“Of course,” I reply, sliding the form forward before he can change his mind.
He scrawls his name with all the enthusiasm of a man signing away his peace and quiet. “Now go.”
Dylan slings an arm casually around my shoulder in playful triumph. “Round one: Addison and Dylan, one; bureaucratic nonsense, zero.”
I laugh, leaning slightly into his comforting presence. “You make it sound like a scavenger hunt.”
“Hey, we dominated that scavenger hunt for the perfect items for the silent auction,” he reminds me, chuckling. “Don’t you think?”
“Indeed, we did! And it’s still on.”
We continue down Main Street, ducking into each local shop with practiced ease, seeking donations for the auction. Dylan surprises me at every stop with his charm, effortlessly coaxing smiles and generous donations from shop owners. At The Book Nook, Mrs. Henderson enthusiastically offers a signed first edition of a beloved classic, her gray eyes twinkling knowingly.
“I knew you two would stop by,” she says warmly. “I can’t believe it. Our Dylan found a match.”
My cheeks flush, and Dylan squeezes my shoulder gently, his silent acknowledgment speaking volumes.
At Butter & Crust, the owners bundle together a basket of delectable pastries and gift certificates, casting a playful wink our way as we exit.
“You two make quite the team,” she calls after us, a playful lilt in her voice.
I pretend not to notice Dylan’s pleased smile, though my pulse quickens. “Seems everyone thinks so,” I tease gently, nudging him.
“Can’t argue with popular opinion,” Dylan says lightly, his grin broadening.
We step into Antiques & Oddities, the bell above the door chiming softly. Dust motes float lazily through sunlight filtering through antique lace curtains, and shelves brimming with curiosities surround us. Dylan drifts toward a display case, eyes catching on a worn baseball glove.
His eyes widen slightly as he examines it. “Addy, come look at this.”
Joining him, I read the fading autograph scrawled across the leather. “Who’s ‘Sammy ‘Slingshot’ Reynolds?’”
Dylan smiles, nostalgic warmth lighting his features. “Local legend. Minor league player. My dad took me to every game he pitched. This glove — this would make someone’s entire year.”
Seeing his genuine enthusiasm sends warmth blossoming inside me. I wave the shopkeeper over, securing our latest treasure. As we step back onto Main Street, Dylan cradles the glove carefully, nostalgia still lingering.
“You really care about this community,” I observe softly.
He shrugs, almost shyly. “Of course. I want to give back somehow.”
“I think you already do, Dylan. More than you realize.”
He meets my eyes, sincerity etched into his expression. “I try.”
I blush, feeling the truth of his words as we wander toward the waterfront.
Settling onto a bench with ice cream cones from Sugar Scoop Creamery, we watch the gentle rhythm of waves lapping against the shore. Gulls swoop gracefully overhead, their distant cries blending harmoniously with the soft hum of the afternoon.
“It’s been a good day,” Dylan says, voice soft with contentment.
I nod slowly, staring down at my ice cream. “Yeah. Still, sometimes I worry I’m promising too much. Everyone’s counting on this to go perfectly.”
He turns toward me, voice gentle yet firm. “Hey. You’ve got this. And remember, you’re not alone. I’m right here.”
Emotion thickens my throat, and I glance up, gratitude shimmering in my eyes. “Thank you. Really.”
His smile deepens. “Always.”
We sit quietly for a few moments, the gentle breeze playing with my hair as Dylan finishes his ice cream, leaning back with exaggerated satisfaction. “This counts as a date, right?”
