Page 21 of The Proposal Planner (Ever After #2)

I watch the idea strike like lightning, then ripple across his devastated features. Hope wars with disbelief in his expression.

"We turn this from a private legal battle into a public story about a predatory corporate bully trying to crush a small town that dared to dream.

We fight his money and his lawyers using the one thing he doesn't have and can never buy, people.

Community. A heart that beats louder than his legal briefs. "

I see the fog of his despair begin to clear, replaced by dawning, reluctant awe.

He has been so trapped in the prison of his guilt, so focused on the legal mechanics, that he couldn't see the way out.

But I can see it clear as day. This is what I do.

I create experiences that change hearts and minds.

I craft narratives that matter. And I am about to craft one that Richard Kingston will never see coming.

He rises from his chair and walks toward me, his movements slow, as if emerging from a trance. He stops inches away, his eyes searching my face as if seeing me for the first time. "That ... could work," he says, his voice a rough whisper threaded with what might be hope.

"It will work," I say with unshakeable confidence that comes from bone-deep certainty. "Because it's the truth. And we do this together. Or not at all. That's the deal. No more noble sacrifices. No more lone wolves carrying the weight of the world. Partners."

He reaches for me then, his hands finding my waist, and pulls me into an embrace so tight it feels like he's trying to merge our bodies into one, to absorb my strength, my hope, my absolute refusal to let him face this alone.

He buries his face in my hair, and I feel a shudder rack his entire frame.

It's the feeling of a man who has been holding his breath for a lifetime and has been given permission to exhale.

The chasm between us doesn't close, it ceases to exist. The fragile bridge has become solid ground beneath our feet.

I lean back to look up at him, my heart hammering with adrenaline and a deeper truth, rare and quietly powerful. "So, Counselor," I say, a fierce, brilliant grin spreading across my face. "Are you game to plan a festival?"

He laughs, a real one, low and rough, catching him by surprise. It hits me like warm hands after a long freeze, sudden and startling and impossible to ignore. It's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard, rich with relief and the unmistakable edge of joy.

Then he leans down and kisses me.

Not a question. Not a maybe.

A kiss of alliance. Of promise. Of war, declared on our terms.

"Wait," I say, pulling back suddenly.

He freezes, a flicker of old concern slipping behind his eyes.

"Wait. One second. Don't move."

I turn and head for the stairs before I can second-guess the ridiculous, necessary plan forming in my head.

Of course, he moves anyway.

By the time I wrestle the rolled-up rug halfway out of the storage closet, he's there, wordless, steady, and far too graceful for someone helping with a tripping hazard in textile form.

"You didn't think I'd stay put, did you?" he says, taking the bulk of the weight like it's nothing.

"You're ruining my dramatic return," I mutter, grabbing the cookies from my emergency snack stash as we start up the stairs.

"You'll live," he says, following me into the loft.

With a triumphant heave, we unroll the massive faux bear rug across his pristine floor. Its plastic snout catches the afternoon light in a way that feels almost smug. I drop the cookies in the middle like a flag of rebellion.

He stares at the rug. Then at me. Then at the cookies. The stunned bewilderment on his face is everything.

"Okay," I say, planting my hands on my hips, catching my breath. "Now we can proceed. I'm sorry, but I refuse to plan a counter-offensive against a ruthless corporate titan in a space this tidy. It's terrible for morale and creative flow."

I wave my hand around at the clean lines and colorless organization he calls an office.

"If this is war, we need a space where we can spread out, think messy, and prepare for battle properly."

His eyes roam over the rug, the cookies, and then me, like he's assessing a foreign object that crash-landed in the middle of his order.

Then he sits down. Right on the rug. Legs crossed, face unreadable.

"You're serious," he says.

"Always," I say, already ripping open the cookie box. "Even when I'm being ridiculous."

A breath of silence stretches between us.

And then he smiles.

Not a smirk. Not his usual barely-there curve of the mouth.

A full, real smile.

And like that, the war room is open.

I settle cross-legged on the ridiculous rug and pat the space across from me, opening the cookie box between us. "Come on, Counselor. Time to get comfortable. We have a festival to plan."

He looks from the bear rug to my determined face, and a tightness loosens in his expression. The ghost of a real smile tugs at his lips as he settles across from me on the floor, his expensive suit looking wonderfully out of place against the fake fur.

"You know," he says, reaching for a cookie, "I think this might be the first time I've ever conducted business on a bear rug."

"Well then," I say with a grin, "you're about to learn how the magic happens. Now, about Richard Kingston..."