Mr Langford folds his arms and studies the scene. “This is… admirable.” The word sounds extracted under anesthesia. “We’ll inspect again at seven.”
“Do. But we’re golden.”
He eyes me. “Ms. Bennett’s conduct —”
“— is blameless,” I cut in. Conversation freezes. Every volunteer ear tilts our way. “A jealous clip from a ridiculously jealous influencer doesn’t undo months of flawless planning.”
“You’re the one who saved the day,” he argues. “You should be compensated —”
“I will be, when she honors her side of our deal as the official planner for the Birch Harbor fire-hall fundraiser.”
There’s a long breath where the orchard only holds the hum of generators. He extends his hand. “We’ll honor the invoice.” I breathe at last and shake his hand, scraping damp hair off my forehead with the other. Addison walks up to us.
Meredith crosses the lawn, wide-eyed at the intact arch. “Addy, it’s … perfect.”
“You had us worried, Ms. Bennet,” he starts with a stern stare. “We’re happy you hired such a professional contractor. He didn’t miss a beat.”
Addison straightens, professional reflex sliding back like a glove. “Told you he was.”
Mr Langford continues. “Ms. Bennett, we will add a bonus for the emergency crew.”
Color floods Addison’s cheeks. She opens her mouth, maybe to refuse the bonus, but I squeeze her hand. She nods instead. “Thank you, Mr Langford.”
He nods, turns. “Ceremony rehearsal in two hours. Don’t be late.” They retreat toward the cars.
We watch everyone get in their cars and leave, waving and thanking everyone before they go.
I turn to Addy.
“Dylan, I —” She swallows, voice caught in her throat. “I shouldn’t have given in to fear and hidden in my car. I hate that I did.”
“You didn’t leave the orchard,” I say simply. “That’s what matters.”
She steps into my arms before I can reach for her. I crush her against my sawdust-stiff T-shirt, kissing her before the apology can congeal. She tastes of sleepless coffee and rain-washed apple blossom. Her binder thumps on the ground, and her fingers fist the back of my neck.
When we part, she’s crying the kind of tears that polish instead of erode. “I can’t thank you enough for what you did tonight, bringing people together and saving the wedding,” she whispers, forehead against mine.
“You were the mastermind behind this,” I murmur. “I just followed your lead.” I brush a curl from her cheek. Behind us, thousands of fairy bulbs wink awake in the rising sun. “I’m happy you stayed. I’ve been impatiently waiting for all those people to leave to finally hold you in my arms.”
Her laugh is half-sob. “Oh yeah?” She sighs, “I can’t believe I let a gossip clip rattle me. I won’t make that mistake again.”
“It can happen to the best of us,” I tease, but my throat closes because she’s smiling through tears, and the orchard never saw anything as bright.
Addison bends for her binder and wipes the cover. “I owe you more than a thank-you.”
“Start with coffee,” I say, lifting her hand to my lips, “and end with the first dance at the wedding.”
She arches a brow. “Pretty sure guests dance, not planners.”
“Then we’ll be guests,” I murmur. “Let Bluewater talk.”
She kisses me again — quick, certain — then shoulders the binder. Sunrise slants through the hummingbird cut-out, wings glowing amber.
There’s still work ahead—florist layouts to confirm, a last-minute swap on the chair delivery schedule, and the inevitable rehearsal jitters waiting to hit. The to-do list hums quietly in the background, but for now, it all fades into something quieter, simpler. The arch, draped in wild greenery and soft blush roses, stands tall at the edge of the bluff, its silhouette framed by the golden curve of late afternoon light. The breeze carries a whisper.
But what anchors me isn’t the view or the checklist. It’s her. Addison Bennett’s fingers are laced with mine, warm and steady, like they’ve always known how to fit there. Her grip isn’t tight, but it’s sure, like she doesn’t have to hold on too hard to know I won’t let go. Her thumb brushes lightly against the inside of my wrist — absentminded, familiar, and somehow more intimate than a kiss. And standing beside her, beneath a sky painted in watercolor pastels, it doesn’t feel like a task on a timeline. It feels like a beginning.
22
