He also leans in — slow, asking. But panic pops like a flashbulb. I turn my head so his lips land on the corner of my cheek instead. It’s still electric, but it’s not quite a kiss. We both breathe out, shaky.
Then I hear “Addy! This looks so great!” The bride decided on a surprise visit, and I’m caught in this unprofessional situation.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“It’s OK,” he says, pulling away. He lifts a hand, brushes a stray curl back, fingertip tracing the spot he’d just head-butted accidentally. My pulse does cartwheels.
“We had a bit of an accident trying to test out the twinkle lights,” I offer as she reaches us, wide-eyed with a certain curiosity, disdain, or ‘I knew it’ attitude. She recovers quickly, like a pro.
“This is amazing, Addy,” Meredith Langford coos, already circling the arch like a curator inspecting a priceless sculpture. A clipboard materialises in her hand — because of course the bride packs office supplies for evening strolls.
“We, uh, wanted to surprise you by sending a picture with the lighting test,” I say, praying the wine bottle isn’t visible. Dylan straightens beside me, expression so calm you’d think near-collisions were part of his daily woodworking routine.
Meredith beams. “It’s perfect. I can picture the photos already.” She snaps half a dozen shots on her phone, thumbs whirring. “But could we maybe shift the arch two inches left? I’m worried the sunset will hit my veil weird.”
Dylan flashes the kind of grin that should be licensed. “Five centimeters left? Easy. We’re basically in the making-it-perfect business tonight.”
I exhale — professional hat back on, romantic-tangle hat shoved deep in the tote bag. “We’ll mark the ground first thing tomorrow.”
“You’re the best, Addy!” Meredith sings, then waltzes off toward her fiancé’s truck, already dialing what is undoubtedly another seventeen-item text thread.
The orchard falls quiet again, save for the fairy lights pulsing like they know secrets. Dylan and I exchange a look — a shared, silent well, that was close.
“So,” he murmurs, voice still warm from the almost-kiss, “when are you doing your next walk through?”
I swallow, cheeks buzzing. “Beginning of next week? We could meet to select a stain color?”
He steps back but keeps my gaze. “Sure thing. And Addy? When you’re ready for the real version of what almost happened, I’ll still be right here.”
My heart executes a squeaky cartwheel. “I’ll get back to you on that.”
He laughs, taps the arch like it’s our very own ‘save the date,’ and the fairy bulbs wink agreement while I head for my car — barely aware my feet are touching the ground.
13
SMYTH FAMILY FARMSTEAD
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 7
Dylan
I follow the ruts up the long gravel lane, tires pinging stones against the truck’s undercarriage. The Smyth farmhouse sits ahead — century-old clapboard painted the color of whipped honey, its porch already bright with kitchen light. Mom stands in the doorway, wooden spoon in one hand, apron flapping in the breeze like she’s guiding a bush plane to land. Sunday supper at the Smyths never sneaks up on anyone.
I step out and barely get the door closed before a pint-sized torpedo slams into my knees. Hazel, Leah’s five-year-old, runs up to me.
“Password, Uncle Dill,” she demands.
I crouch. “Apple pie?”
She salutes in solemn approval, pigtails swinging, then tears off across the lawn, leaving glitter in her wake. Nice to know the security detail’s on duty.
Inside, the house smells like brown-sugar pork, cinnamon apples, and cedar kindling. Leah, firstborn and bossy by divine right, yanks the tape measure from my chest as I unlace my boots.
“Working on a Sunday, or has flannel become your whole personality?”
“Could be both,” Jenna chimes, leaning against the coffee station with her phone at the ready. “Hashtag carpenter-core. My followers are into it.”
Before I can fire a comeback, Morgan breezes in wearing Finley — seven months old — in a bright red wrap dotted with cartoon flames. Morgan’s our first family firefighter and resident mischief-maker.
