I roll my eyes, fighting a smile. “You think everything counts as a date.”
He nudges my shoulder playfully. “Only the best parts.” His expression turns teasingly hopeful. “But seriously, official date number two — the fundraiser?”
My cheeks warm under his teasing gaze. “You’re relentless.”
“Only because you make it so easy.”
I laugh softly, the sound floating away on the gentle breeze. “Fine. The fundraiser.”
Before I can say more, Dylan leans in, his hand brushing a loose strand of hair from my cheek. There’s a pause — just long enough for my breath to catch — before he closes the distance and presses a soft, tentative kiss to my lips. It’s gentle, warm, and over far too quickly.
When he pulls back, his smile is softer now, laced with something deeper. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”
My heart thuds in reply, and I bite back a grin. “Took you long enough.”
He chuckles, his fingers still lightly grazing mine. “Guess I was waiting for the right moment.”
“The fundraiser,” I say again, this time barely a whisper.
“The fundraiser,” he echoes, eyes never leaving mine.
He pumps his fist dramatically, and I swat him lightly, giggling. We rise from the bench, our steps slow and unhurried, matching the relaxed rhythm of the afternoon. Dylan slips his hand gently into mine, our fingers intertwining naturally. His touch is warm, steady, comforting.
“I’m glad we’re doing this,” he says quietly, sincerity coloring every word.
“Me too,” I whisper, squeezing his hand.
We pause to watch a sailboat glide smoothly across the cove, its crisp white sails catching the sunlight. Dylan turns to face me, a quiet intensity in his eyes.
“You know, moments like these — I never realized how much they’d mean until now,” he murmurs softly, voice almost lost in the gentle sound of water and wind.
Together, we slowly walk back toward the heart of Birch Harbor, with the promise of the fundraiser and our blossoming future waiting just ahead. The warmth of the afternoon wraps around us like a comforting embrace, and as we near the bustling center of town, my earlier anxiety fades into quiet determination.
With Dylan at my side, I’m ready for whatever comes next.
27
FINAL TOUCHES
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 4
Dylan
By the time the sun clears the trees behind Station 14, we’ve already got the first tent halfway up and the generator humming like it means business. It’s the kind of organized chaos that runs on coffee, zip ties, and last-minute brilliance. My favorite kind.
We’ve got silent auction tables under the big canvas tent, a dunk tank tucked beside the playground fence (with its new, regulation-compliant splash guard), and two food trucks parked in formation like they’re about to compete on a cooking show.
Addison’s spreadsheet is burned into my brain by now. Color-coded, timed to the minute, cross-referenced with the weather app. She said she needed to check on the signage — something about a typo she couldn’t unsee — and maybe bribe the print shop with cinnamon scones. I didn’t ask. I trust her brand of chaos.
“Hey, Dylan?” Leah jogs over, phone in hand. “Is Butter & Crust here yet?”
I glance around, scanning for the signature pastel-striped van. “They’re not?”
“They were supposed to deliver the pies an hour ago.” Her voice tightens. “There’s no answer at the bakery. The site says ‘closed for private event prep.’”
My stomach clenches.
We built this fundraiser’s whole identity around those maple pecan pies. Local, photogenic, and — according to Addy — emotionally vital. Without them, the dessert station looks like an afterthought.
