“She sent me a seventeen-item email about the ribbon situation. I told her we’re elevating rustic chic to a new philosophical plane.”
“You do that a lot.”
I tilt my head. “Do what?”
“Fix panic with humor.”
That makes me pause. “People need to laugh before they can breathe.”
He nods, studying me like he’s collecting puzzle pieces. I take a sip and glance at the arch. “This is amazing work, Coach. Really.”
“Thanks.” He sets his cup down and leans forward slightly. “So, what about you? Ever wanted to leave Bluewater Cove?”
“Oh, all the time. When I was younger, I imagined working for a high-end events firm in Montreal. Or maybe New York. I even applied to one. Got an interview.”
“And?”
“I turned it down. My dad got sick. Then my mom needed help. Then business picked up here and...” I shrug. “I got rooted.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “You regret it?”
“Sometimes. But not because I don’t love this town. I just wanted to prove I could matter somewhere else.”
“You do matter,” he says, voice low and steady. “You make things happen. Here, people lean on you. That’s not small. That’s everything.”
It’s ridiculous how fast my throat tightens. I stare at the cup in my hands. “You say things like that and expect me not to unravel on the spot?”
“No unraveling, don’t do that. Just being honest.”
We fall into a softer silence.
The wine tastes sweeter now. Or maybe it’s the air — still warm, tinged with honeysuckle.
“I brought some twinkle lights, I wonder if we can try them on to see if they’ll work?” I ask, rising.
“Let’s see them,” Dylan walks to the arch.
He starts looping a strand through the cedar lattice while I try to untangle a knot, with some tie-wraps wedged between my teeth like deranged popsicle sticks.
“Hold still,” he says, reaching to tug the cord out of my hair. Naturally, it tangles harder. Great. Between the reel and the lattice, it’s still coiling tight.
I try to laugh it off — mouth still full of tie-wraps — just as the timer clicks and every bulb explodes to life. Soft gold light spills over us, and Dylan’s face is suddenly Hallmark-movie perfect: scruff, grin, and those too-curious eyes.
He pries the tie-wraps from my teeth. “Pretty sure wine is a better flavor than plastic.”
I snort, immediately choke on my own dignity, and lose my grip on the cord. It slithers through my fingers and loops around his boot. Before I can react, he shifts to step back — pulling the cord taut — and I stumble forward, arms flailing like a marionette cut loose.
My momentum slams me into his chest with an awkward ‘oof.’ We teeter like a pair of drunken bowling pins, and then, of course, we slip on the slick grass. My heels slide out from under me, and my spine meets the arch post with a solid thunk.
Somehow, I’m half sprawled against the post, half tangled with him, breathless, blinking up at a man who now knows far too much about my center of gravity.
“Hi,” he says, completely unfazed.
“Hey,” I croak, palms plastered to his unfairly sculpted pectorals. I should step away. I do not.
Somewhere a cricket orchestra starts its encore. Dylan’s eyes drop to my lips for one dizzy second, and every rom-com I’ve ever mocked queues up in surround sound.
The sensible voice in my head fetches a megaphone — professional boundaries, age gap, charter of perfectionism, judgmental BRIDEZILLA — but my heart is busy leaning in.
