Page 9 of The Proposal Planner (Ever After #2)

CHAPTER SEVEN

MADDY

The morning after the potluck, the tension in The Weathered Barn is unmistakable.

Mason and I have retreated to our respective corners.

He's tucked away in the loft, silent and focused, while I hover at my workbench on the main floor, pretending to care about floral color palettes.

We're not speaking unless necessary. Everything feels cautious. Not hostile, but far from easy.

I can hear him up there, flipping through documents, tapping out notes, trying to lose himself in the legal tangle of the James Morrison Preservation Center. But I doubt his focus is any better than mine.

I've started a new project and it's not going well.

I'm threading ribbon through a bouquet when I notice one of the doves slumped in the corner of the large travel cage near the barn door, looking suspiciously lifeless.

"Oh no," I mutter, abandoning the bouquet. "Don't be dead. You have a cue this afternoon."

I crouch beside the cage, squinting through the bars. The bird doesn't move. I unlatch the door, only a crack, to check.

That's enough.

The "dead" dove snaps upright, flapping like its life depends on it, and bolts straight through the opening. I yelp and in my panic, open the door the rest of the way.

The others follow. Three. Then five. Then the rest of the feathery escapees burst from the cage in a flurry of wings and coos.

In seconds, my meticulously-organized mobile workspace is under siege.

Two doves land on the fabric tower. A custom rolling rack stuffed with bolts of linen and velvet, sending it gliding a few inches away from my table.

Their pink feet scrabble for purchase, wobbling as the rack shifts.

One bolt teeters, then tumbles to the floor, unspooling a dramatic trail of emerald green across the concrete.

Across the barn, my clear-divided supply bins stand on a wheeled cart.

Each one labeled in my neat handwriting.

A dove perches atop, cocking its head at the pastel ribbons and pearl-tipped pins within.

When another bird jostles it, the entire cart rolls toward me with surprising grace, the compartments inside rattling like wind chimes in a hurricane.

I scramble after a prop bin, also on wheels, as it's nudged along by a particularly determined dove.

It glides out of reach, my staged silk bouquets quivering atop.

Even the spotlights, fixed to adjustable arms on mobile bases, flicker and turn, following the movement of my new, feathered assistants.

I press my lips together, half-laughing, half-sighing.

This is not how my morning is supposed to go.

And yet, as my system flexes, rolling, adapting, never tipping over, I feel a flicker of pride.

Chaos has invaded, but my rolling carts and towers are dancing with it, transforming my structured order into a sort of wild, beautiful ballet.

The sounds of my struggle drift upward. Soft coos, followed by my voice. A strange mix of sweet-talking persuasion and growing frustration.

My newest client specifically requested a proposal that symbolizes their love taking flight, and I, in my relentless pursuit of turning impossible romantic dreams into reality, decided to become an amateur avian trainer instead of hiring a professional.

Because I enjoy making my life unnecessarily complicated.

The rhythmic cooing and my one-sided negotiations must be a persistent, low-grade distraction for Mason.

I can feel his irritation radiating down from the loft like heat waves.

But I can't seem to focus on anything except the memory of last night.

Standing in that parking lot, the space between us heavy with everything we hadn't said, the way he leaned in and started to say my name before I cut him off.

The kiss has ruined everything. It introduced a variable I can't plan around, a risk assessment I can't complete.

Our agreement was supposed to restore order, but control is a myth when it comes to Mason Kincaid.

A sudden squawk rips through the barn, followed by the unmistakable clatter of a metal tin hitting the floor and the cascade of what sounds like thousands of tiny beads.

"No!" I shout.

The scene before me is pure pandemonium. The sort of mess that makes my mother wonder where she went wrong.

Not one, but at least half a dozen white doves are swooping through the main floor of the barn.

One is perched precariously on a stack of fabric bolts, another doing a fly-by past a half-finished foam-core castle.

Glitter, an entire tin of it, judging by the shimmering disaster zone on the floor, is everywhere.

I stand in the middle of it all, a ridiculously small net in my hand, resembling a defeated fairy queen whose subjects have staged a coup.

Above me, I hear Mason's chair scrape against the loft floor, followed by footsteps approaching the railing. Through my peripheral vision, I see him pause, assessing the madness.

"Having some trouble with your romantic vessels?" he asks.

I start, whirling around to face him. I can feel the grit on my cheek, a suspicious sparkle clinging to my hair, and my eyes are wide enough to give me away.

"It's under control." The lie is thin and translucent.

"It appears your assets have liquidated themselves and are currently roosting on the infrastructure," he replies, his gaze sweeping the barn. "This qualifies as a significant operational failure."

"It was a momentary lapse in security," I fire back, chin lifting. "One of them played dead while I was checking on them. The others were accessories after the fact."

"I see." He clasps his hands behind his back, settling into his preferred observation pose. "And what's the protocol for avian containment in a rustic barn environment?"

"The protocol," I grit out, "is me, with this net, trying to negotiate with these uncooperative symbols of love. So unless you're secretly an ornithologist, you can go back to your spreadsheet kingdom."

I turn my back on him and head for the wobbly wooden ladder. I can feel his eyes on me, calculating, assessing. Then I hear his footsteps.

"That ladder won't support you in this task," he says.

"It supported my weight yesterday when I was hanging fairy lights."

"Fairy lights don't flap in your face and make you lose your balance. Maddy, stop."

But I'm already on the third rung, the net clamped between my teeth. The ladder sways beneath me.

Without warning, strong hands grip the sides, steadying it. I can feel his presence behind me. Solid, warm, uncomfortably grounding.

"I've got it," he says, his voice sharper than usual.

I pause, glancing down at him. He looks surprised at his own actions. For a moment, we freeze. Me mid-ladder, him holding it steady, and a bunch of doves acting as our feathery, cooing witnesses. The agreement didn't cover this. There is no clause for involuntary teamwork during a dove crisis.

"Thank you," I say, my voice quieter than I mean it to be.

What follows is a masterclass in inefficiency.

We try to be strategic, methodical, but the doves are faster, slipperier, and having the time of their lives.

One steals a ribbon. Another knocks over a vase of silk roses.

A third, I'm fairly certain, leaves a little white gift on the corner of what used to be Mason's milk-crate desk.

"This is impossible!" I cry after another failed lunge. "They're supposed to be trained!"

"Who trained them?" Mason calls, ducking as a bird swoops past his head. "A committee of squirrels?"

A laugh bursts out of me. Quick and startled and real. "Me, with the help of a YouTube tutorial from a guy with a five-star rating and a surprisingly convincing website."

Mason's expression shifts at the sound. He studies me, then nods as if he's decided on a point that matters.

"We're thinking like lawyers and planners," he says. "We need to think like birds. What do they want?"

"World domination? Endless birdseed?"

"They want to be together. They're flock animals. If we catch one or two, the others might follow."

"Okay, bird whisperer," I say. "How do we do that?"

"We need a bigger net." He surveys the barn like he's calculating square footage and fallout zones. "And we need to work together."

We find a decorative fishing net I'd planned to use for a nautical romance theme. It's heavy, awkward, and perfect.

We stand shoulder to shoulder, the net stretched between us, the silence now alive with shared focus. Not awkwardness, not tension.

"On three," he says. "One... two..."

We lunge.

The dove we'd focused our attentions on, of course, dodges. We lurch too far, stumble, and fall straight into the net we were aiming with.

The world collapses into a tangle of coarse rope and Mason Kincaid.

One second, I'm lunging with full proposal-planner determination. The next, I'm on my back, tangled in netting, with Mason landing solidly half on top of me.

The breath rushes out of my lungs.

His weight anchors me, but it's not crushing. It's warm. Solid. Real.

His arm's caught under mine, the net looped around our shoulders. He shifts to brace himself, which somehow brings him even closer.

His face hovers above mine, lips parted like he might speak but doesn't.

He doesn't need to.

His breath stutters against my cheek. I can smell the faint trace of his cologne, woodsy and clean, mixed with the warm scent of the old barn.

There is less than an inch of space between us. My heart knocks against my ribs, a messy rhythm I can't get ahead of.

He's watching me. Not in that calculating way he does. This time it's softer.

Like he sees more than he should.

"This isn't supposed to be happening," I whisper. Not a protest. More like a confession.

He doesn't move. Doesn't blink.

"Our agreement didn't cover fishing nets," he says. Almost like an apology. Almost like a dare.

We don't move.

A dove coos somewhere above us, oblivious and smug.

And still … we don't move.

His heart thuds against mine. Or maybe it's only mine, responding to the weight of everything unsaid.

The lines we drew feel blurry now. Like they've melted in the heat of this ridiculous, unexpected moment.

I exhale. "We should …"

"Yeah," he says, but neither of us shifts.

When we do, the untangling is slow. Careful.

Elbows bump. Fingers graze.

Every brush of skin sends a pulse through me.

He helps without a word, steady and close, like he's afraid any sudden movement might unravel whatever fragile thing has started to form between us.

By the time we're free, we're breathless. Flushed. Neither of us looks at the other.

We spend the next hour wrangling doves like a strangely choreographed team. Silent, focused, in sync. We move together without tripping over words or rules. And somewhere in the middle of feathers and glitter, the awkwardness dissolves.

When the last dove flutters into the re-secured cage, I let out a long, uneven breath.

The barn is a disaster.

Glitter clings to everything. Props are scattered, ribbon drapes from the rafters like party streamers after a storm.

But somehow, the quiet between us doesn't feel strained anymore.

"Thank you," I say, turning to him. "I couldn't have … I mean, thanks."

He shrugs. "Just doing my part to preserve the integrity of your workspace."

I raise a brow.

"My productivity is deeply affected by rogue livestock," he adds.

I almost smile. "Livestock?"

"You called them romantic vessels. I'm choosing livestock."

I bend to scoop up a spilled tin of glitter. He reaches at the same time.

Our fingers brush.

We both freeze.

The contact is brief, but it's enough to stir up everything again.

The kiss might've broken a rule. But getting tangled in that net together?

It cracked the foundation. And standing here, surrounded by glitter and feathers and far too many emotions, I'm starting to wonder if I want to put any of it back together.