Page 6 of The Proposal Planner (Ever After #2)

CHAPTER FOUR

MASON

Three hours to turn a barn into a Parisian café worthy of a marriage proposal.

The place is a chameleon. Half workshop, half event space, with a startling ability to transform on command.

At first glance, it's a maze of creativity.

Fabric bolts leaned upright like spectators, prop bins stacked with uncanny precision, craft tables scattered with the tools of her trade.

A consultation station sits near the center, seemingly permanent, until she gives it the slightest nudge and it glides across the floor like it's floating.

And then Maddy shifts into gear.

Garlands are unhooked. Vases cleared. Displays folded and stored. Everything collapses, stacks, or rolls like it was engineered for speed. She doesn't rush. She moves with a practiced rhythm that says she's done this a hundred times. Maybe more.

In less than twenty minutes, everything vanishes. No glitter trail. No lingering mess. Bins snapped shut, tables stowed, and a barn floor as open and spotless as it was that morning.

She wheels it all into a slim closet beside the kitchenette—every bouquet stand, photo backdrop, and hand-painted sign. The door doesn’t even look big enough to hold a broom. Somehow, she tucks the last crate inside, closes it with a soft click, and turns like she’s performed a logistical miracle.

It's wildly impractical. Meticulously planned. And impressive, against my better judgment.

In my corporate law days, I've managed hostile takeovers with shorter timelines. The difference? Hostile takeovers don't require fairy lights, emergency glitter, or what Maddy calls "atmospheric magic."

I study her supply list the way I'd dissect a legal brief, searching for logic behind items like silk roses, not the cheap ones , vintage teacups, mismatched but charming , and a meticulously labeled proposal emergency kit .

Each item holds a layer of thoughtfulness I'd never have considered. The kind that turns a simple question into a fully orchestrated experience worthy of Broadway.

“This one’s for Sarah and David,” Maddy says, snapping a hair tie around her wrist like she’s gearing up for a tactical operation.

“They’ve been together since college. She’s obsessed with art and travel.

Paris has been her dream since freshman year.

He wanted a design that looked like it was made for her. ”

She crosses to a tall cabinet that blends so seamlessly into the barn's wood paneling, I hadn't noticed it before.

With a quick twist of the handle, the doors swing open to reveal neatly labeled shelves.

She lifts a stack of tablecloths from the top shelf, balancing them against her hip with one hand while adjusting a prop Eiffel Tower with the other.

"First rule of emergency proposal setup. Everything happens at once. No linear steps, no logical order. We run this like a military operation … but with more tulle."

She hands me a box labeled Café Tables, assembly required , her tone brisk and utterly confident. "You're on furniture duty. These need to be stable enough to hold champagne glasses but charming enough to seem like they came from a sidewalk bistro in Montmartre."

I open the box to find metal framework, distressed wood tops, and instructions written in what looks like a combination of English and wishful thinking.

"These are flat-packed."

"I know. Aren't they perfect? Completely authentic European aesthetic."

She's already halfway across the barn, testing string lights like someone who's personally been betrayed by faulty wiring. After seeing her handle both a fog machine and a foam cannon, she shouldn't be left unsupervised around anything that plugs in.

"How are you with an Allen wrench?"

"Proficient." I locate the assembly tools, noting that the instruction manual appears to have been translated by someone who once saw an IKEA ad and decided to wing it. "Though I should mention that my furniture assembly experience is limited to office environments."

"Same principle, different aesthetic goals." She pauses mid-light-test to flash me a grin that's equal parts encouragement and challenge.

"Don't worry," she says. "I have faith in your problem-solving abilities."

At one point, she disappears behind a folding screen, her voice muffled but unmistakably Maddy.

"Hi, yes, it's Maddy from Ever After. Listen, I know the event was scheduled for Friday, but there's been a shift. It's tonight. I know. I'm sorry. I will wash your delivery van or alphabetize your pantry or whatever you need. Please tell me you can still cater a full dinner service."

The silence that follows is tense.

"It's a proposal dinner. There's emotional weight involved. And candlelight. And gluten-free guests."

A beat later, she emerges, dialing again.

"Hey! Total emergency. Can you bring your full setup tonight instead of Friday? I'll owe you forever. I will get you a trained pigeon. I mean dove. A white one. With good emotional range. Just please say yes."

She's back in mission mode. I assemble café tables while she creates centerpieces from silk roses and vintage teacups, each arrangement a small work of art that captures both elegance and whimsy.

She directs the placement of string lights while I wrestle with a backdrop that's supposed to evoke "Parisian twilight" but initially resembles "fabric store inventory" until she works some styling magic that makes it impossibly perfect.

"Fairy lights go higher," she calls from across the barn, arranging a miniature Eiffel Tower surrounded by enough candles to pose a fire hazard but somehow manages to make it appear romantic. "Think romantic café lighting, not crime scene illumination."

I adjust the lights, surprised how much difference a few inches of height makes. The space transforms before my eyes, harsh angles softening into a glow that feels warm and inviting.

"Better?"

"Perfect." She steps back to assess our progress, hands on her hips in a pose that's becoming familiar.

The stance of someone who tackles every challenge believing it can be solved through creativity and determination.

"Okay, tables are gorgeous, lights are magical, centerpieces are Instagram-worthy. Now we need to test the fog machine."

"The fog machine that malfunctioned this morning?"

"That was user error. I didn't account for indoor ventilation requirements."

She approaches the fog machine, moving with a cautious confidence that suggests she's learned to respect temperamental equipment. Or, more likely, learned how to spin a convenient excuse when the thing malfunctions on its own.

"This time I've calculated the proper output volume for enclosed spaces."

I watch her adjust settings, noting that beneath her artistic exterior lies a mind that understands logistics and problem-solving.

"You've done this calculation before?"

"After the first disaster, I researched effects. Turns out there's science behind creating romantic ambiance."

She plugs in the machine, and this time, instead of a dramatic eruption, wisps of mist begin to curl around the base of our café setup like morning fog over the Seine.

"See? Managed magic."

The effect is remarkable. What began as a collection of props has transformed into a scene that resembles a romantic Parisian café. The soft fog adds a dreamlike quality that makes the fairy lights sparkle like captured stars.

"Impressive," I admit, and mean it.

"We're not done yet." She checks her phone. "Champagne setup, music queue, and lighting adjustments. Then we wait for our couple and try not to have any catastrophic equipment failures."

The champagne setup involves more complexity than I anticipated.

A small cart positioned for optimal visibility, glasses arranged to catch the light, backup bottles hidden but accessible.

Maddy explains each detail as we work, her voice carrying the passion of someone who cares about creating perfect moments for strangers.

"The key is anticipating everything that could go wrong and having a backup plan," she says, testing the music system. "Proposals are live theater with an audience of two, and there's no dress rehearsal."

"Hence the emergency kit."

"Yes." She pats a discrete bag. "Backup engagement ring, tissues, emergency champagne, and industrial-strength stain remover."

I study her preparations, giving them the same attention I'd give a complex contract negotiation. The level of detail is extraordinary. Contingency plans stacked on top of contingency plans.

"How often do you need the backup ring?"

"More often than you'd think. Nervous energy makes people clumsy, and engagement rings are aerodynamic."

She adjusts the final centerpiece. "There. What do you think?"

I survey the transformed space. The café tables create intimate seating areas. The backdrop suggests romance without resorting to clichés. The fog machine adds enough atmosphere without obscuring visibility.

"It appears to be a different space," I say.

"That's the idea. For the next hour, this isn't a barn in River Bend. It's a café in Paris where two people fall in love all over again."

A knock at the side door pulls her attention. "Right on cue," Maddy says. The catering crew enters, followed by the photographer.

"Give me a high five for pulling this off. And thanks for your help, by the way."

Before I can respond, car doors sound outside. Through the windows, I see a nervous-looking man helping a woman out of their car.

"Showtime," Maddy whispers, dimming the lights. "Turn off your phone. Nothing ruins romantic atmosphere faster than email notifications."

I silence my phone. "Good point."

"Remember, we're invisible unless there's an emergency. This is their moment."

From our vantage point, we watch them enter and discover a scene that exceeds expectations. Sarah stops at the entrance, her expression shifting to wonder. David guides her to their table.

"She loves it," Maddy breathes. "Watch her face."

Sarah is enchanted, turning in a circle to take it all in. David seats her, visibly nervous. He checks his pocket repeatedly.

"He's going to propose during dessert," Maddy whispers. "We coordinated the timing through the server. David will hand over the ring when they clear the dinner plates, and they'll tuck it under the dessert dome before serving."

"Bold move."

"Classic technique," she says. "Photograph-friendly, minimal ring loss risk."

We observe as dinner progresses. The catering is flawless. The fog machine behaves. The lights don't malfunction.

When the server clears their plates, David murmurs a word I can't hear, and the server gives a slight nod before gliding away.

When dessert arrives, I hold my breath.

"This is it," Maddy says. "Come on, David. You've got this."

Sarah lifts the cover and finds a ring box nestled among rose petals. Her gasp carries across the barn. David drops to one knee. His speech wobbles with nerves. Sarah's "yes" is immediate. She throws her arms around him, laughter rising.

They finish their champagne, fingers intertwined. Then they drift out into the night, lost in each other.

Beside me, Maddy exhales. "And that is why I do this job."

"It was perfect."

She smiles at the compliment, soft and a little tired, like she's poured some small part of herself into the setup.

"You must truly believe in love," I say.

She tilts her head, considering. "For other people? Sure. I've seen how spectacularly right it can go. And how spectacularly wrong."

I turn. "Are you speaking from experience?"

She doesn't answer right away. Her gaze stays on the empty café set, now silent. Then she moves, brisk and efficient.

"Time to turn Paris back into a barn," she says with forced brightness. "Think you can handle deconstruction?"

"My skill set is versatile."

She’s a step above me on the ladder, wrestling a strand of lights, close enough that when she turns to look down at me, our faces are only inches apart.

“Having trouble?”

“It’s a strategic tangle,” she mutters. “Designed to test my patience.”

“Here, let me help you.”

I step in behind her, reaching for the string of lights as she does. Her arm brushes mine, warm and bare, and I pause without meaning to. She doesn’t move.

Our hands meet. Her fingers curled around the cord, mine brushing gently over hers. She goes still, tension rising in the narrow space between us.

She turns her head, eyes catching mine over her shoulder. There’s a flicker of uncertainty there, but she doesn’t look away. Her lips part as if she might say something, but no words come.

I dip my head enough to give her time to pull back. She doesn’t. Her lashes flutter shut, a silent answer that steals the air from my lungs.

The first press of my mouth to hers is tentative. Questioning. Her breath hitches, the sound catching between us. Then she leans in, and the question becomes an answer.

Her fingers slide up my chest, light and unsure, while my hand finds her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek.

She melts into me. Not fully, but enough to feel the shift.

Enough to make me forget we're standing in a barn with a tangle of lights above our heads and the professional boundaries we've both been trying to maintain.

It starts slow and ends in a rush. Too much and not enough, all at once.

When we break apart, it's as if gravity reasserts itself.

Maddy pulls back like she's just remembered where we are and who we are. She takes a shaky step away, her hand lifting to her mouth, fingertips resting against her lips like she can still feel mine there.

"That..." she starts. "That can't happen. That was ... what was that?"

"A mistake," I say.

She flinches.

"Right," she says. "Unprofessional. It was ... the moment. Fairy lights. Romance. Lack of sleep."

"Caught up in the success of the project," I say. "Common psychological response."

"A psychological response," she repeats.

"We both know this can't be a thing. We are incompatible."

"Yes. You're bespoke suits. I'm emergency sparkly stuff. You make spreadsheets. I make things explode. Disaster."

"Complete disaster."

"So, we agree," she says. "This was a one-time, regrettable mistake."

"Agreed."

"And it never happened."

"It's already forgotten."

"Good," she says.

She turns away and yanks the tangled lights free with a sharp, practiced motion. The conversation is over.

I watch her, the air still humming with what occurred and what we’re both pretending didn’t. The barn is already shifting back to real life, but some part of me is still standing in Paris.

It’s the most professional decision we could make.

So why does it feel like I lost a case I didn’t know I was fighting?