“You could hang a squad car from it.” I dust cedar shavings off my palms. “But let’s start with fairy lights. The father of the bride is doing his walk-through tomorrow.”
She sets the tote beside my boot, pops the lid, and unspools a delicate strand. Tiny bulbs wink in the twilight like they’re already impatient to shine.
“Ladder’s over here.” I gesture, then wince at the stab in my shoulder. Nothing new — just today’s reminder that lumber is heavier than it looks, and thirty-foot hose drills prefer to fight back.
Addison catches the twitch the way she catches every detail. “You okay?”
“Peachy,” I lie. “My shoulder protests when it’s not leg day.”
“I’ll write it a thank-you card later.” Her gaze lingers on me another beat before she plants the ladder square in the earth.
She climbs, and I steady the rails. Her boots creak; the arch doesn’t budge. One tiny victory at a time.
“Try not to drop the hammer this time, Coach,” she teases, clipping the first light to the top beam.
“I’d never endanger my all-star center. Besides, you fielded that hammer like a pro yesterday.”
“That was a dodge,” she corrects. “There’s a difference.”
A laugh bubbles up, and the orchard soaks it in. Fireflies lift out of the grass — slow, golden confetti — and somewhere beyond the rows, a whip-poor-will starts its lonely night rehearsal.
We trade banter and bulbs down one side, our hands brushing when she passes each strand. Close, but not too close. We’ve been orbiting that line for days, each almost-kiss tugging our paths tighter.
Addison reaches the center beam, stretches, and clips the last bulb with a soft snick. I kill my headlamp and the arch flares to life. Warm amber spills down the cedar, pools on the hummingbird platform, and spills across the orchard floor. For a second, neither of us moves. The air smells of ripe McIntosh and fresh sawdust — the gospel of September.
“Wow,” she whispers. Reverent. “It’s… perfect.”
A breeze stirs the leaves. Addison sways. The ladder wobbles just enough to send adrenaline ringing in my ribs. Instinct floods faster than thought. I grab her waist, steadying her on the third rung. Cedar and apple, and her shampoo wrap around me until the whole world narrows to a single heartbeat.
She looks down. I look up. Fifty times I’ve wanted to close this distance. Tonight, the orchard gives permission.
I tip my chin. She meets me halfway.
The kiss is slow, certain, more exhale than collision. Warmth slides from my mouth to my lungs, soaks into my marrow. Her fingers brush the back of my neck — only a second, maybe two — but a lifetime of something bright pours through the seam we just cracked open.
When we part, her lashes flutter like she’s relearning sight. “Well,” she murmurs, voice trembling a laugh, “that… didn’t feel like professional collaboration.”
“Had to test the structural integrity,” I manage, still bracing her hips. “Pretty sure it’s sound.”
Addison laughs outright, cheeks flushed copper in the fairy glow. Then her eyes fly wide. “The bride! Meredith needs progress photos before nine.”
“Right.” I release her waist, suddenly aware of every heartbeat that used to live in my chest and now apparently lives somewhere closer to hers. “Selfie time.”
She pulls her phone, flips the camera. I duck beside her, one arm around the ladder rail, the arch blazing behind us like a blessing. Click. The screen freezes a moment: her smile shy but genuine, my grin stupid wide. Proof.
Then she stiffens. “Maybe a picture of just the arch and lights would be better.”
I nod. Is she regretting the kiss or only worried about appearances?
She scrolls, thumbs a quick caption. Arch complete; lighting test successful. Better than Pinterest ;)
Before she can hit send, I point to the background. “Wait, crop out the ladder feet. Meredith wants floating, not 4-H footings, remember?”
Addison rolls her eyes, edits, then pauses. The smile slips softer. “This is starting to feel… real.”
The words land between us and pulse. Real. As in more than flirtation. As in worth all the gossip Cassandra can fling, all the second-guessing age-gap jitters can brew.
“For me,” I say, voice rough, “it’s been real since you passed me that ketchup-splattered towel for me to wipe my hands.”
