“You’ll get your slices,” I say, softer than intended. “Truly — thank you.”
He meets my gaze, earnest. “Anytime, Addison.”
We coil the now-obedient hose, stack tools into the truck, and kill the portable speaker that’s been piping throwback tunes all afternoon. The sun hangs low but bright, edges of the orchard glowing like stained glass. We start toward the car; the grass, still slick from our mishap, betrays me again. My flats skid; I pitch forward with all the elegance of a baby giraffe.
Strong fingers clamp my elbow. Dylan steadies me, thumb brushing the sensitive skin inside my arm. My balance returns, but the rest of me wobbles.
“Maybe riding in the same truck wasn’t such a terrible idea after all,” I mutter, mortified and thrilled in equal measure.
“Coach’s logic: minimize risk of repeat wipeouts.” He releases me only after verifying I’m stable. The touch lingers like sunlight even when it’s gone.
At his pickup, he grabs a clean flannel blanket from behind the seat. “Toss this over your legs — the vents have a mind of their own.”
“Thanks,” I say, unfolding it. “Trying to impress me with your high-end climate control?”
He smirks. “Nothing but the best.” He taps the bobblehead on the dash, and it nods along.
We roll down the orchard lane, windows open, warm wind scenting the cab with grass and ripening fruit. After the first curve, I break the comfortable quiet. “You realize rumor mills will marry us off by suppertime.”
He chuckles. “Only if the hose story leaks.”
“It will. Bluewater’s faster than Twitter.” I picture Maggie’s ecstatic grin and groan. “She’ll weaponize every detail.”
“Let her try. I can handle gossip.”
I almost say I’m not sure I can, but I swallow it. Instead, I tuck the blanket tighter and watch afternoon light strobe through branches overhead.
At the county road he slows. “Need me to accompany you into town or do I drop you off at your car?”
I consider the familiar ache of responsibilities waiting in my hatchback — emails, budgets, the florist’s call sheet. And then I think of heat, laughter, and a playlist that hasn’t missed once all day.
“Straight to my car,” I surprise myself. “I got some work to do.”
He nods like he saw that coming. “Alright, Partner Extraordinaire, let’s go.”
His arm brushes mine as he shifts; sparks, again. The bobble-head jiggles agreement, and Dylan shoots me a sideways smile — fleeting, warm, entirely too charming.
We discuss fundraiser logistics on the drive: dunk tank vetoes, the merits of bubble-machine rentals versus confetti cannons (he’s pro-confetti, until I threaten to invoice post-event cleanup). Ideas bounce fast, fizzing like the hose before it betrayed us, and by the time we hit Main Street I’ve mapped half a schedule in my head.
Indigo Girls’ Romeo and Juliet starts playing, and I have to look out the window because if I look at him, I might just believe the Indigo Girls are trying to convince me to give this a chance.
There’s a ding on my phone. Meredith again.
Just saw the pic you posted from the orchard. Is that him? The concession stand guy? Addy, please tell me he’s a contractor and not, like… a flirty farmhand with a side hustle. Clear lines are important.
I give a side glance to Dylan, who’s making an effort to give me privacy, eyes on the road. But I can’t help but notice his backwards cap and forearms holding the steering wheel.
Dylan’s a certified, qualified carpenter. He’s donating labor in exchange for me organizing the Birch Harbor Fire Station Fundraiser, but all work meets professional codes.
Hmm. I just don’t want whispers that my planner is hiring eye-candy over expertise. Optics matter, darling — especially when one is, well, “seasoned.” We wouldn’t want anyone assuming you’re… distracted.
A flutter of heat — not the good kind — creeps up my neck. I look out the window to try to hide my fluster.
Completely focused, I assure you. The crew is vetted, insured, and on-schedule.
See that it stays that way. Daddy will be inspecting the site on the 18th, and he has an eye for loose bolts and loose boundaries. Chat soon!
I inhale a bit too dramatically.
