Page 8 of The Proposal Planner (Ever After #2)

CHAPTER SIX

MASON

We pull into the parking lot together, parking side by side like co-conspirators on a job neither of us can refuse. Separate cars. Somehow, always landing in the same place.

At the door, we pause. Two professionals about to bluff our way through a social minefield. Maddy casts me a sidelong glance.

"You ready?" she asks.

I take a breath I don't quite need. "As I'll ever be."

We step inside and are hit by the scent of casseroles, community spirit, and that particular brand of mayhem that springs up when thirty-five people try to coordinate a potluck dinner without a project manager.

I stand in the doorway, holding our enhanced cake, feeling every bit the extra in a scene I haven't rehearsed enough.

Beside me, Maddy balances a plate of deceptively "homemade" cookies.

One of the contributions to my ongoing crash course in community survival.

I'm not sure when bringing baked goods became part of my job description, but here we are, playing along like it matters.

And maybe, in some strange way, it does.

She shifts the cookie plate to one hand and reaches out to adjust the foil covering on our "fresh-from-the-oven" cake, her fingers brushing mine.

A jolt of electricity shoots through me, and I am pretending not to feel it.

"Remember," she whispers, breath brushing my ear, "confidence sells it. You didn't aim for perfection. You aimed for believable effort. Let's call it ‘perfectly imperfect.' The flaws make it feel homemade, not mass-produced or suspiciously Martha."

"Perfectly imperfect," I repeat, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. Unlike yesterday's kiss, which felt dangerously familiar.

We called it a mistake. Promised it wouldn't happen again. That was it, hardly a conversation. But now it feels more binding than it should. An unspoken ledger I'm mentally keeping, as if I'm tracking breaches in a contract negotiation.

Rule number one: act normal. Rule number two: normal means witty banter, not simmering silence. We are failing at rule number two.

The kiss wasn't simple. It wasn't a "moment of adrenaline" or "a mistake," as we so clinically labeled it.

It was a collision. Standing in the romantic aftermath of the proposal, the air full of champagne bubbles and shared triumph, a moment of cleanup turned into my hand on her arm, our eyes meeting, and the world narrowing to the space between our mouths.

It was intense. Spontaneous. Powerful. More real than any business deal I've closed.

Which is why we now have an agreement. Because feelings like that have no place in a temporary workspace. They're illogical, inefficient, and a threat to the walls I've built since leaving Richard Kingston's empire.

"And if someone asks for the recipe?" I ask, my voice stiffer than my collar.

"Family secret. Smile mysteriously and change the subject."

She adjusts my tie, brisk and impersonal, yet even through the fabric her touch affects me. A gesture meant to prep a soldier for battle, though it lands more as a reminder of the territory we've crossed.

"You've got this. Think of it as a friendly deposition where everyone's trying to feed you carbohydrates."

The comparison is comforting, until Mrs. Patterson appears at my elbow, slipping in with the stealth of a trained operative.

"Mason! How wonderful that you came." Her eyes immediately zero in on the cake in my hands.

"Here, let me help with that," she says, peeling back the foil covering with the practiced efficiency of someone who's been handling community potlucks for decades.

She studies the revealed cake with the skill of a Michelin food critic.

"My goodness, this looks delicious. Did you make it yourself? "

I feel Maddy's eyes on me. A wordless reminder of our conspiracy. This is the first test.

I summon the ease I use in hostile negotiations.

"Yes, It's a family recipe," I say. "Nothing too complicated."

"Modest too," Mrs. Patterson beams. "How refreshing. Come along, let's get this beauty to the dessert table."

She leads us through the crowd. I'm aware of Maddy at my side, our arms separated by six careful inches, yet her warmth reaches me anyway.

This proximity feels like torture.

Every greeting, every cheerful, "Maddy, you brought the new lawyer!" chips away at the deal we made.

Maddy is a master of misdirection, running interference like it's her full-time job.

She arranges our cake and cookies on the dessert table, each move deliberate.

"Ideal placement," she whispers, head close enough that her hair brushes my cheek. "Close enough to the crowd-pleasers to benefit from association, far enough from the show-stoppers to avoid direct comparison."

Her breath brushes my cheek, warm and close, but it's the faint scent of that ridiculous perfume that hits first. Citrus and marshmallow and some unidentifiable note of trouble. I want to close the six-inch gap between us, to ask if she's as miserable in this performance as I am.

Instead, I nod. "Sound tactics."

Before the silence stretches, a bear of a man in a volunteer fire department T-shirt approaches, his focus locked in, a recruiter on a mission.

"You must be the lawyer everyone's talking about." He engulfs my hand in his. "Tom Thompson. Fire chief."

I go through the motions, deploying the charm Maddy warned I'd need. I express interest in kitten rescue, praise their fundraising efforts, and cite my workload at the Morrison Center as a reason for my lack of availability.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maddy watching, a flicker of admiration present before she masks it.

She appears at my side as Tom moves on, handing me a plastic cup of alarming red punch.

"Smooth," she says. "Very diplomatic. Tom's been trying to recruit every able-bodied person since the last chief retired."

"Is that normal? The recruitment pressure?"

"Yes. Everyone here serves some function. It's how small towns survive." She gestures with her cup. "The key is to express interest without making commitments."

"A lesson that applies to more than fire departments," I say.

Her eyes meet mine. For a second, the performance drops.

I see the woman from last night. Genuine laughter, fire in her eyes.

I see confusion that mirrors my own.

Then the mask returns.

"Come on," she says, her tone bright but brittle. "Let me introduce you to people before they start approaching you. It's less overwhelming in small doses."

The next hour is a masterclass in social navigation, with Maddy as my reluctant guide.

We are a team, a partnership. Every word the townspeople use to describe us is another jab at the boundary we swore we wouldn't cross.

We stand shoulder-to-shoulder, united against matchmaking and polite interrogation.

The irony is thick in every sip of Mrs. Patterson's punch.

"You're handling this well," Maddy observes during a brief lull. "Most city people appear overwhelmed by now."

"It's another form of negotiation," I say. "Understanding motivations, managing expectations, identifying leverage."

"And what's my leverage?"

The question is playful. A ghost of our old rhythm. It catches me off guard.

"You have home-field advantage. And you know where all the bodies are buried, metaphorically speaking."

"Don't be so sure it's metaphorical." She flashes a nervous smile. "Either way, here comes the real test."

She nods toward a group approaching together as if they were a tactical unit.

"The matchmaking committee."

Before I can brace, we're surrounded.

Carol, the third-grade teacher.

Jennifer, the real estate agent.

Diane, the social coordinator.

"Mason," Carol says, "we were discussing how lovely it is to have new people join the community. River Bend has such a great selection of young professionals."

Maddy tenses enough for me to notice. She's getting ready to run interference.

Then Jennifer fires. "Sometimes the best relationships develop naturally, don't they? When people work closely together. Shared goals, shared challenges."

The silence hits hard.

Maddy clears her throat, composed, like someone steering a conversation back onto safer ground.

"Ladies, Mason's still learning River Bend customs. Maybe we let him settle before planning his social calendar."

A masterful deflection, but Jennifer's words hang between us. A truth we're both avoiding.

After they disperse, Maddy drains her punch like someone who's navigated a diplomatic crisis.

"You handled that well," she says, voice tight. "Polite, noncommittal, and enough of a hint of existing attachment to discourage further matchmaking."

"Existing attachment?" I lift a brow.

"Their speculation about us," she says, cheeks pink. "Don't worry, it's a standard deflection technique. They'll assume we're dating or headed that way. It gives us both cover."

"Right," I say. We're building a fortress of lies to hide from a kiss. It's the most illogical, inefficient thing I've ever done. And yet, the thought of ending the act and confessing the truth behind it is terrifying.

The evening passes in the same current of tension. We clean up our empty cake and cookie plates. Stand side-by-side for announcements. Play the part of platonic colleagues. But as we step into the cool night air, the performance strips away, leaving a weightier truth in its place.

"So," she says as we reach her car, keys jingling in her hand, "how was your welcome tour, served with side-eye and Jell-O salad?"

I study her. The moonlight catches glitter in her hair. A detail I'm trying hard to ignore.

"Educational," I say. "More complex than I expected."

"High praise from someone who negotiates multi-million-dollar deals."

"The pressure was real."

We stand by her door, the space between us humming with everything unsaid. So much for the lines we swore we wouldn't cross.

I shift closer, not enough to touch, but enough to make the air between us feel charged. Her gaze lifts to meet mine. Steady, searching, wary.

"Maddy," I start, no idea what I'll say, but I want to say something.

"Don't," she says, voice soft. Not sharp. Not cold. Final. "Let's stick to the agreement. It's easier."

She opens the car door, slides inside, and pulls it closed in one smooth, practiced motion. The lock clicks. A clean goodbye.

As she drives away, leaving me alone in the lot, I know she's wrong.

And I have a sinking feeling the trouble is only beginning.