Page 10 of The Proposal Planner (Ever After #2)

CHAPTER EIGHT

MASON

The day after the Dove Disaster, a new treaty is brokered in The Weathered Barn, written in the unspoken language of shared coffee.

I come downstairs to find Maddy there, the space scrubbed clean of every stray feather and all but the most stubborn specks of glitter.

Two mugs of rich coffee sit on the kitchenette counter, steam curling up.

A quiet offering. She doesn’t say anything as I take one, giving me a small, hesitant nod.

The brittle, awkward silence of the past few days is gone, replaced by tension that’s almost more dangerous.

It’s a watchful stillness, a space alive with the energy of everything that happened in the net.

We had been tangled together, and now, even apart, we’re still connected by invisible threads of awareness.

What started as a line in the sand is now a memory we both step over.

I retreat to my loft, but the stillness up here feels different. It's no longer a refuge from her whirlwind. It's a vantage point. Every movement she makes below draws my attention. The scratch of her pen, the low hum of her laptop, the faint rustle of fabric as she moves between projects.

After the potluck performance and the avian uprising, pretending she's a temporary logistical issue is no longer a viable strategy.

Around mid-morning, she drags a large cardboard box into the center of the barn.

My eyes narrow. I recognize the determined set of her jaw, the determined energy that precedes her most ambitious endeavors.

A new project is being launched, and after yesterday, I feel a certain proprietary concern for the structural integrity of my work environment.

She unboxes a black quadcopter drone, its propellers and frame appearing menacingly complex.

I remember her mentioning a client who wanted an aerial banner drop during a mountain hiking proposal.

An idea about "love that soars above earthly concerns. "

I also remember her attitude about mastering the required skills for this new model. "How hard can it be to fly a remote-controlled aircraft in a straight line?" she had asked, her confidence that of someone who's flown before and isn't convinced gravity applies to her.

I lean forward, my elbows on my desk, and watch as she begins to find out. Her first attempt at liftoff is less of a soar and more of an angry wobble. The drone sputters a few feet into the air, tilts left in a lurching stumble, and clatters back to the floor with the grace of a dropped brick.

"Okay, so, a bit of a learning curve," she mutters, undeterred by what any rational person would consider a warning sign.

She spends the next hour like this, a cycle of tentative takeoffs, spastic jerks, and ungraceful landings. It's a testament to her will that she doesn't give up. I've heard the stories, like the time a drone's programmed message glitched and spelled out "HAIRY MOLE" instead of "MARRY ME."

And I remember watching the drones at Henry and Savvy's engagement, shaped like champagne bottles, launch with all the unfortunate enthusiasm of a bad erection, each one veering off course before plummeting into the Hudson.

She's a walking case study in unforeseen creative complications.

But despite the past disasters, and the current ones, her tenacity is undeniable.

With every attempt, the drone climbs a little higher, its flight path growing more unpredictable.

She's learning, but by sheer force of trial and error.

A method that feels risky when dealing with a flying object armed with four spinning blades.

I should be working. I have documents to review and grant applications to finalize.

But I can't tear my eyes away. I'm watching a disaster in slow motion, and a part of me, the pragmatic part that can't resist a logistical challenge, is troubleshooting her technique.

She's overcorrecting the pitch, her throttle control is inconsistent, and she isn't accounting for the air displacement within the enclosed space of the barn.

"Easy does it," she coaxes the drone, now hovering at about my eye level, ten feet from the loft railing. It drifts, as if sizing up its options. "Just a simple turn. A gentle, elegant turn." She nudges the joystick.

The drone ignores the plan. It shoots forward, locked on target.

Straight for my loft. Straight for me. I don't even have time to swear.

I shove back in my chair as the drone zips past my head, missing my laptop by maybe three inches before slamming into the wall behind my desk with a crack.

It drops to the floor, twitching like a dying insect on the hardwood.

Silence.

I sit frozen for a long moment, my heart trying to beat its way out of my throat. I stare at the drone, now still on the floor.

From below, I hear Maddy’s intake of breath—a strangled, horrified sound that drags me to my feet. I brace my hands on the railing and stare down. She’s frozen, both hands clapped over her mouth, her face pale with horror.

“Oh my god,” she whispers. “Mason. Are you okay? Did it hit you?”

I take a slow breath, my anger a hot, rising tide. I meet her eyes, letting her see exactly how not-okay I am.

“No,” I say, my voice calm. “It did not hit me. It did, however, attempt to assassinate my computer. This constitutes another, and I would argue more severe, operational failure.”

I catch the flicker of defiance in her eyes, the reply forming—but it falters, swallowed by guilt."I am so, so sorry," she says, her voice shaking. "I thought I had it under control."

"You had it on a direct trajectory for my head," I point out, striding toward the stairs. "We may be rewriting the rules, but here's the first rule. No trying to kill me, on purpose or by accident, before my second cup of coffee."

I descend the stairs with a heavy tread.

My initial fury is being replaced by a sense of responsibility.

I had watched her struggle for an hour and done nothing.

I had let it escalate. This is, in part, my fault.

She flinches as I approach, expecting me to unleash the full force of my wrath.

I stop in front of her, my attention falling to the complex remote control in her hands.

"There is a logistical flaw in your technique," I say, my voice gentler than either of us expects.

"My technique?" she squeaks. "My technique is 'try not to crash it.'"

"Which is proving ineffective." I hold out my hand. "Give me the manual."

She hands over the thick booklet, all technical specs and black-and-white diagrams. I flip through it the way I do with legal briefs. Fast, focused, picking out patterns and key terms like pitch, yaw, and throttle. It's a system. And I know systems.

"You're treating this like a toy," I say, glancing up. "But it's not. It's a high-performance instrument. You can't mash buttons and hope. It takes precision."

"Precision," she repeats, crossing her arms. "And you're the expert now?"

"I understand how things work." I set the manual on the table. "Your problem is you're reacting. You need to anticipate. Think ahead instead of cleaning up a mess."

I head up to the loft and grab the drone. Aside from a few nicks, it survived. I cradle it instinctively, hands steady from years of flying these things when I needed to clear my head.

"I used to fly them in college," I say as I cross the barn again. "Stress relief."

She blinks. "You think flying a tiny aircraft around sharp beams is relaxing?"

"It is for me," I say. "It's like meditation. Controlled movement. Focus. Silence when it works right."

"That's the least relaxing hobby I've ever heard. What happened to yoga or deep breathing?"

I smile as I kneel and set the drone in place. "This is my deep breathing."

I stand behind her and reach for the controller. She stiffens when I step in close but doesn't move away. My body fits naturally behind hers. The air between us shifts.

"Your stance is off," I say, low enough for her alone. "Relax your shoulders."

I place my hands over hers on the controller. Her fingers twitch beneath mine. The contact short-circuits every part of me that isn't logic or restraint.

"The left stick controls the throttle and yaw," I say. "The right is pitch and roll. They work together. Small, clean adjustments."

Her breath falters. I can feel it through the space where our bodies nearly touch.

"Try easing up the throttle. Gradually."

Under our joined hands, the drone rises. Smooth. Steady. No misfires this time.

"There you go," I say. "See what happens when you lead instead of chase?"

She doesn't answer, but I can feel it. Her focus sharpening, her muscles gradually easing under my touch.

The drone hovers, and for ten full minutes, we fly it together.

No stumbling. No fighting. We fly loops.

Figure eights. A slow turn around the barn rafters like we're tracing the edges of everything we've been avoiding.

We don't speak. We don't need to. Her instincts and my control line up without effort, like we've done this a hundred times.

It's terrifying. And exhilarating.

Because it proves what we've been denying. We don't cancel each other out. We amplify.

"Okay," I say quietly. "Bring it in. Light on the throttle."

We land it clean. A perfect touchdown.

Neither of us moves.

My hands are still over hers.

My chest still brushes her back.

The drone might be grounded, but nothing between us feels settled.

She turns enough to glance up at me. Her eyes are dark and wide, filled with nervous triumph that mirrors my own.

"I…" she starts, her voice a whisper. "We did it."

"Yes," I say, my voice strained. "We did."

I should step back. I should break the contact and retreat to the safety of my loft.

But I can't. I'm trapped in her orbit. She turns fully then, inside the circle of my arms. She's so close.

All I have to do is lower my head. All I have to do is close the few inches separating us and I could find out if her lips still taste like possibility.

The moment stretches, taut and fragile. Then, with an effort of will, I drop my hands and take a step back.

The cold air that rushes into the space between us leaves me feeling strangely hollow.

She studies the drone on the floor, then meets my gaze, a new understanding dawning in her expression. The story we told ourselves, one of mess versus order, glitter versus spreadsheets, that's finished. She knows it. I know it.

"So," she says, her voice a little shaky. "I guess you're good for more than legal advice and fancy office equipment."

"And I guess," I say, quieter now, "that your whirlwind isn't as directionless as I thought."

Our so-called agreement is little more than a footnote now. The barn isn't a battleground. It's home turf. And the biggest threat isn't a mishap or malfunction. It's how seamless this has become. How effortless it feels to forget we ever promised to stay apart.