Page 3 of The Proposal Planner (Ever After #2)

CHAPTER TWO

MASON

The loft stands above the Ever After workspace, a vantage point with a commanding view.

From up here, I can see the full scope of Maddy's creative hurricane. Fabric samples that are organized in a system that makes no sense to me but works for her, half-built proposal displays that look like fairy tale fever dreams, mannequins wearing tiaras, and enough glitter to blind a pilot.

My desk—solid walnut with clean lines and all the cables tucked away—sits beneath the old barn beams. The ergonomic chair supports my back, which is good since I'll be spending a lot of time in this converted barn that smells like a fresh start, redemption, and that ridiculous perfume Maddy wears that's a mix of oranges and marshmallows.

This is nothing like my Manhattan office and the corporate life I left behind. The drive from the city each morning is a stark reminder of the two worlds I'm straddling now.

I open my laptop and begin the methodical process of establishing digital security protocols, the familiar ritual of passwords and encryption, an anchor of normalcy in this world where anything can be turned into a romantic backdrop if you have enough imagination and a disregard for fire safety codes.

The James Morrison Preservation Center's legal framework requires absolute confidentiality, particularly given the sensitive nature of dismantling Richard Kingston's remaining business interests.

Henry trusts me with this responsibility while he honeymoons with Savvy, and I intend to prove that trust is well-placed, even if I have to do it surrounded by enough decorative butterflies to populate a nature documentary.

Below, Maddy has begun what can best be described as an audio assault.

Her playlist features music designed to short-circuit concentration.

Upbeat pop anthems about dreams and self-empowerment, sung by people who've never had to draft a corporate trust document while sitting above a miniature circus built out of silk flowers and sheer willpower.

I adjust my noise-canceling headphones—an investment that's proving its worth—and focus on the trust documents that require review.

The irony isn't lost on me. Six months ago, I was Richard Kingston's right-hand man, the role I inherited when my father passed away, along with his unwavering loyalty to a man who viewed human decency as a quarterly expense to be minimized.

I helped Richard acquire properties and businesses with ruthless efficiency.

My legal expertise became a surgical instrument for dismantling people's lives, handled with the control of a master craftsman.

Until Henry and his grandfather, James Morrison, showed me a different path.

One that led away from the gleaming towers of Manhattan and toward a life with actual substance.

Now I'm working to undo that damage, to build an enterprise that's ethical and sustainable.

The shift from corporate raider to community builder feels like wearing someone else's clothes.

They are technically functional but not quite fitting right.

It's a suit tailored for the man I'm becoming, not the one I was.

My phone rings, interrupting thoughts I'd rather not examine too closely. Henry's number appears on the screen, and I answer with practiced professionalism, though I have to raise my voice over what sounds like Maddy testing some sort of mechanical waterfall.

"Henry. How's Scotland treating you?"

"Like a dream." His voice carries the contentment of a man who's found his place in the world and discovered it comes with excellent whiskey and a woman who thinks his terrible jokes are charming.

"Savvy's convinced we should buy a castle and become sheep farmers.

She's sketched out plans for hosting weddings in the great hall. "

"That seems like a practical career transition for a business mogul," I reply, watching Maddy wrestle with a life-sized swan made of white roses.

"Says the man who traded corporate law for community development."

Henry's laugh echoes across the Atlantic, warm and knowing. "Speaking of which, how's the temporary office situation? Savvy mentioned Maddy was excited about your arrival."

I glance down at the main floor, where Maddy is arranging a miniature village made of flowers and architectural foam, complete with tiny streetlights that work. Her movements are precise. Each element placed with a care that suggests she sees patterns where I see noise.

There's a protective grace in the way she handles each piece, as if she's safeguarding not only her vision but her friends' shared dreams. Their legacy made tangible in silk and sparkle.

"Excited is one word for it," I say, watching her step back and survey her work, the critical eye of someone who treats miniature architecture like serious business.

"She didn't try to sabotage your setup, did she? Because she's protective of that space. It belongs to all three girls, and she's been known to get creative when she feels like someone's threatening their vision."

"Define sabotage."

"Oh no. What did she do?"

I consider my response while watching Maddy test a mechanized carousel filled with thumb-sized dancing couples. Even from up here, I can see the way she frowns in concentration, as if one misstep from a plastic groom might ruin someone's real-life proposal.

"She was quite welcoming. She prepared a workspace consisting of milk crates and furniture that's eligible for Social Security."

Henry's silence stretches long enough that I wonder if the call dropped. Then he laughs. A deep, genuine laugh that tells me he saw this coming a mile away and already has a betting pool to prove it.

"And I bet you retaliated by ordering furniture," he says. It's not a question.

"I established a functional workspace that meets basic professional standards." The defensive note in my voice is unmistakable, even to myself.

"Which looks like it was plucked from a corner office in Manhattan and dropped into a barn." I can hear the grin in his voice. "All that's missing is a view of the skyline and a personal assistant named Greg."

"I was being efficient, and the last time I looked, that wasn't a character flaw, Henry."

"No," he agrees, still chuckling. "But it might be overkill for someone whose biggest crime was making sure her world didn't get bulldozed. Did you consider she might've been testing you? Not to see if you'd take over, but if you'd make room for what was there?"

Before I can formulate a response that doesn't sound defensive —because the uncomfortable truth is that I didn't consider anything beyond establishing my territory—the echo of heavy footsteps on the stairs announces a visitor.

Mrs. Patterson's silver head appears at the top of the loft stairs, followed by her tiny dog and an expression of unbridled curiosity.

"Henry, I'll call you back," I say, ending the call before he can respond with what I suspect would be more uncomfortable observations about my territorial instincts.

"Well, hello there," Mrs. Patterson announces, as if she's been invited to tour my office and possibly conduct a thorough investigation into my personal life.

I recognize her. Savvy's wedding guest slash self-appointed town historian.

The type of woman who could tell you who sat next to whom at a baby shower five years ago and whether they're still speaking.

"Heard we had some fancy new furniture delivered to the old barn.

Thought I'd come see what all the fuss was about. "

Her dog—a creature that appears part Chihuahua, part dust bunny, and part tiny furry judge of character—starts investigating my filing cabinet, nose down, as determined as a customs official hunting for contraband.

"That's Pickles," she says, scooping him up like he's royalty. "Got his name because he's sour on strangers and impossible to train. But I appreciate a dog who has standards. It shows character."

"Mrs. Patterson." I stand, falling back on the polite formality that worked for me in boardrooms. "Good morning."

"Oh, don't you mind me, dear. Just having a look-see." She circles my desk, her casual invasiveness practically a River Bend specialty. "My goodness, this is fancier than the mayor's office. What type of law do you practice again?"

"Corporate restructuring and trust administration," I reply, hoping technical terminology might discourage further inquiry.

"Trust administration." She nods as if this explains everything about my character, my furniture choices, and possibly my entire life philosophy. "That's like handling dead people's money, isn't it?"

"In simplified terms, yes."

"Fascinating." She sets Pickles back on the floor and settles into the client chair I haven't yet used, making herself comfortable while her dog attempts to mark my filing cabinet. "And you're working with Henry Kingston on this community development business? The Morrison Center project?"

"The James Morrison Preservation Center, yes."

"James was a good man," she says, her expression softening.

"Always said this town needed someone who understood both business and heart.

Seems like he knew what he was doing, bringing you boys together.

Sure, understanding business is one thing.

Understanding River Bend..." She trails off, eyes twinkling.

From below comes the sound of what I can assume is Maddy testing a sound effect. It's either church bells or she's installed an actual bell tower in the last ten minutes.

"That Maddy sure is something," Mrs. Patterson says. "She's got more energy than a hummingbird on espresso, and twice the commitment. I wouldn't bet against her."

"She's certainly dedicated."

"Dedicated is one word for it." Mrs. Patterson's eyes twinkle. "Of course, dedication and organization don't always go hand in hand. Good thing she's got someone nearby to balance things out."