Page 40 of The Proposal Planner (Ever After #2)

"Problem neutralized," Ivy replies as she proceeds down the aisle with the wedding party, somehow having managed to remove every trace of foliage from her hair. "Mr. Taylor decided to take an early exit to pursue medical opportunities. The ceremony proceeded without incident."

"Medical opportunities?"

"He's going to have a lovely nap at River Bend General. I'll be riding along to ensure he doesn't have any complaints about our customer service."

As the guests move toward the reception area, I catch sight of Ivy near the garden gate, checking her reflection in a compact mirror and discreetly picking one last leaf out of her bouquet.

"Ivy," I say, approaching her with a mix of admiration and horror, "did you cause a medical emergency and then orchestrate the cover-up during a wedding ceremony without anyone noticing?"

"I prefer to think of it as preventive event management with necessary follow-up care," she replies, straightening her dress as ambulance sirens wail faintly in the distance.

"The bride and groom get their perfect day, the guests think the sirens are city background noise, and Brooks gets the medical attention he clearly needed after his encounter with Renaissance garden art. "

"He's unconscious!"

"Only temporarily, I think. The paramedics will sort it out." She adjusts her bouquet, calm as someone who's performed surgery, not tackled a groomsman into garden statuary.

"Someone has to make sure he doesn't try to cause any more drama when he wakes up." She flashes me a grin, cool and unbothered, like chaos is another item on her to-do list. "Don't worry, I've got this handled."

And somehow, as I watch her strut toward the ambulance in four-inch heels, I realize a deeply unsettling truth.

She does.

God help the man if he wakes up on her watch.

Thank you for reading The Proposal Planner . Did you enjoy River Bend and the story of Maddy and Mason? Discover what happens between Ivy and Brooks next.

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Want a Sneak Peek at Timber Ridge ?

Timber

“Are we going down?” I shout over the engine’s roar as the tiny plane bucks wildly. I grip the edge of the seat and eye the bushy-bearded pilot with a mix of terror and disbelief.

Hank offers me a grin that’s more alarming than comforting. “This is as routine as a surprise test on a Monday, Teach!”

His hands are steady on the controls while I send a prayer to the universe—surely it didn’t line all of this up to watch me do a swan dive into the Alaskan wilderness.

I followed the breadcrumbs here. I mean, the job opening might as well have had my name on it.

Coincidence isn’t part of my vocabulary. Everything happens for a reason.

“Just think of it as a field trip ... with a touch more turbulence.” Hank’s laughter is lost in the sound of the wind that slams against the fuselage as we narrowly skim a craggy mountain peak.

“Field trips usually have permission slips, signed for safety, not ... near-death experiences!” I laugh because, at this point, it’s laugh or cry, and I’m not about to give in to tears.

“Alright, brace yourself, Timber, we’re coming in hot!” His tone is oddly casual for our precarious descent.

“Fabulous,” I mutter, my voice trembling despite the sarcasm, but I sit up tall because if this is how I bow out, I’m doing it with my spine straight and chin up.

The plane splashes down and skitters across the water as if it’s gliding on my just-released breath, before coasting toward the dock.

“Welcome to Port Promise!” he says cheerfully. The engine dies with a final cough. He tosses off his safety belt and swings the door wide open. He wastes no time tossing my duffle bag onto the wooden planks, followed by the mailbag, and he gently places a box of chirping chicks next to everything.

I’m hit with a sense of unease when I step onto the dock. The chicks inside the crate seem to sense it, too, as they peep anxiously through the air holes. Above, an eagle watches us from atop a lamppost, and for a second, I wonder if it’s waiting for us to make a move or a mistake.

“You’re all set,” Hank says with a hint of worry as he eyes the brewing storm clouds.

I scan the deserted dock, and despite the sinking sensation, I say to the wind, “Well, who needs 24-hour doughnut shops when you’ve got ... endless ocean views?” I let out a sigh, louder than expected, and turn to him. “I was supposed to meet someone here.”

He gives me a knowing nod as he climbs into the plane. “That would be Kane,” he says. “He’s on his way. Kane operates on island time—it’s like waiting for paint to dry or dough to rise. It’ll happen, just not on a schedule. You’ll adapt. You might even find you prefer it to the pace of city life.”

“Island time,” I say with a wry laugh that vaporizes in the biting air.

The phrase always conjures images of balmy beaches and drinks garnished with flowers and paper umbrellas.

I come here with no such illusions, fully expecting this brisk, secluded reality.

Yet the irony isn’t lost on me that they still call it “island time” when the only thing slow here is the sun’s crawl to warm the day.

Hugging my coat closer as the wind whips with a frigid frenzy, I ask, “So, what’s the game plan while I wait for this ‘island time’ to bring Kane around? ”

“Guard duty,” he answers, nodding toward the nearby box of birds. “Kane would have a fit if he found even one feather out of place.”

“I came here to teach, not be a pet sitter.”

“We all do what we have to,” He says.

I hoist the box of chicks high on my hip, scanning the desolate dock for shelter. “Alright, little ones,” I say with false confidence. “Time for your first lesson: Survival.”

“Sarah? Is that you?” An older woman approaches from the direction of a quaint, weather-beaten cafe.

She walks with unhurried steps, her silver hair peeking out from under a blue knit hat, glasses as thick as the bottom of a wine glass perched low on her nose.

Despite the chill in the air, her smile is warm as she stops before me and leans forward.

She squints in my direction, before shaking her head and taking a step back. “Of course, you’re not Sarah.”

“Uh, no, I’m Timber. Timber Moore, the new summer-school teacher,” I say, but she’s already waving a dismissive hand.

“I can see that now. My Sarah was a slip of a thing, and here you are, all sturdy with light hair and blue eyes.” She pats my arm, her eyes twinkling. “You can’t fault an old woman for wishing. I’m May Sweeney. Welcome to Port Promise.”

“Thank you,” I say, unsure if she means sturdy as a compliment or a jab. “Do you happen to know where Kane might be?”

May exhales a cloud of breath and gives a slight, knowing shake of her head.

“Kane will make his entrance from that direction,” she says with a casual tilt of her chin.

In the distance, the trees give way to a peek at the ocean.

“In the meantime”—she nods to a building whose neon “Open” sign blinks against the salt-sprayed window—“why not take refuge in my café? The coffee’s hot, and it’ll chase away the chill. ”

“Appreciate it, May, but first”—I glance down at the chirping box—”I gotta do something with these guys.” I tilt my head skyward and nod toward the bird still eyeing them for his next meal.

“Ah, always looking out for the young’uns,” she says. “You’ll fit right in.” She points up the dock and to the right. “The storage room is just over yonder. That should do for now. Just prop open the door a smidge for air.” May turns and walks back up the dock to her café.

“Thank you,” I call after her. I lug the box of chicks to the room, setting them carefully inside. “There you go, fluff balls. You won’t be eagle snacks today.”

As the chicks settle, I step back onto the dock, taking in the sights and sounds around me. Waves lap gently at the pilings, and gulls squawk overhead, their cries echoing against the backdrop of dense forest.

From where I stand, I spot the only street in town—the essentials with their weather-beaten storefronts.

From my research, there’s May’s Café, a bar, and a secondhand store.

Right next to the community center is a place to do laundry and get drinkable water.

The central hub seems to be the dock with a fueling station for boats, a bait and tackle shop, and a small grocery store.

It’s not much, but it’s what I have to work with.

“You signed up for this,” I remind myself, taking one last look at the water. “Warmth first,” I say, as the incoming storm settles in my bones. “Everything else can wait.” As I head toward the building, a creaking and groaning sound draws my attention to the inlet.

May pops her head out of the café door and points to a large, imposing boat as it cuts through the choppy waters. “Looks like your man is here.”

“Oh, he’s not my man.” The words claw their way out, each syllable a shard of glass in my throat. The ghost of my ex-husband lingers in a sharp presence that still cuts deep.

“Kane’s a good man. You could do worse,” May says.

I meet her gaze, the weight of every letdown in my life hanging heavily. “I’m not looking,” I say flatly, the words a shield against expectations I can no longer bear.

May’s lips curve up with a hint of knowing. “That’s when love finds ya.”

I shoot her a cynical look. “Right, because I need love like a case of the pox—itchy, irritating, and leaves you scarred for life.”

May shakes her head before entering the café and closing the door.

The boat nears the dock, and at the helm is a man with sharp angles and rough edges, from his waxed, weathered jacket to the set of his bearded jaw.