Page 1 of The Proposal Planner (Ever After #2)

CHAPTER ONE

MADDY

The Weathered Barn smells like sawdust, old roses, and possibility—with a hint of the coffee I spilled on the floor an hour ago while wrestling with a particularly stubborn garland.

Two weeks into flying solo at Ever After, Inc.

, and I've transformed this place into a whirlwind of creativity while Savvy honeymoons in Scotland and Ivy handles a bridesmaid crisis in the Hamptons.

The responsibility of holding down our shared dream solo should be overwhelming, but honestly? It feels necessary. Control feels necessary.

Fabric swatches cascade from every beam in planned, graduated colors.

Fairy lights twist around exposed rafters with the precision of expensive jewelry.

And my latest acquisition—a fog machine that may or may not be possessed by the ghost of a dramatic theater director—sits in the corner, belching mist without warning.

The machine devoured months of my coffee budget, but when it cooperates, it transforms a simple proposal into a fairy tale unfolding through morning vapor, worth every overpriced latte I'll never drink.

When it cooperates. Which, to be clear, is rare.

I step back to admire my kingdom, nearly tripping over a box labeled “Emergency Glitter” in my hasty handwriting.

The barn gleams with fairy-light perfection.

Well, almost perfect. That maddening almost-perfect that makes my heart pound with pride while my brain calculates seventeen different ways it could all go spectacularly wrong.

Because things always go wrong when you let your guard down.

I learned that lesson the hard way. My fingers automatically move to the locked filing cabinet where I now store every proposal concept, every vendor contact, and every creative spark that could be used against me.

The lock clicks under my touch—solid, secure, impenetrable.

It’s a physical reminder of a promise I made to myself. Never again.

I told myself it was for the business. Market research. Brand building. A dream proposal to show clients what we could create. But deep down, it came from my own personal playlist—the fantasy I’d never admit aloud.

My ex-boyfriend Daniel flashes through my mind—charming smile, artistic hands, the musician who spent months watching me craft my dream proposal—every detail born from my own romantic fantasies—only to steal it all and use it to propose to someone else.

I'd shared my most vulnerable hopes thinking he might be inspired to propose to me.

Instead, I watched him give my dreams to a stranger.

The Bow Bridge location I’d scouted at sunrise for weeks.

The string quartet I auditioned on a rainy Tuesday, determined to find the one that made forever feel like a sound.

The poem—I still can’t read it without swallowing glass. Every word came from the most vulnerable corners of my heart.

And he used all of it. Every last note, view, and line … to propose to a woman I’d never met. While I watched from the sidelines. Invisible. Gutted.

He called it “inspiration.”

I call it theft.

That’s why I need control now. Why I hold the reins so tightly. It’s not about power. It’s about protection—keeping my heart tucked behind lock and key where no one can reach it without permission.

Today, that lock rattles. Because Mason Kincaid is on his way. And something about him slips past my defenses with alarming ease. Every instinct I have says he’s the last man I should want.

But part of me does.

And that part? That part terrifies me.

My phone buzzes with a text from Ivy, the message appearing as I'm wondering if I should hide the milk crate desk behind a strategically-placed mannequin.

Ivy

How's Operation Tolerating Mason going? Please tell me you didn’t build him a desk out of two milk crates.

I glance toward the corner, where several plastic boxes teeter under a slab of warped plywood.

A folding chair slouches beside it—vinyl cracked, cushion sagging like it gave up sometime around the Clinton administration.

The whole setup wobbles when I so much as breathe, creating a sad little chorus of groans and rattles I hadn’t planned on.

Me

Of course not. I used THREE. I’m not an amateur.

Three dots appear.

Ivy

Maddy...

Me

He'll love the rustic charm! An authentic River Bend experience. Think of it as ... artisanal furniture.

Ivy

You're impossible.

Me

That's why you adore me.

I pocket my phone and survey my territory. Mason Kincaid—best man at Savvy's wedding, Henry's ridiculously competent legal counsel, and owner of the most annoyingly perfect jawline in New York State—thinks helping save the town gives him a permanent key to our barn.

Sure, technically, this space was Henry's wedding gift to Savvy, and yes, Henry did ask Mason to work out of here while managing the Preservation Center.

But I'm the one holding down Ever After, Inc.

while my partners are scattered across continents, which makes me the guardian of our shared vision.

I nearly melted into a puddle at Savvy’s wedding when Mason Kincaid’s hand settled at the small of my back—warm, steady, and too familiar for a man I hardly knew.

My knees wobbled. My face flushed like I’d been hit with a premature hot flash.

And for a second—one ridiculous, hormone-fueled second—I forgot every reason I should’ve kept my distance.

Then he opened his mouth.

One dry, insufferable comment about how he preferred hostile takeovers to my drone collection, delivered in that maddening tone that made me want to laugh … or hurl cake at his pristinely pressed shirt.

Daniel used to look at me like that, too.

Right before he stole my ideas and handed them to someone else.

And Mason? I watched him during the Richard Kingston fiasco—cool, strategic, ruthlessly competent.

He’s one of the good guys. I know that. But the way he sizes up a room, that quiet confidence …

it’s Daniel all over again. A person who makes your best idea feel like it shines brightest when they’re the one bringing it to life.

I shake off the memory and focus on the task at hand.

Mason Kincaid is about to discover that sharing a space with me operates on different rules than a boardroom.

Rules that involve creativity over conformity, heart over spreadsheets, and the understanding that sometimes the best solutions come wrapped in glitter and tied with a bow that took me twenty-three attempts to get right.

And while he may have Henry's permission to be here, I'm the one responsible for keeping our dream alive until the girls get back.

The crunch of gravel marks his arrival. Right on time, after his hour-long commute from Manhattan.

Through the barn’s massive windows, I watch a sleek black Mercedes glide into the parking area like a panther stalking through a field of daisies.

Every inch of the car screams overpriced efficiency, which is precisely what I’d expect from its owner.

I plant myself beside the fog machine, arms crossed, trying to project "confident barn owner" and not "woman who practiced this stance in the mirror this morning.” The car door closes with a soft, expensive thunk.

Mason steps into the doorway, looking misplaced, like a polished modern sculpture someone dropped into a folk-art museum.

He carries a leather messenger bag and a box of office supplies, which he sets down near the entrance while surveying the space.

His immaculate charcoal suit is crisp enough to belong in a boardroom, not a barn where dust is a key design element.

His dark hair is styled with effortless perfection—the result of good genetics and an expensive barber.

He scans the space, those keen eyes sweeping over the creative chaos, his expression holding the careful neutrality of someone who’s stumbled into a dimension ruled by Pinterest instead of physics.

"Maddy." He nods in my direction, his voice carrying that low, even quality that made half the wedding guests swoon and sends opposing counsel into early retirement. "Impressive setup.”

The compliment catches me off guard, though I try not to let it show.

"Mason." I gesture grandly toward the milk crate desk with a flourish that would make a game show hostess proud. "Welcome to your headquarters. We've prepared your executive suite with all the amenities a discerning lawyer could want.”

His eyes land on the makeshift desk, lingering on the wobbly folding chair with scrutiny reserved for disaster drills or condemned buildings. One eyebrow lifts in either amusement or horror—it’s impossible to tell. Mason has mastered the fine art of the unreadable expression.

"Rustic," he says, the word carrying enough diplomatic weight to negotiate international treaties.

"Authentic," I counter, refusing to let him win this opening skirmish. "Very feng shui. The instability keeps you alert, promotes creative thinking. Studies show that a little uncertainty enhances cognitive function.”

"Ah." He approaches the desk with his hands clasped behind his back, moving with the careful assessment of someone inspecting a suspicious exhibit at a museum—or possibly trying to figure out whether it bites. "And the structural integrity? I assume it's been tested for laptop compatibility?”

"Extensively." I watch him circle the setup, trying not to notice how his suit jacket emphasizes his broad shoulders. "That chair has supported at least three wedding planning emergencies and one minor breakdown over venue availability. It's practically an antique at this point—very shabby chic.”

His phone appears in his hand with a practiced smoothness, like he’s rehearsed the move in front of a mirror while wearing expensive suits and intimidating people for fun.