Page 30 of The Proposal Planner (Ever After #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

MASON

Watching Gloria fuss over Maddy while planning our hypothetical future fills me with a hollow ache I wasn't expecting—a phantom limb of the family life I never had. Growing up in boarding schools and summer programs, with a father who was always working and a mother who died when I was twelve, I learned early that holidays meant empty dormitories and family meant whoever was left behind. But this morning, surrounded by the lively tangle of people who show up with coffee and unsolicited advice, I’m getting my first real taste of what I’ve been missing.

The feeling should terrify me. Instead, it settles into my chest like something I've been missing my entire life.

“All right,” Maddy announces, stepping in like someone taking charge of a runaway situation, “if we’re going to plan a festival while my personal life becomes public entertainment, we need systems. Real ones. Contingencies, backup plans, and industrial-strength coffee.”

She transforms the consultation area into what she calls our “war room,” spreading architectural renderings across every available surface while Gloria contributes a continuous stream of pastries and Henry provides the logistical analysis that makes my lawyer heart sing.

Savvy documents everything, moving like someone who’s done this before, creating what she claims will be “behind-the-scenes content that makes people believe in true love and small-town magic.”

Maddy spreads swatches across the table, but they don’t follow any logical order—no gradient, no pattern. It’s instinct. She arranges them by feeling. Warmth. Mood. A quiet brilliance that doesn’t ask to be noticed.

She chews the end of her pen, eyes narrowed, calculating if the wild idea in her head can survive the real world. Then that crease appears—dead center between her brows—like it does when she’s trying to bend physics to her will with nothing but tulle and determination.

And somehow, watching her do it all, I feel like the one man in the room lucky enough to witness a miracle in motion.

When she reaches for the same architectural rendering I'm grabbing, our hands brush for a moment.

The brief contact is more potent than the industrial-strength coffee I've been drinking all morning, sending electricity racing up my arm and making me acutely aware of every place our bodies aren't touching.

“Sorry,” she says, but doesn't pull her hand away.

“Don't be,” I reply, letting my fingers linger against hers long enough to see her pupils dilate.

From across the table, Savvy makes a sound that might be a cough or might be poorly suppressed laughter. “Should we give you two a moment? Because there are children present.” She gestures to herself with mock innocence.

“We're being professional,” Maddy says primly, though the flush creeping up her neck suggests otherwise.

“Incredibly professional,” I agree, reluctantly releasing her hand and missing the contact.

Gloria, who's been watching this exchange with maternal satisfaction, slides a plate of scones between us. “Sustenance for the workforce. Can't have you two fainting from exhaustion when there's planning to be done.”

I start a spreadsheet to organize Maddy’s ideas, translating her creative bursts into timelines and task lists.

It doesn’t feel controlling. It feels like an act of service, a way of building a fortress around her dreams. Every vendor confirmation adds a brick.

Each contingency plan lays down another layer of protection for the brilliant vision she’s bringing to life.

I find a sticky note in her handwriting stuck to one of the mood boards:

Festival Theme: Hope, but with more glitter!

For the first time since I met her, I understand her language. It's not random—it's intentional joy, deliberate optimism in the face of everything that could go wrong.

“So essentially,” Savvy says, surveying our growing pile of plans and vendor lists, “we're taking Mrs. Patterson's yearly community potluck and putting a twenty-four-karat gold bow on it.”

“Don't forget she specifically requested a petting zoo this year,” Henry adds, consulting his notes. “It was all about 'authentic rural charm.'”

I wince. “The liability issues alone would be a nightmare. Insurance, health permits, animal welfare regulations?—”

“Actually,” Maddy interrupts, her eyes lighting up with that particular gleam that precedes either genius or disaster, “we could get the Davis family to bring their goats and that nice pony.

They're licensed for educational visits, and it saves Mr. Abernathy from getting lost for six hours in the corn maze again.”

Savvy snorts with laughter. “He wasn't lost. He was napping. It was his designated escape time from Mrs. Abernathy.”

“Either way,” Henry says, trying to restore some semblance of order to the conversation, “two weeks isn't enough time to coordinate all of this. The permits alone?—”

“Leave that to me,” Maddy says, her confidence steady—the kind that comes from building a career on impossible timelines.

“Don’t forget, I put together a proposal in three hours that included a trip to Paris, a full dinner service, and a professional photographer.

A community festival is just scaling up. ”

“This budget projection,” Henry says, squinting at my laptop screen, “it's quite conservative, and you've built in redundancies for everything.”

“Experience,” I reply. “In corporate law, I learned that disaster comes from the details no one wants to think about.”

“Such as?” Savvy asks.

“In this case? Weather issues, vendor contracts falling apart, permit delays, emergencies.” I glance at Maddy. “Corporate sabotage too—though I’m hoping that stays theoretical.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, reminding us all that this isn't only a community festival—it's a battle for the future of the Morrison Center, fought on the friendliest possible battlefield, but still a war, nonetheless.

“Speaking of corporate complications,” Henry says carefully, “it’s only fair to mention that my father’s in town.”

The temperature drops ten degrees the second Henry mentions him.

My gut tightens on reflex. No explanation needed—just the old instinct flaring to life.

Richard doesn't show up unless he's here to gut something.

Or someone. There's no warmth in the memory of working under him—the echo of sharp suits, sharper strategy, and a brilliance so cold it left casualties in its wake.

He doesn't build. He dismantles. And now he's here.

Which means everything could fall apart.

“For how long?” I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

“Unknown. He checked into the Marriott in Albany yesterday. No itinerary, no meetings scheduled that I'm aware of.” Henry's expression is neutral, but I know him well enough to see the concern he's trying to hide. “It could be coincidence.”

“Richard Kingston doesn't do coincidence,” I reply.

“Everything is calculated, every move has a purpose.” I should know—I learned that from him.

Never waste energy on random actions. Every decision should advance your position.

One of the first lessons he taught me when I joined his company fresh out of law school.

Maddy looks up from the vendor contracts, eyes narrowing. “So, how bad is it?”

Henry hesitates, the weight of it settling between us. “Richard showing up anywhere is trouble,” he says. “But here, now, days before the festival?”

He doesn’t need to say more. We already feel the storm rolling in.

“He's not here to congratulate us,” I say. “He's here to assess. To see what we've built, how strong our foundations are, where the weak points might be.” The analysis comes automatically, muscle memory from years of thinking like him, anticipating his moves.

Gloria, who’s been quietly arranging scones with one ear on the conversation, looks up.

“This the one who tried to bulldoze River Bend a few months back?”

“Among other things,” Henry says, diplomatic.

“Your old boss?” she asks me directly, and there's a note in her tone that suggests she understands the complexity of fighting someone who used to sign your paychecks.

“He was,” I pause, remembering those early days when grief made me susceptible to mentorship that came with a heavy price. “He taught me to be good at a specific type of law. The kind where victory matters more than who gets hurt.”

“Hmm.” Gloria's tone suggests she's filing this information away for future reference. “Well, he's not welcome at my bar, I can tell you that much. A man who'd threaten a community project out of spite—former boss or not—doesn't deserve good whiskey and friendly conversation.”

The fierce protectiveness in her voice makes warmth unfold in my chest. It's been so long since anyone has offered to defend me that I'd forgotten how it feels to have allies, people willing to stand guard at the gates of your life.

“Mom,” Maddy says softly, “you don't have to fight our battles for us.”

“Sweetheart,” Gloria replies with a smile that's equal parts maternal warmth and steel-edged determination, “that's what mothers do when someone's threatening their daughter's happiness.”

The rest of the morning blurs into layered planning—assigning roles, mapping out contingencies, setting up communication channels. By noon, we’ve built a festival game plan precise enough to impress an event coordinator and dreamy enough to melt a hopeless romantic.

But all of it—the vendor confirmations, the volunteer coordination, the media strategy—feels like shadow boxing. We're preparing for a fight with an opponent I know intimately, whose strategies I helped perfect, whose next move I should be able to predict but somehow can't.

Because Richard taught me to think as a corporate lawyer, but Maddy has taught me to think as a human being. And I’m no longer sure which instinct to trust.

As we’re packing up the planning materials, my phone buzzes with a text from a number I recognize—Richard’s personal cell, the one he reserves for his most trusted attorneys. The message is simple:

Richard

Impressive work on the legal clinics. Your father would be proud. We should catch up soon. - RK

My blood turns to ice water. The mention of my father is a calculated move—Richard knows how to push that particular button, how to make me remember the man who worked himself to death trying to live up to Richard's standards.

“What is it?” Maddy asks, noticing my expression.

I show her the text. "He's watching." I slip the phone back into my pocket. "We should assume he's monitoring everything: the festival, the clinics, our communications."

"Let him," Maddy says fiercely. "Let him watch us help people, build a future that matters, prove that his way isn't the way that wins. Maybe he'll learn."

Her optimism is breathtaking and terrifying in equal measure.

She doesn't understand that Richard doesn't learn, he adapts, he conquers, he finds ways to turn your strengths into his weapons.

She still believes in the fundamental goodness of people, still thinks that showing someone a better path will inspire them to take it.

It's one of the things I love most about her and one of the things that terrifies me most about the world she's chosen to trust.

As we're loading the last of the planning materials into her car, I catch sight of a detail that makes my heart stop—a shiny black sedan driving past the community center, its windows tinted dark enough to hide the occupants but not dark enough to disguise the predatory grace of its movement.

The car doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down significantly, but I know that model, that deliberate pace.

Richard always drove like he had all the time in the world, like everything would wait for his convenience.

I've sat in passenger seats of cars like that one, listening to him dissect opposing counsel's weaknesses or plan our next acquisition strategy.

Now he's here, in River Bend, circling the life I've built, a predator staking his claim.

Seeing him slices through the calm I've built, a reminder that no matter how far I've come or how much I've changed, the past still has teeth, and it knows where to find me.

"Mason?" Maddy's voice cuts through my dark thoughts. "You, okay?"

I force myself to smile, to push down the complex tangle of fear and old professional habits that are trying to crawl up my throat. "I'm fine. Thinking about contingencies."

"More contingencies? I thought we covered everything."

"We did," I lie smoothly. "Lawyer paranoia. Occupational hazard."

But as I watch her drive away, heading home to prep for tomorrow's vendor meetings, I know I'm not fine. Richard is here, which means the real game is about to begin. And for the first time since this all started, I'm not sure our preparation will be enough.

Because Richard Kingston doesn't play to win, he plays to control. And he knows how I think, because he's the one who taught me.

My phone buzzes again. Another text from Richard:

Richard

There’s excellent whiskey at The Cork & Crown. Join me for a drink. We have much to discuss.

Not a request. Never a request with Richard.

An invitation that lands with all the weight of a summons.