Addy hums. “She might be onto something. You’ll make some lucky lady very happy.”
My heart flips in my chest. She’s teasing. Maybe.
The music shifts. Something classic and warm — Frank Sinatra, maybe. The kind of song that wants you to dance under fairy lights.
I hold out my hand. “You promised me a dance.”
Before she answers, Cassandra appears out of nowhere, cocktail in one hand, wearing what I can only describe as a silk slip disguised as a dress. Her heels click across the dance floor with the subtlety of a fire alarm.
“Dylan,” she purrs, placing a manicured hand on my shoulder. “There you are. I was wondering if you’d be brave enough to dance with someone a little more… in your league.”
Addison stands her ground, and I tighten my grip. Not tonight.
Cassandra flashes a smile like she’s already won. “Don’t be shy. The bride won’t mind. And you deserve to celebrate. I hear you’re the reason this wedding didn’t collapse — literally.”
Addison doesn’t flinch. She steps between us with the kind of grace that could cut glass.
“This dance is taken, Cassandra. And this event isn’t about you.”
Cassandra scoffs. “Oh, please. I’m just trying to enjoy myself.”
“No,” Addy says smoothly, “you’re trying to hijack the spotlight, again. But here’s the thing: you can’t outshine someone who isn’t competing with you.”
Cassandra’s lips part like she’s going to fire back, but she catches the eyes watching from nearby: Meredith, Gina, even Meredith’s dad from a distance — and instead she just huffs, flips her hair, and stalks off.
Addison exhales and looks at me.
“You handled that like a boss,” I murmur.
“I’m done letting people bulldoze things I care about,” she says, eyes holding mine.
“Good,” I say. “Because I care about this, too.”
Her fingers slide into mine, sure and certain. We walk together to the edge of the crowd, where the arch still stands, glowing in soft amber. I pull her close, one hand at her waist, the other holding hers, and she leans in like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You good?” I ask softly.
She leans into my chest again, this time not as a retreat, but as a choice.
“I think I might be great,” she whispers.
We sway under the lights, the orchard soft around us, the music carrying just enough to drown out the world. I don’t need a speech. I don’t need closure. I just need this — her, here, now.
We dance until the sky turns indigo. Guests slowly drift toward the exit. Meredith tosses her bouquet to cheers and squeals. Someone starts a sparkler line. And through it all, Addison glows, not just from the string lights or the successful event, but from the quiet confidence of knowing she didn’t just survive this weekend. She owned it.
I walk her to the edge of the orchard when things begin to wind down. She’s barefoot now, heels dangling from one hand, clipboard under her arm like always.
“Not bad,” I say.
She nudges me. “High praise from Bluewater’s most overqualified handyman.”
“I’m serious. You didn’t just pull this off. You nailed it.”
She shrugs one shoulder, but there’s no hiding the pride in her smile. “We nailed it. You were there when it counted.”
I want to say something more. Something lasting. But maybe this isn’t the moment.
Or maybe it is.
