Page 25 of The Proposal Planner (Ever After #2)

Savvy, who's been watching our interaction with undisguised interest, clears her throat. "TV interviews tomorrow, radio spot on Wednesday, and by Friday we should have enough positive press to counteract whatever damage Mrs. Patterson's newsletter managed to do."

"And the festival preparations?" Mason asks, though his attention keeps drifting back to me.

"Right on schedule," I reply, trying to ignore the way his focus makes my skin feel warm. "Vendors confirmed, entertainment booked, volunteer coordinator meetings start Thursday."

"Speaking of volunteers," Savvy says, "we're going to need all hands on deck. Mason, I hope you're prepared for manual labor."

"Define manual labor," he says cautiously.

"Think less corporate strategy session and more 'setting up tents in a field,'" I explain. "Are you prepared for actual physical work, Counselor?"

His expression changes, a look that's part challenge, part invitation. "I think I can handle whatever you throw at me."

The words hang in the air between us, loaded with implications that have nothing to do with festival setup. Heat pools low in my stomach as I hold his gaze.

"We'll see about that," I manage to say, my voice breathless.

Savvy clears her throat again, more pointedly this time. "Right. Well. I think that's enough planning for today. Henry, want to go to an early dinner? I feel like Maddy and Mason have some ... logistics to discuss."

Henry, bless him, takes the hint. "Yes. There's that new place on Main Street I've been wanting to try."

They gather their things with suspicious efficiency, leaving Mason and me alone in the barn. The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken possibilities.

"So," I say, my voice sounding too loud in the empty space, "logistics."

"Logistics," he agrees, taking a step closer.

My heart hammers against my ribs as he approaches, his eyes never leaving mine. When he's close enough to touch, he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my skin.

"Maddy," he says, my name rough on his lips.

"Yeah?"

"I think we need to talk about what's happening here."

The rational part of my brain agrees. We need to discuss the growing attraction between us, the way every casual touch feels electric, the dreams that wake me up breathless and aching.

But the rest of me, the part that's been building toward this moment for weeks, has other ideas.

"Later," I whisper, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. "We can talk later."

His breath catches as my fingers trace the edge of his cheekbone, the soft skin below his ear. When I step closer, closing the last inch between us, he makes a low sound in the back of his throat that sends heat racing through my veins.

"Maddy," he warns, but his hands come up to frame my face, thumbs stroking across my cheekbones.

"What are you afraid of?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

"Ruining this," he admits. "Ruining us."

"What if you don't?" I counter. "What if you make it better?"

For a moment, we stand frozen on the edge of possibility, balanced at the threshold of something that will change everything. Then his phone rings, shattering the spell with its electronic trill.

He closes his eyes, jaw clenching with frustration. "I should"

"Answer it," I finish, stepping back to give him space even as every cell in my body protests the distance.

He checks the caller ID and frowns. "It's Mrs. Patterson."

I blink at him, processing this information. "Mrs. Patterson? The woman who printed a character assassination of you in the local paper?"

"Apparently." He answers the call, his voice shifting to professional neutrality. "Mason Kincaid."

I watch his face change as he listens, expressions flickering from confusion to surprise to what might be hope.

"Yes, ma'am," he says finally. "Tomorrow at two would be fine. We'll see you then."

He hangs up and looks at me, his expression thoughtful. "She wants help updating her will. Says she's heard we do good work."

"Are you going to help her?" I ask, studying his face. "After what she wrote about you?"

He falls silent for a moment, considering. "She never reported anything that wasn't true," he says at last. "The details were twisted, the context missing, but the core facts ... she wasn't wrong about my past."

A quiet resolve settles across his features. "Maybe the best way to win someone over isn't to defend yourself. Maybe it's to show them who you truly are."

The simple honesty of it takes my breath away. Here's a man who could hold grudges, who has every right to be bitter about Mrs. Patterson's public slaying. Instead, he's choosing grace. Choosing to be better.

"I'm proud of you," I say softly. "For all of this. The clinics, the festival, choosing to fight instead of running."

He looks at me for a long moment, an intensity in his expression that's unreadable. "I couldn't run. Not from this. Not from you."

The words hit, stealing my breath and making my knees feel unsteady. The air between us crackles with electricity, and every rational thought I've ever had dissolves under the heat in his eyes.

"You want to show people who you are?" I whisper, stepping closer until only a breath separates us. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it. "Then take me upstairs to that bear rug and show me, Counselor."

His breath catches, eyes darkening with desire and a depth that feels heavier than want.

"Maddy"

"I'm done waiting," I interrupt, my voice stronger now, certain. "I'm done pretending this isn't happening, that I don't want this. Want you."

For a moment, he stares at me, like he's memorizing every detail of my face. Then the tension in his expression breaks, hesitation gone, certainty settling in its place.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice rough with restrained need.

Instead of answering with words, I reach up and trace the line of his jaw, letting my fingers trail down to the pulse point at his throat. His skin is warm, and I can feel his heartbeat racing under my touch.

"Lock the barn," I whisper.

He doesn't hesitate. Moving with purpose, he strides to the main doors, turning the heavy locks with decisive clicks. When he returns to me, there's a predatory edge to his approach, the kind that makes my knees weak and my pulse skip.

"Come here," he says, his voice low and commanding.

I take a step toward him, then another, until I'm close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. His hands come up to frame my face, thumbs stroking across my cheekbones with infinite tenderness.

"Last chance to change your mind," he breathes against my lips.

"Not a chance in hell," I breathe back.

And then he's kissing me, deep and desperate and consuming, like he's trying to pour everything he feels into this one perfect moment. When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.

Without a word, he sweeps me up into his arms, carrying me toward the loft stairs like I weigh nothing at all. I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing kisses to his throat, tasting salt and desire and the culmination of everything we've been building toward.

"Mason," I whisper against his skin, and his name carries all the want I've been holding back.

"I know," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "I know, sweetheart. I've got you."

As he carries me up the stairs to the loft, to the ridiculous bear rug that somehow became the symbol of everything we could be together, I know we're crossing a line we can never uncross. And I've never wanted anything more in my life.