them with something upbeat like ‘Making great progress out here!’ She’ll swoon.”
“I still need to update the timeline spreadsheet, ping the florist —”
“And I have a framing nailer begging for action.” His confidence feels like standing in bright sun after a storm. “We’ve got this.”
I draw a deep breath, taste apple tang on the breeze. “Okay. I’m in.”
We slap a high-five that morphs into a hand clasp. Neither of us lets go for a beat too long — the zap of earlier returns, sparking through wet fingers. When we finally separate, my pulse is ridiculous.
Dylan works like he’s racing a pitch clock — measuring, notching, bracing. I fetch screws, hold boards, snap progress shots. Adrenaline keeps me warm even though my shirt clings like shrink-wrap. He arches cedar strips into a graceful header, fastens cross-lattice, and levels the legs before my camera counter flips past fifty photos.
“How did you curve that so cleanly?” I ask, genuinely awed.
“Strip-lamination round a spare barrel.” He nudges a brace with his boot. “Brenda had the pieces pre-cut. I just persuaded them to cooperate.”
The angle of sun reaches that magic stage where it paints everything honey-gold. I frame the arch against a backdrop of apple rows, capture the glow glinting off fresh wood, and add a shot of Dylan — grinning, sawdust on his cheek — because happy contractors imply happy clients. Text, emoji, send.
Moments later my screen lights up with Meredith’s name.
THIS IS STUNNING!!! You’re incredible!!!
My blood pressure drops ten points. “Crisis averted.”
Dylan wipes sawdust-flecked water from his brow with the hem of his tee. “Told you. Now, about that pie hazard pay…”
