"Nope. River Bend takes matchmaking seriously. Eligible bachelors are community resources to be allocated." I grin. "Don't worry, I'll run interference. Think of me as your cultural translator and social bodyguard."
"Social bodyguard," he repeats, testing the phrase like it might belong in a contract.
"I'll handle the personal questions, deflect the matchmaking attempts, and make sure you don't accidentally commit to organizing next year's harvest festival." I nudge the cake into alignment and swipe a smudge of frosting off the edge."In exchange, you provide credible backup for my deflection strategies."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning when people ask why I'm not dating anyone, you need to appear mysteriously significant and change the subject." I admire our presentation. "Strategic alliance building. Positively corporate."
Mason laughs. Not a polite chuckle, but real amusement that shifts his whole face. "I can work with that."
"Good. Because in three hours, you're going to find out whether River Bend accepts you as a temporary community member or classifies you as 'that antisocial lawyer who thinks he's too good for local customs.'"
"No pressure at all," he says, echoing my earlier comment.
I cover the cake with foil. "Welcome to small-town social dynamics, Counselor. Try to keep up."
I glance out the window where the late afternoon sun casts long shadows, the type of golden light that makes everything resemble a movie scene. In a few hours, we'll walk into Centennial Hall as unlikely allies, armed with enhanced baked goods and a mutual protection plan.
It should be simple. Community gathering, shared food, casual conversation. So why does it feel like we're preparing for an event much more complicated than a potluck?
CHAPTER SIX
MASON
We pull into the parking lot together, parking side by side like co-conspirators on a job neither of us can refuse. Separate cars. Somehow, always landing in the same place.
At the door, we pause. Two professionals about to bluff our way through a social minefield. Maddy casts me a sidelong glance.
"You ready?" she asks.
I take a breath I don't quite need. "As I'll ever be."
We step inside and are hit by the scent of casseroles, community spirit, and that particular brand of mayhem that springs up when thirty-five people try to coordinate a potluck dinner without a project manager.
I stand in the doorway, holding our enhanced cake, feeling every bit the extra in a scene I haven't rehearsed enough.
Beside me, Maddy balances a plate of deceptively "homemade" cookies. One of the contributions to my ongoing crash course in community survival. I'm not sure when bringing baked goods became part of my job description, but here we are, playing along like it matters. And maybe, in some strange way, itdoes. She shifts the cookie plate to one hand and reaches out to adjust the foil covering on our "fresh-from-the-oven" cake, her fingers brushing mine.
A jolt of electricity shoots through me, and I am pretending not to feel it.
"Remember," she whispers, breath brushing my ear, "confidence sells it. You didn't aim for perfection. You aimed for believable effort. Let's call it ‘perfectly imperfect.' The flaws make it feel homemade, not mass-produced or suspiciously Martha."
"Perfectly imperfect," I repeat, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. Unlike yesterday's kiss, which felt dangerously familiar.
We called it a mistake. Promised it wouldn't happen again. That was it, hardly a conversation. But now it feels more binding than it should. An unspoken ledger I'm mentally keeping, as if I'm tracking breaches in a contract negotiation.
Rule number one: act normal. Rule number two: normal means witty banter, not simmering silence. We are failing at rule number two.
The kiss wasn't simple. It wasn't a "moment of adrenaline" or "a mistake," as we so clinically labeled it. It was a collision. Standing in the romantic aftermath of the proposal, the air full of champagne bubbles and shared triumph, a moment of cleanup turned into my hand on her arm, our eyes meeting, and the world narrowing to the space between our mouths.
It was intense. Spontaneous. Powerful. More real than any business deal I've closed.
Which is why we now have an agreement. Because feelings like that have no place in a temporary workspace. They're illogical, inefficient, and a threat to the walls I've built since leaving Richard Kingston's empire.
"And if someone asks for the recipe?" I ask, my voice stiffer than my collar.
"Family secret. Smile mysteriously and change the subject."
