“Okay,” I say, pulling out my phone. “Let’s not panic.”
I call the bakery’s emergency number from the spreadsheet. It rings. And rings. And rings.
Voicemail.
I try the driver’s number Addison flagged. Straight to voicemail.
Leah looks at me. “Want me to tell Addy?”
“No,” I say, already pulling out my truck keys. “I want you to start setting up the tasting tables like they’re on schedule. I’ll be back in fifteen.”
She doesn’t argue. That’s why I love this team.
The bakery’s barely fifteen minutes away, tucked behind a florist shop on Main. When I get there, the front door’s locked, but I spot a teen through the side window — apron dusted with flour, clearly mid-bake. I knock, hold up my hands like I come in peace, and smile.
Turns out, the driver called in sick, and no one thought to check the calendar for a delivery window. The pies are baked. Chilled. Packed. Just… still in the kitchen.
I load them myself. Eighteen maple pecan pies, six gluten-free, three labeled vegan for the allergy table. They barely fit in the truck bed. I drive with my windows down and my heartbeat steady.
By the time I pull up at the firehouse again, Leah’s set the tables.
I carry the pies two at a time, laying them gently into their places like crown jewels. The pie tent transforms instantly from sparse to spectacular.
I’m wiping pie crumbs off my palms when I hear someone call out, “Smyth, you just saved the fundraiser’s soul.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Morgan adds, handing me a wet wipe.
I laugh, the tension finally starting to slide off me.
Then I hear her.
“Looks like someone beat me to quality control.”
I turn, and there she is.
Addison, hair half-up, clipboard in hand, confidence and elegance wrapped into one fitted green dress. She’s the kind of calm that doesn’t ask permission. And she’s exactly what this morning needed.
“You’re late,” I say, smirking.
“Because someone let the banner say ‘FUN-draiser.’ With sparkle font. Sparkle font, Dylan.”
“I thought it was intentional,” I tease.
She gives me a look. “That banner was two puns and a comma splice away from being a crime scene.”
“Well, it’s gone now?”
“Replaced. Burned. Possibly cursed.”
I hold up a coffee. “You’ve earned this.” I hand her a coffee that’s cold, infused with hazelnut creamer, just how she likes it, and we start our final walkthrough
Her eyes scan the setup, then the pie table, and I watch that flicker of realization pass over her face. She sees what almost went wrong, and that it didn’t.
“You got the pies.”
“I got the pies,” I confirm. “Driver bailed. I made a pit stop.”
She shakes her head, eyes a little shiny. “I appreciate you.”
