"Think less corporate strategy session and more 'setting up tents in a field,'" I explain. "Are you prepared for actual physical work, Counselor?"
His expression changes, a look that's part challenge, part invitation. "I think I can handle whatever you throw at me."
The words hang in the air between us, loaded with implications that have nothing to do with festival setup. Heat pools low in my stomach as I hold his gaze.
"We'll see about that," I manage to say, my voice breathless.
Savvy clears her throat again, more pointedly this time. "Right. Well. I think that's enough planning for today. Henry, want to go to an early dinner? I feel like Maddy and Mason have some ... logistics to discuss."
Henry, bless him, takes the hint. "Yes. There's that new place on Main Street I've been wanting to try."
They gather their things with suspicious efficiency, leaving Mason and me alone in the barn. The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken possibilities.
"So," I say, my voice sounding too loud in the empty space, "logistics."
"Logistics," he agrees, taking a step closer.
My heart hammers against my ribs as he approaches, his eyes never leaving mine. When he's close enough to touch, he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my skin.
"Maddy," he says, my name rough on his lips.
"Yeah?"
"I think we need to talk about what's happening here."
The rational part of my brain agrees. We need to discuss the growing attraction between us, the way every casual touch feels electric, the dreams that wake me up breathless and aching.
But the rest of me, the part that's been building toward this moment for weeks, has other ideas.
"Later," I whisper, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. "We can talk later."
His breath catches as my fingers trace the edge of his cheekbone, the soft skin below his ear. When I step closer, closing the last inch between us, he makes a low sound in the back of his throat that sends heat racing through my veins.
"Maddy," he warns, but his hands come up to frame my face, thumbs stroking across my cheekbones.
"What are you afraid of?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.
"Ruining this," he admits. "Ruining us."
"What if you don't?" I counter. "What if you make it better?"
For a moment, we stand frozen on the edge of possibility, balanced at the threshold of something that will change everything. Then his phone rings, shattering the spell with its electronic trill.
He closes his eyes, jaw clenching with frustration. "I should"
"Answer it," I finish, stepping back to give him space even as every cell in my body protests the distance.
He checks the caller ID and frowns. "It's Mrs. Patterson."
I blink at him, processing this information. "Mrs. Patterson? The woman who printed a character assassination of you in the local paper?"
"Apparently." He answers the call, his voice shifting to professional neutrality. "Mason Kincaid."
I watch his face change as he listens, expressions flickering from confusion to surprise to what might be hope.
"Yes, ma'am," he says finally. "Tomorrow at two would be fine. We'll see you then."
He hangs up and looks at me, his expression thoughtful. "She wants help updating her will. Says she's heard we do good work."
