Page 7 of The Proposal Planner (Ever After #2)

CHAPTER FIVE

MADDY

Friday afternoon finds me standing in the baking aisle of River Bend Market, staring at an overwhelming selection of cake mixes. Two versions of me wage a silent, vicious war in my head.

It never happened , insists the part of me that runs on checklists and contingency plans. It was a momentary, atmospheric-pressure-induced, regrettable mistake. He is a temporary fixture in a workspace you share with your best friends. This is a business arrangement. End of story.

Then there's the other Maddy. The one who still feels the ghost of his thumb stroking her jaw, who remembers the shocking, world-tilting rightness of his lips on hers. She keeps replaying the kiss on a continuous, high-definition loop, ignoring my logical side's sensible cease-and-desist order.

Daniel was a good kisser, too. Polished. Confident. His kisses always felt like a promise, right up until he broke it. But Daniel's kisses never made my toes curl.

Which is further proof Mason Kincaid is no good for me. Toe-curling is the gateway drug to feelings. And feelings lead to poor decisions. And poor decisions? They lead straight to ugly orthopedic shoes and emergency wine deliveries.

"Define 'appears homemade,'" Mason says beside me, his voice steady, professional.

It's the same tone I imagine he uses when he dissects contracts, and its unshakable ease in the face of my internal five-alarm fire is both infuriating and, if I'm being honest, a little impressive.

He's holding a package of gourmet chocolate chip cookies, examining the nutrition label like it contains a loophole he can exploit.

"Think less manufactured in a facility that also processes nuts and more made with love in someone's kitchen.

" I steer toward the frozen foods section, not to move the errand along, but to put inches of physical space between us.

"The goal is plausible deniability. If someone asks if you created them yourself, you want to be able to say yes without lying. "

I grab a frozen chocolate cake from the freezer section, the biting cold a welcome shock to my fingertips. I focus on the ingredients list, pretending to be fascinated by xanthan gum. Anything to avoid meeting his eyes.

"That seems ethically questionable."

"Welcome to small-town social survival, Counselor.

Sometimes ethics are flexible when community harmony is at stake.

" I add frosting and a container of sprinkles to the cart with sharp, decisive movements.

"Besides, you're not lying. You'll be involved in every step of the cookie and cake improvement technique. "

He arches an eyebrow. "Improvement? This sounds less like baking and more like evidence tampering."

I push the cart toward the checkout line, seeking the safety of a crowd. "Don't give me that expression. This is River Bend tradition. Half the homemade dishes at any potluck started life in the frozen foods section."

"And the other half?"

"Are homemade by people like my mother, Gloria, who wields a Bundt pan as a weapon of superiority guaranteed to make you question all your life choices.

" I glance at him. "Which is why we're going for strategic mediocrity.

Good enough to show effort, not so good that anyone expects gourmet contributions in the future. "

Mason trails me through the checkout process, wearing the resigned expression of someone who's accidentally enrolled in a small-town crash course with no option to drop the class.

"Having a baking day, Maddy?" Brenda scans our items at a pace that says she's memorized every product code.

"Teaching Mason the fine art of potluck preparation," I reply. "He's new to River Bend hospitality."

"Oh, how lovely!" Brenda shifts her attention to Mason, her enthusiasm that of someone thrilled by fresh gossip. "You're the lawyer working in The Weathered Barn, aren't you? Mrs. Patterson mentioned you were professional."

"Professional is one word for it," I mutter, earning a pointed glance from Mason.

His public-facing persona clicks into place, smooth and charming. "It's nice to meet you," he tells Brenda. "I'm looking forward to more of River Bend's traditions."

Brenda practically melts. "Well, you've got the best tour guide in town, that's for sure," she says with a wink. "She gives off that spiky vibe, but she's got a heart of gold, that one."

I feel a hot blush creep up my neck. I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Mason's expression remains composed, but I see a flicker of amusement before he schools it. He's enjoying this. The traitor.

"Being neighborly," I say through gritted teeth, grabbing our bags. "Come on, Mason. We have desserts to enhance."

We escape to the parking lot. The air crackles with leftover awkwardness.

"Is everyone in this town a matchmaker?" he asks as we load the car.

"Only the ones who care about you," I reply, then instantly regret the implication. "I mean, who care about community integration. Not you specifically. Just people in general."

"Right. Community integration." His tone suggests he's not convinced, but he lets it slide. "So, what does this dessert enhancement process involve?"

"You'll see."

Twenty minutes later, we're back in The Weathered Barn, the small kitchenette transformed into a temporary culinary classroom. I've cleared the counter space, gathering the tools for Mason's introduction to Creative Presentation Techniques.

"First step," I announce, opening the cookie package with dramatic flair, "is transferring store-bought items to serving dishes in a way that suggests domestic competence.

" I demonstrate by overlapping cookies in an attractive pattern, leaving strategic gaps to hint at recent removal from a baking sheet, adding a light sprinkle of powdered sugar for authenticity.

Mason watches, his attention is razor-sharp.

"The goal is to make it look homemade. Not like you spent six months training under Martha Stewart, but like you own an apron and occasionally use your oven for actual baking. Commitment to the performance is everything."

"Performance," he repeats, voice flat. He watches me, gaze sharp and analytical, and I feel pinned in place.

I reach for a bag of powdered sugar. A small tear splits along the side.

As I lift it, a cloud of white powder bursts out, coating the cookies, the counter, and the front of Mason's impeccable trousers in a dusting fit for a miniature snowstorm.

I freeze. "Oh my god."

He glances down at the white patch, then back up. The corner of his mouth twitches. "Is this part of the homemade imperfection technique?"

"An advanced part," I manage, grabbing a dry cloth. "Requires ... commitment." I step toward him, heart hammering. "Here, let me..." My hand hovers over his thigh. I dab awkwardly at the powder. My knuckles brush the fabric. The contact, brief as it is, is a lightning strike. My face flames.

He catches my wrist, gentle but firm. "Maddy," he says, voice low and serious. "It's fine." Our eyes meet, the air thick with powdered sugar and unresolved everything. He lets go of my wrist.

I turn to the cake, moving around to the other side of the counter. I trim the edges with a knife. "Take proposal planning," I say, filling the silence. "People think it's just decorations, but it's about managing expectations and avoiding disasters."

"Like last night," he says.

I freeze. "Last night" was the proposal. And the kiss.

"Three hours to create magic, plan for every disaster, and deliver a memory two people will have for life. No pressure at all."

Mason adjusts the cookies with care. "You enjoy the pressure."

"I live for it. There's a thrill about turning impossible deadlines into flawless moments that I can't quite quit.

" I smear an extra layer of frosting along the side, emphasizing the imperfection.

There's an art to appearing convincingly homemade.

Imperfect enough to say, "I care, but I also have a life. "

He watches, expression unreadable. I scoop frosting onto my finger, then offer it. "Want to taste?"

He hesitates, then leans in and takes the bite. Lips brush my finger. I pretend my pulse stays steady.

"What about you?" I ask, hyper-aware of how close he is. "What do you live for?"

He doesn't answer right away. He studies me.

"I used to think I lived for winning," he says. "Closing deals, outmaneuvering opponents, building cases. But that was when I worked for Richard Kingston and winning meant someone else lost."

"And now?"

"Now I'm figuring out what winning means when the goal is building a future instead of tearing it down." He steps back from the cookies. "It's a different pressure."

My phone buzzes with a text from Savvy. I wipe my hands on a towel and check the message.

Savvy

Scotland is fairy tale-like. Henry wants to buy everything we see and ship it back to River Bend. How's business? And more importantly, how's Mason?

I glance at him, noting the way he's studying my cake-making process with interest rather than tolerance.

Me

Business is good. Mason is … educational.

Savvy

Educational how? Good educational or "I'm planning his mysterious disappearance" educational?

Me

Good educational. He helped with an emergency proposal setup. Even got his expensive sleeves dirty.

Savvy

Character development! I'm proud of him. And you. Playing nice with others was never your strongest skill.

Me

Hey! I'm excellent at playing nice.

Savvy

You once started a craft supply war with Ivy over glitter allocation priorities.

Me

That was different. Glitter is serious business.

Savvy

Everything okay though? Really?

I glance through the open doorway. From here, I can barely make out the edge of the loft where Mason's laptop glows and his files are lined up in neat, lawyerly rows.

Below it, part of my world peeks through.

Stacks of supplies, the edge of a centerpiece box, a stray sprig of eucalyptus clinging to the floor like it refuses to accept the event is over.

Days ago, I would've said sharing this space was impossible.

Now, somehow, it feels almost ... natural.

Me

Everything's fine. Better than fine. He's not as uptight as I thought.

Savvy

High praise from you. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.

Me

You're going to have to narrow that down.

Savvy

Interpret that however gets you into the most trouble. Love you. TTYL.

I pocket my phone and return to frosting prep, aware of Mason watching, his gaze unblinking.

"Your friends check on you often," he says.

"Occupational hazard of caring about people." I open the sprinkle container and scatter pastel sprinkles across the cake, letting them fall like tiny confetti bombs. "Savvy and Ivy have been watching out for me since forever. Old habits."

He studies the cake like it reveals a personal secret. "And you watch out for them."

"Of course I do." I flick a stray sprinkle off the counter. "That's what we do. We show up for each other. When life gets messy. Especially then. That's how friendship works. Mutual protection, shared victories, and emergency wine delivery."

I pause mid-frosting. "What about you? Who watches out for Mason Kincaid?"

"Henry, mostly. He's the closest thing I have to family now that I've severed ties with Richard Kingston's empire." Mason's expression darkens. "It's a smaller support network than most people have."

"Quality over quantity," I suggest, though I suspect the isolation goes deeper than he's admitting. "Henry is good people."

"The best. He's the sort of person who makes you want to be better than you are." Mason glances up toward the loft where documents await. "Working with him on the Morrison Center has been … redemptive, I suppose. A chance to build a project that matters."

"Okay," I announce, stepping back to admire our strategically-imperfect cake. "Time for your final exam in potluck presentation."

Mason eyes the cake. "What happens at a River Bend potluck?"

"Food, conversation, and bonding through shared carbohydrates.

" I start cleaning up, already sorting through the logistics in my head.

"Mrs. Patterson will interrogate you, Mr. Thompson will try to recruit you for the volunteer fire department, and at least three people will try setting you up with their single relatives. "

"You're kidding, right?"

"Nope. River Bend takes matchmaking seriously. Eligible bachelors are community resources to be allocated." I grin. "Don't worry, I'll run interference. Think of me as your cultural translator and social bodyguard."

"Social bodyguard," he repeats, testing the phrase like it might belong in a contract.

"I'll handle the personal questions, deflect the matchmaking attempts, and make sure you don't accidentally commit to organizing next year's harvest festival.

" I nudge the cake into alignment and swipe a smudge of frosting off the edge.

"In exchange, you provide credible backup for my deflection strategies. "

"Meaning?"

"Meaning when people ask why I'm not dating anyone, you need to appear mysteriously significant and change the subject." I admire our presentation. "Strategic alliance building. Positively corporate."

Mason laughs. Not a polite chuckle, but real amusement that shifts his whole face. "I can work with that."

"Good. Because in three hours, you're going to find out whether River Bend accepts you as a temporary community member or classifies you as 'that antisocial lawyer who thinks he's too good for local customs.'"

"No pressure at all," he says, echoing my earlier comment.

I cover the cake with foil. "Welcome to small-town social dynamics, Counselor. Try to keep up."

I glance out the window where the late afternoon sun casts long shadows, the type of golden light that makes everything resemble a movie scene. In a few hours, we'll walk into Centennial Hall as unlikely allies, armed with enhanced baked goods and a mutual protection plan.

It should be simple. Community gathering, shared food, casual conversation. So why does it feel like we're preparing for an event much more complicated than a potluck?