Ivy
You're impossible.
Me
That's why you adore me.
I pocket my phone and survey my territory. Mason Kincaid—best man at Savvy's wedding, Henry's ridiculously competent legal counsel, and owner of the most annoyingly perfect jawline in New York State—thinks helping save the town gives him a permanent key to our barn.
Sure, technically, this space was Henry's wedding gift to Savvy, and yes, Henry did ask Mason to work out of here while managing the Preservation Center. But I'm the one holding down Ever After, Inc. while my partners are scattered across continents, which makes me the guardian of our shared vision.
I nearly melted into a puddle at Savvy’s wedding when Mason Kincaid’s hand settled at the small of my back—warm, steady, and too familiar for a man I hardly knew. My knees wobbled. My face flushed like I’d been hit with a premature hotflash. And for a second—one ridiculous, hormone-fueled second—I forgot every reason I should’ve kept my distance.
Then he opened his mouth.
One dry, insufferable comment about how he preferred hostile takeovers to my drone collection, delivered in that maddening tone that made me want to laugh … or hurl cake at his pristinely pressed shirt.
Daniel used to look at me like that, too. Right before he stole my ideas and handed them to someone else. And Mason? I watched him during the Richard Kingston fiasco—cool, strategic, ruthlessly competent. He’s one of the good guys. I know that. But the way he sizes up a room, that quiet confidence … it’s Daniel all over again. A person who makes your best idea feel like it shines brightest when they’re the one bringing it to life.
I shake off the memory and focus on the task at hand. Mason Kincaid is about to discover that sharing a space with me operates on different rules than a boardroom. Rules that involve creativity over conformity, heart over spreadsheets, and the understanding that sometimes the best solutions come wrapped in glitter and tied with a bow that took me twenty-three attempts to get right. And while he may have Henry's permission to be here, I'm the one responsible for keeping our dream alive until the girls get back.
The crunch of gravel marks his arrival. Right on time, after his hour-long commute from Manhattan. Through the barn’s massive windows, I watch a sleek black Mercedes glide into the parking area like a panther stalking through a field of daisies. Every inch of the car screams overpriced efficiency, which is precisely what I’d expect from its owner.
I plant myself beside the fog machine, arms crossed, trying to project "confident barn owner" and not "woman whopracticed this stance in the mirror this morning.” The car door closes with a soft, expensive thunk.
Mason steps into the doorway, looking misplaced, like a polished modern sculpture someone dropped into a folk-art museum. He carries a leather messenger bag and a box of office supplies, which he sets down near the entrance while surveying the space. His immaculate charcoal suit is crisp enough to belong in a boardroom, not a barn where dust is a key design element. His dark hair is styled with effortless perfection—the result of good genetics and an expensive barber. He scans the space, those keen eyes sweeping over the creative chaos, his expression holding the careful neutrality of someone who’s stumbled into a dimension ruled by Pinterest instead of physics.
"Maddy." He nods in my direction, his voice carrying that low, even quality that made half the wedding guests swoon and sends opposing counsel into early retirement. "Impressive setup.”
The compliment catches me off guard, though I try not to let it show.
"Mason." I gesture grandly toward the milk crate desk with a flourish that would make a game show hostess proud. "Welcome to your headquarters. We've prepared your executive suite with all the amenities a discerning lawyer could want.”
His eyes land on the makeshift desk, lingering on the wobbly folding chair with scrutiny reserved for disaster drills or condemned buildings. One eyebrow lifts in either amusement or horror—it’s impossible to tell. Mason has mastered the fine art of the unreadable expression.
"Rustic," he says, the word carrying enough diplomatic weight to negotiate international treaties.
"Authentic," I counter, refusing to let him win this opening skirmish. "Very feng shui. The instability keeps youalert, promotes creative thinking. Studies show that a little uncertainty enhances cognitive function.”
"Ah." He approaches the desk with his hands clasped behind his back, moving with the careful assessment of someone inspecting a suspicious exhibit at a museum—or possibly trying to figure out whether it bites. "And the structural integrity? I assume it's been tested for laptop compatibility?”
"Extensively." I watch him circle the setup, trying not to notice how his suit jacket emphasizes his broad shoulders. "That chair has supported at least three wedding planning emergencies and one minor breakdown over venue availability. It's practically an antique at this point—very shabby chic.”
His phone appears in his hand with a practiced smoothness, like he’s rehearsed the move in front of a mirror while wearing expensive suits and intimidating people for fun.
"My work requires a certain ... stability," he says. "I don’t need anything extravagant, but I do need a desk that won't collapse if I place legal documents on it.”
He's dialing, and I watch in growing alarm as he fires off a series of brief, clipped conversations that sound like furniture orders urgent enough for a medical emergency. His voice carries the ease of someone who's never heard the word no and wouldn't recognize it if it arrived by certified mail.
"Delivery within the hour," he informs me, pocketing his phone with the satisfaction of someone who’s solved world hunger through superior planning. "I trust that won't interfere with your creative process?”
"My creative process?" I gesture around the barn, where half-finished proposal displays create a landscape of romantic possibilities that would make Disney jealous. "This IS my process. Methodical inspiration, artistic vision, the marriage of dreams and execution. Some people call it organized mayhem. I call it Monday.”
"Fascinating." His attention shifts, those eyes scanning the space with laser focus—the intensity I'd expect from someone sizing up an acquisition. I watch him dismiss several areas, making decisions with the speed of someone used to handling large sums of money and other people's futures. Then his eyes land on the loft. My loft. The elevated space offering the best natural light, a full view of the barn, and the privacy I'd earmarked for VIP client consultations. The place where I'd planned to hold my most important meetings, where nervous grooms could pace without knocking over foam core displays, where brides could cry when they realized their Pinterest boards exceeded both physics and their budgets.
"The loft seems adequate," he says, heading for the stairs with easy confidence, claiming territory like his name is on the deed now, too. "Better light, less...”
"Glitter?" I supply, though my voice comes out strained.
