Page 33 of The Proposal Planner (Ever After #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

MADDY

The smell of fresh coffee hits me before I even open the barn doors, Mason's here already.

Again. For someone who used to work in a Manhattan high-rise, where morning routine meant a dry-cleaning handoff, he's embraced barn life surprisingly fast. I find him at the kitchenette, sleeves rolled, shirt crisp, hair tousled like he got ready in ten minutes flat and still managed to look unfairly good.

"Morning," I say, accepting the mug he hands me with gratitude reserved for life-saving medical interventions. "You look like you've been thinking."

"Extensively," he confirms, settling against the counter with his own coffee. "About last night. About Richard's timeline. About what we're up against."

The magnitude of it settles between us, not uncomfortable, but serious. Real. Yesterday, our biggest concern was whether the fog machine would behave during the festival. Now we're strategizing against a man who treats entire communities like chess pieces.

"Talk to me," I say, hoisting myself up onto the counter beside him. "What's the worst-case scenario?"

"Richard doesn't file legal motions and hope for the best. He builds pressure from multiple angles until his opponents can't sustain the fight." Mason's voice carries the careful control of someone who's seen this strategy deployed before.

"He'll go after our vendors, our permits, our funding. He'll find ways to make the festival impossible to execute, then use our failure as evidence that the Morrison Center project is fundamentally unstable."

"So we make sure the festival isn't impossible to execute."

"Maddy." He turns to face me fully, and the look in his expression makes my stomach clench. "Richard has resources we can't match. Money, connections, lawyers who specialize in finding pressure points. If he sets his mind to destroying this festival, I don't know that we could stop him."

The familiar flutter of panic rises—impossible deadlines, and mounting obstacles.

Then I think about Mrs. Russell wanting to include her roses in her will.

About how this community embraced Mason despite Mrs. Patterson's newspaper campaign, and how he ended up drafting Mrs. Patterson's will, somehow turning his sharpest critic into an ally.

And about the ridiculous bear rug that somehow became the foundation of everything we're building.

"You know what Richard doesn't have?" I ask.

"What?"

"He's about to find out what happens when you underestimate a team fueled by grit and a healthy disregard for conventional limits," I say, flashing Mason a grin that feels like a battle cry. "Around here, impossible is an average Tuesday."

Mason stares at me, then laughs, that real, surprised sound that I'm becoming addicted to. "You're looking forward to this."

"I'm looking forward to showing Richard Kingston what happens when he threatens my family." The word slips out before I can stop it, hanging in the air between us with all its implications.

"Family," he repeats softly.

"You are," I say, suddenly serious. "You're family now, Mason. Whether you signed up for it or not, you're stuck with us. With me. With this whole beautiful mess."

His expression changes—surprise, gratitude, and a depth that makes my chest tight with emotion. Before either of us can examine it too closely, I slide off the counter and gesture toward the loft.

"Speaking of family obligations," I say with exaggerated gravity, "are you sure you need to go to the community center this morning? Because our bear is suffering from separation anxiety. Look at him."

Mason follows my gaze to the loft, where the ridiculous fake bear rug is visible through the railing, its plastic snout pointed in our general direction with what could charitably be described as a forlorn expression.

"He does look depressed," Mason agrees solemnly. "Very tragic. But Mrs. Russell is meeting me at ten, and she specifically requested help with her estate planning. I guess the rose provisions require immediate attention."

"Fine, abandon us for legal obligations," I say with a dramatic sigh. "But you owe him quality time later. Maybe some grooming. I think his fur is getting matted."

"I'll consider a professional consultation," Mason replies, his deadpan delivery making me want to kiss him senseless. "Perhaps we can find a specialist in synthetic bear maintenance."

"Now you're starting to sound like a true River Bend local. We've got a specialist for everything."

He finishes his coffee and grabs his jacket, pausing at the door to look back at me.

"Maddy?"

"Yeah?"

"Whatever Richard throws at us, we face it side by side. No more trying to do it all alone."

"Together," I agree, and the word carries all the promises of partnership, of two people who've decided to stop running from what they want.

After he leaves, I throw myself into festival planning, locking in with the intensity I save for emergencies. Because that's what this is, an emergency. Richard has turned our celebration into a battle, but he's made one crucial miscalculation.

He doesn't understand what he's trying to destroy.

My phone buzzes around 10:30 with a text from Mason.

Mason

Mrs. Russell called me son and tried to pay me in rhubarb pie. Send help.

Despite everything, I grin.

Me

Rhubarb pie is legal tender in River Bend. Consider yourself officially adopted.

Mason

She also asked if we're planning children soon. Your mom has been spreading the word about our impending wedding. By the way, she offered me two goats and an apple pie recipe last night as your dowry.

I groan audibly, the sound echoing through the empty barn.

Me

My mother's enthusiasm for our relationship has reached legendary proportions, and she's decided sharing her wedding vision across the entire town counts as an appropriate next step.

Two goats and the recipe? She must like you. Tommy Morrison got offered one goat when he proposed in high school, and no pie recipe.

Mason

Tell her we're focused on the festival first. Then maybe a nice engagement. THEN we can discuss your reproductive timeline with the entire town.

Me

Engagement first, you say? Interesting priorities.

My fingers hover over the keyboard.

Mason

Are we at that stage? The stage where engagement isn't a hypothetical future concept but a priority we're considering?

Three weeks ago, I was convinced Mason Kincaid was a corporate robot with excellent taste in office furniture. Now I'm casually discussing our engagement timeline via text message.

The thought should terrify me. Instead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

Me

Strategic planning. It's important for long-term happiness.

Mason

I'll make a note in my files. Engagement … high priority item.

I'm grinning at my phone when the barn door swings open and my mother strides in, casserole dish in hand, wearing that unmistakable "crisis management" look I know all too well.

"Mom?" I stand up, every alarm bell in my head going off at once. "Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine, sweet pea," she says, but there's a tone in her voice, a careful neutrality that suggests everything is decidedly not fine. "Though we may have a situation developing."

"What situation?"

Instead of answering directly, she sets the casserole dish down with more force than necessary and pulls out her phone.

"I got a call from Janet at the hardware store.

Seems a well-dressed gentleman stopped by this morning asking pointed questions about our festival permits and vendor insurance requirements. "

My blood runs cold. "Richard."

"That would be my assumption. He was polite, professional, and interested in whether all our paperwork was properly filed." Mom's expression is grim. "Janet said he mentioned ensuring community safety and 'preventing unfortunate liability issues.'"

I sink back into my chair, my mind racing through implications. "He's not threatening us with a lawsuit. He's actively trying to sabotage the festival."

"It gets worse," Mom continues, consulting her phone again.

"Betty from the flower shop called twenty minutes later.

Same gentleman, same questions, plus some specific inquiries about whether she was confident her delivery trucks could navigate our setup without 'compromising emergency vehicle access. '"

"He's planting seeds," I realize, the full scope of Richard's strategy becoming clear. "Making people doubt whether the festival is safe, legal, properly organized. Getting them to second-guess their participation."

"And it's working," Mom says. "Betty sounded genuinely concerned. Started asking me whether we'd thought through all the safety protocols, whether maybe she should scale back her floral installation to be safe."

My phone buzzes with another text from Mason.

Mason

Mrs. Kitts wants legal protection for her parrot's inheritance. Winston is to receive her jewelry. I have questions.

On any other day, I'd laugh. Today, it reads like a reminder of everything we're fighting to protect, a town where parrots inherit heirlooms and neighbors take it seriously.

Me

That bird has impeccable taste. Treat this with legal gravity.

Mason

Already researching avian trust funds. May need a specialist.

I show the exchange to my mother, who manages a small smile despite the circumstances.

"That boy's learning fast."

"Too fast. Richard's trying to turn the community against us." I stand up, pacing to the window that overlooks the parking area. "How many other vendors do you think he's contacted?"

"Hard to say. But Maddy..." Mom's voice carries a note of warning that makes me turn back to face her. "If he keeps this up, if he plants enough doubt, you could lose half the vendors before the weekend. And once word spreads that people are backing out, it becomes a cascade effect."

"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "No, we're not letting him win by making us afraid of our own shadows."