I silence my phone. "Good point."
"Remember, we're invisible unless there's an emergency. This is their moment."
From our vantage point, we watch them enter and discover a scene that exceeds expectations. Sarah stops at the entrance, her expression shifting to wonder. David guides her to their table.
"She loves it," Maddy breathes. "Watch her face."
Sarah is enchanted, turning in a circle to take it all in. David seats her, visibly nervous. He checks his pocket repeatedly.
"He's going to propose during dessert," Maddy whispers. "We coordinated the timing through the server. David will hand over the ring when they clear the dinner plates, and they'll tuck it under the dessert dome before serving."
"Bold move."
"Classic technique," she says. "Photograph-friendly, minimal ring loss risk."
We observe as dinner progresses. The catering is flawless. The fog machine behaves. The lights don't malfunction.
When the server clears their plates, David murmurs a word I can't hear, and the server gives a slight nod before gliding away.
When dessert arrives, I hold my breath.
"This is it," Maddy says. "Come on, David. You've got this."
Sarah lifts the cover and finds a ring box nestled among rose petals. Her gasp carries across the barn. David drops to one knee. His speech wobbles with nerves. Sarah's "yes" is immediate. She throws her arms around him, laughter rising.
They finish their champagne, fingers intertwined. Then they drift out into the night, lost in each other.
Beside me, Maddy exhales. "And that is why I do this job."
"It was perfect."
She smiles at the compliment, soft and a little tired, like she's poured some small part of herself into the setup.
"You must truly believe in love," I say.
She tilts her head, considering. "For other people? Sure. I've seen how spectacularly right it can go. And how spectacularly wrong."
I turn. "Are you speaking from experience?"
She doesn't answer right away. Her gaze stays on the empty café set, now silent. Then she moves, brisk and efficient.
"Time to turn Paris back into a barn," she says with forced brightness. "Think you can handle deconstruction?"
"My skill set is versatile."
She’s a step above me on the ladder, wrestling a strand of lights, close enough that when she turns to look down at me, our faces are only inches apart.
“Having trouble?”
“It’s a strategic tangle,” she mutters. “Designed to test my patience.”
“Here, let me help you.”
I step in behind her, reaching for the string of lights as she does. Her arm brushes mine, warm and bare, and I pause without meaning to. She doesn’t move.
Our hands meet. Her fingers curled around the cord, mine brushing gently over hers. She goes still, tension rising in the narrow space between us.
She turns her head, eyes catching mine over her shoulder. There’s a flicker of uncertainty there, but she doesn’t look away. Her lips part as if she might say something, but no words come.
