CHAPTER ONE
MADDY
The Weathered Barn smells like sawdust, old roses, and possibility—with a hint of the coffee I spilled on the floor an hour ago while wrestling with a particularly stubborn garland. Two weeks into flying solo at Ever After, Inc., and I've transformed this place into a whirlwind of creativity while Savvy honeymoons in Scotland and Ivy handles a bridesmaid crisis in the Hamptons.
The responsibility of holding down our shared dream solo should be overwhelming, but honestly? It feels necessary. Control feels necessary.
Fabric swatches cascade from every beam in planned, graduated colors. Fairy lights twist around exposed rafters with the precision of expensive jewelry. And my latest acquisition—a fog machine that may or may not be possessed by the ghost of a dramatic theater director—sits in the corner, belching mist without warning. The machine devoured months of my coffee budget, but when it cooperates, it transforms a simple proposal into a fairy tale unfolding through morning vapor, worth everyoverpriced latte I'll never drink. When it cooperates. Which, to be clear, is rare.
I step back to admire my kingdom, nearly tripping over a box labeled “Emergency Glitter” in my hasty handwriting. The barn gleams with fairy-light perfection. Well, almost perfect. That maddening almost-perfect that makes my heart pound with pride while my brain calculates seventeen different ways it could all go spectacularly wrong. Because things always go wrong when you let your guard down.
I learned that lesson the hard way. My fingers automatically move to the locked filing cabinet where I now store every proposal concept, every vendor contact, and every creative spark that could be used against me. The lock clicks under my touch—solid, secure, impenetrable. It’s a physical reminder of a promise I made to myself.Never again.
I told myself it was for the business. Market research. Brand building. A dream proposal to show clients what we could create. But deep down, it came from my own personal playlist—the fantasy I’d never admit aloud.
My ex-boyfriend Daniel flashes through my mind—charming smile, artistic hands, the musician who spent months watching me craft my dream proposal—every detail born from my own romantic fantasies—only to steal it all and use it to propose to someone else. I'd shared my most vulnerable hopes thinking he might be inspired to propose to me. Instead, I watched him give my dreams to a stranger.
The Bow Bridge location I’d scouted at sunrise for weeks.
The string quartet I auditioned on a rainy Tuesday, determined to find the one that made foreverfeellike a sound.
The poem—I still can’t read it without swallowing glass. Every word came from the most vulnerable corners of my heart.
And he used all of it. Every last note, view, and line … to propose to a woman I’d never met. While I watched from the sidelines. Invisible. Gutted.
He called it “inspiration.”
I call it theft.
That’s why I need control now. Why I hold the reins so tightly. It’s not about power. It’s about protection—keeping my heart tucked behind lock and key where no one can reach it without permission.
Today, that lock rattles. Because Mason Kincaid is on his way. And something about him slips past my defenses with alarming ease. Every instinct I have says he’s the last man I should want.
But part of me does.
And that part? That part terrifies me.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ivy, the message appearing as I'm wondering if I should hide the milk crate desk behind a strategically-placed mannequin.
Ivy
How's Operation Tolerating Mason going? Please tell me you didn’t build him a desk out of two milk crates.
I glance toward the corner, where several plastic boxes teeter under a slab of warped plywood. A folding chair slouches beside it—vinyl cracked, cushion sagging like it gave up sometime around the Clinton administration. The whole setup wobbles when I so much as breathe, creating a sad little chorus of groans and rattles I hadn’t planned on.
Me
Of course not. I used THREE. I’m not an amateur.
Three dots appear.
Ivy
Maddy...
Me
He'll love the rustic charm! An authentic River Bend experience. Think of it as ... artisanal furniture.
