Page 5 of The Proposal Planner (Ever After #2)

CHAPTER THREE

MADDY

The next morning, I arrive at The Weathered Barn armed with purpose and a box of supplies that would make any craft store weep with joy.

Mason's settled in the loft, surveying his organized and monochromatic kingdom.

All smooth wood and muted tones. Calm, controlled, and lifeless.

The space practically begs for a fuchsia pillow to the face.

The sight of his perfectly arranged workspace sends a familiar spike of irritation through my chest. Not because it's wrong, but because it's so smugly right it makes everything else look like a toddler's art project.

Which, to be fair, everything else is a bit of a mess.

But it's intentional. The vibrant, beautiful disarray that breeds miracles and turns wild ideas into reality.

The kind Savvy, Ivy, and I built our entire business philosophy around. It's organized mayhem with a mission.

I set my supplies down with more force than necessary, earning a brief pause in whatever important work Mason's conducting above.

Good. Let him know that Ever After, Inc.

is open for business, even if our fearless leader is currently learning to navigate Scottish roundabouts while Henry critiques her driving from the passenger seat.

My phone buzzes with a text from Ivy.

Ivy

Having a crisis. Bride wants to change everything three days before the wedding. EVERYTHING. Send help or wine.

I type back.

Me

What kind of everything?

Ivy

Venue, flowers, dress, THEME. She's decided she wants "rustic elegance" instead of "bohemian chic" and thinks three days is enough time to transform a beach house into a barn.

Me

Yikes. Do you want me to overnight you some emergency barn supplies?

Ivy

Yes! You're the best. How's operation "Don't Murder the Lawyer?"

I glance up at the loft. Mason stands behind the railing, phone pressed to his ear, his hand slicing the air in sharp, deliberate motions like he's unraveling some complicated problem for a client who charges by the comma.

Me

Jury's still out. He helped clean up a foam disaster yesterday.

Ivy

What? Mason Kincaid got his hands dirty?

Me

It’s almost like he's human underneath all that expensive tailoring.

Ivy

Don't do anything I wouldn't do.

Me

That leaves me with a LOT of options.

Ivy

Exactly. TTYL. Bridezilla is calling.

I pocket my phone and take stock of today's mission.

Crafting a proposal setup so spectacular, so flawlessly executed, it makes Mason's buttoned-up brand of order look quaint.

My client wants "Parisian café meets enchanted forest," which sounds impossible …

until you remember that impossible is where I do my best work.

I start by spreading fabric swatches across every available surface, organizing them not by color or texture but by the emotional response they evoke.

Romantic Dawn. A blush silk that catches light like hope.

Mysterious Twilight. Deep purple velvet that holds secrets.

First Kiss Pink. The exact shade of vulnerability and joy combined.

Each piece tells part of a story, and my job is to weave them together into a design that makes two people believe in forever.

Above me, Mason's phone call continues in those low, measured tones that reassure clients and make opposing counsel check their notes like they’re written in another language.

Remarks about trust amendments and fiduciary responsibilities.

I wonder if anyone's ever told him life's too short to spend it conjugating legal terminology into submission.

I connect my phone to the speaker system and scroll through my "Creative Genius at Work" playlist, settling on a track upbeat enough to inspire greatness but not so aggressive it qualifies as psychological warfare.

The music fills the barn, and I catch the slight shift in Mason's voice that suggests he's registered the soundtrack. Perfect.

The miniature Eiffel Tower from yesterday's project sits nearby, a testament to my ability to source ridiculous props on unreasonable notice.

For today's Parisian café vision, it'll serve as the centerpiece.

Assuming I can figure out how to make it appear enchanted rather than like a relic liberated from a tourist trap gift shop.

I'm winding fairy lights around the tower's base when Mrs. Patterson materializes in the doorway, her little dog trotting at her side. Head high, ears perked, as if scouting enemy lines.

"Morning, dear," she calls, striding over with that too-bright smile and the boundless energy of a self-appointed social chair … and part-time town gossip. "Busy day ahead?"

"The best kind," I reply, testing a strand of lights that may or may not have survived their last deployment. "Morning, Mrs. Patterson. How are you?"

"Oh, can't complain. Though I did want to check on our new resident up there." She nods toward the loft, where Mason's call has ended and he's presumably gone back to whatever work calls for leather chairs and a desk built to survive a nuclear war. "Seems pleasant enough. Maybe a bit formal."

"Formal is one word for it," I agree, wrestling with a knot in the light string tied by someone with a personal vendetta against Christmas decorations.

"Of course, some people need the right influence to help them relax." Mrs. Patterson's tone is dripping with innocent menace.

"Are you matchmaking?" I ask, already bracing for impact.

"Me? Heavens no." She looks properly scandalized, though her eyes sparkle like she's halfway through a rom-com and taking notes. "I think it's nice when young people balance each other out. Complementary strengths and all that."

"I banned men from my life after Daniel," I mutter, yanking at the knot like it insulted my mother.

Mrs. Patterson doesn't miss a beat. "I banned donuts once. That didn't take either."

Before I can come up with a suitable comeback or deny that Mason Kincaid is the human equivalent of a jelly-filled disaster, the fog machine kicks on with the subtlety of a Broadway understudy desperate for stage time. White mist pours across the barn floor like ghost cats in a Halloween parade.

"Oh my," Mrs. Patterson says, unfazed. "Is this part of your artistic process, or are we summoning something?"

"Very much part of the plan," I say, searching for the off switch. "We're conjuring everlasting love and maybe a small weather event."

Above us, Mason's chair scrapes against the floor, followed by footsteps. Through the fog, I can make out his silhouette.

"Maddy," his voice carries through the mist, neutral in that lawyerly way that comes from not reacting to client confessions. "Everything under control?"

"Perfectly," I call back, locating the fog machine's cord and yanking it from the wall with more violence than necessary. "Just testing visual effects for a client consultation."

"Visual," he repeats, in the tone of someone who's beginning to recognize a pattern in my definition of control.

The fog begins to dissipate, revealing Mrs. Patterson and her dog chasing wisps of mist.

"Well," Mrs. Patterson says brightly, "that was exciting. I should let you get back to work. And Mr. Kincaid," she calls up, "don't be a stranger. We're having a potluck Friday. Nothing fancy, simply good food and better company."

Mason appears at the railing, trying to calculate the social cost of declining.

"That's kind, Mrs. Patterson, but I'm not sure..."

"Oh, nonsense. Maddy will bring you. Won't you?" She turns to me, triumphant.

"I..." I catch Mason's face. He looks like someone who was informed he'll be participating in a contact sport without gear. "Sure. I'll make sure he experiences all of River Bend's legendary hospitality."

"Wonderful!" She heads to the door with Pickles. "And Maddy? You might want to check the fog machine's ventilation. Just a thought."

We're left in silence, broken by my speaker cycling songs and Mason's steps descending.

"Potluck," he says, stopping at the neutral zone between us.

"Annual tradition," I confirm. "Covered dishes and weather talk, not legal briefs and billable hours."

"And you volunteered me because...?"

"Because Mrs. Patterson asked. And in River Bend, when she asks, you say yes. Unless you want to become the subject of her next newsletter."

"Newsletter?"

"River Bend Happenings. Last month included a three-paragraph analysis of how the new stop sign on Maple Street signals the decline of traditional American values."

"And attending a potluck prevents this?"

"It makes you part of the community instead of the antisocial lawyer who thinks he's above local customs."

"I see." He watches me, hands clasped behind his back. "And what does one bring to a potluck?"

"Ideally something homemade, full of carbs and emotional significance. Though in your case, store-bought might be safer. Once the tags come off."

"Store-bought after the tags come off," he repeats, like I've explained quantum physics using finger puppets.

"It's an art form. Savvy's mom taught me. Pick up bakery cookies, ditch the packaging, and plate them. Or fancy cheese. The key is the illusion."

"This seems complex for a casual gathering."

"Welcome to small-town dynamics. Don't worry. I'll walk you through it. Think of it as cultural immersion therapy."

"Cultural immersion therapy," he echoes. I think there's actual amusement in his voice.

"By the end of Friday, you'll be ready to discuss weather and football better than half this town."

"Assuming I survive."

"Hey, I survived delivering a singing telegram dressed as a lobster once. You'll manage one potluck."

We stand there for a moment, separated by fabric and personality, but a quiet realization of shared curiosity weaves between us. Then my phone buzzes.

David

It's David. Proposal moved to TONIGHT. Need setup in 3 hours. HELP.

I calculate the logistics. Three hours to make magic. Ambitious, but that's my specialty.

"Problem?" Mason asks.

"Opportunity," I say. "Client moved up the proposal. I need to make it happen in three hours."

"That seems optimistic."

"Optimistic is my middle name. Well, it's Rose, but it should be optimistic."

I grab my notebook, sketching a timeline that would break project managers.

"Or," Mason says, "you could accept help."

I blink. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Help. An extra pair of hands. I'm familiar with deadlines and project management."

"You want to help me?"

"I want to ensure this doesn't result in injury or a headline. Also, it's the fastest way to learn town customs."

I stare at him.

"Okay. But you follow my lead, no matter how crazy."

"Define crazy."

"You'll know it when you see it." I hand him my supply list. "Welcome to Romance Logistics. Try to keep up."

For the first time, Mason Kincaid looks uncertain. I can't wait to show him how right he might be.