THE WEDDING
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 20
Dylan
Mr Langford’s assistant meets me near the entrance to the orchard with a clipboard and a pinched smile. “You’re seated with the Langfords,” she says, handing me a name card like it’s a parking violation.
“Lucky me,” I mutter.
Technically, I wasn’t supposed to be a guest. But after the storm rescue and the emergency rebuild of the arch, Mr Langford himself muttered something about “recognizing initiative” and insisted I attend the ceremony. I don’t think it was out of gratitude. I think it was damage control. Either way, I’m here — and she’s here.
Addison Bennett, in all her glory.
She’s not just composed — she’s radiant. Her navy jumpsuit from yesterday is gone, replaced with a soft plum wrap dress that somehow looks both commanding and effortless. Clipboard in one hand, headset tucked behind one ear, and that familiar glint in her eyes — the ‘I built this’ look. I’ve seen it on her before, but never like this. Never with that undercurrent of hard-won confidence.
She passes by, rattling off instructions to the caterers without missing a step. Her fingers brush mine as she walks past. Just a whisper of contact, but it sends a full jolt through me.
“You clean up nice,” I say.
She smirks without turning. “Don’t distract the planner, Smyth.”
No promises.
The ceremony begins as the golden hour settles in. The arch we rebuilt glows in the late-afternoon sun, hummingbird keystone and all. The chairs are full, the guests quiet, and Meredith walks down the aisle like she was born for it. Addison watches from the sidelines, her eyes shining.
There’s this moment — just as the bride reaches the front — where Addy presses her clipboard to her chest like it’s holding her heart in place. And I realize she’s not just proud. She’s relieved. Like maybe she’s finally letting herself believe she deserves this win.
Gina, the ice queen herself, leans toward her husband and whispers something. He nods, then glances at Addison. And for the first time all weekend, I see respect in his eyes.
The ceremony is simple and elegant. Vows exchanged beneath string lights. A few misty eyes. A solid round of applause. And then the party begins.
The reception is a different kind of storm — music, champagne flutes, laughter rising like confetti. I snag a ginger ale and hover near the dessert table, where mini apple tarts and lavender shortbread are disappearing faster than the DJ can cue the next track.
“Did you help build that arch?” a woman asks beside me. Gray curls, sequined dress, sharp eyes.
“I did,” I say.
She smiles. “I’ve been to a lot of weddings. Never seen one come back from disaster like this.”
“All credit to the planner,” I say, tipping my glass toward Addison across the lawn.
She’s talking with Meredith and Evan now, both of whom are glowing in that way newlyweds do when the hard part’s over and the party’s just beginning. Meredith hugs her. Evan claps her on the back like she’s a teammate who just scored the game-winner.
The older woman grins. “Well, she’s got herself a keeper in you.”
I nearly choke on my ginger ale. “Oh, we’re not —”
She raises a brow.
“— I mean, we haven’t exactly —”
She pats my arm as she turns to walk away. “You will.”
Addy appears beside me before I can think of a response.
“Rescuing another guest from sugar overload?” she asks, eyeing the two shortbread cookies in my hand.
“Trying to. She called me a keeper.”
