I study her. The moonlight catches glitter in her hair. A detail I'm trying hard to ignore.
"Educational," I say. "More complex than I expected."
"High praise from someone who negotiates multi-million-dollar deals."
"The pressure was real."
We stand by her door, the space between us humming with everything unsaid. So much for the lines we swore we wouldn't cross.
I shift closer, not enough to touch, but enough to make the air between us feel charged. Her gaze lifts to meet mine. Steady, searching, wary.
"Maddy," I start, no idea what I'll say, but I want to say something.
"Don't," she says, voice soft. Not sharp. Not cold. Final. "Let's stick to the agreement. It's easier."
She opens the car door, slides inside, and pulls it closed in one smooth, practiced motion. The lock clicks. A clean goodbye.
As she drives away, leaving me alone in the lot, I know she's wrong.
And I have a sinking feeling the trouble is only beginning.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MADDY
The morning after the potluck, the tension in The Weathered Barn is unmistakable. Mason and I have retreated to our respective corners. He's tucked away in the loft, silent and focused, while I hover at my workbench on the main floor, pretending to care about floral color palettes. We're not speaking unless necessary. Everything feels cautious. Not hostile, but far from easy.
I can hear him up there, flipping through documents, tapping out notes, trying to lose himself in the legal tangle of the James Morrison Preservation Center. But I doubt his focus is any better than mine.
I've started a new project and it's not going well.
I'm threading ribbon through a bouquet when I notice one of the doves slumped in the corner of the large travel cage near the barn door, looking suspiciously lifeless.
"Oh no," I mutter, abandoning the bouquet. "Don't be dead. You have a cue this afternoon."
I crouch beside the cage, squinting through the bars. The bird doesn't move. I unlatch the door, only a crack, to check.
That's enough.
The "dead" dove snaps upright, flapping like its life depends on it, and bolts straight through the opening. I yelp and in my panic, open the door the rest of the way.
The others follow. Three. Then five. Then the rest of the feathery escapees burst from the cage in a flurry of wings and coos.
In seconds, my meticulously-organized mobile workspace is under siege.
Two doves land on the fabric tower. A custom rolling rack stuffed with bolts of linen and velvet, sending it gliding a few inches away from my table. Their pink feet scrabble for purchase, wobbling as the rack shifts. One bolt teeters, then tumbles to the floor, unspooling a dramatic trail of emerald green across the concrete.
Across the barn, my clear-divided supply bins stand on a wheeled cart. Each one labeled in my neat handwriting. A dove perches atop, cocking its head at the pastel ribbons and pearl-tipped pins within. When another bird jostles it, the entire cart rolls toward me with surprising grace, the compartments inside rattling like wind chimes in a hurricane.
I scramble after a prop bin, also on wheels, as it's nudged along by a particularly determined dove. It glides out of reach, my staged silk bouquets quivering atop. Even the spotlights, fixed to adjustable arms on mobile bases, flicker and turn, following the movement of my new, feathered assistants.
I press my lips together, half-laughing, half-sighing. This is not how my morning is supposed to go. And yet, as my system flexes, rolling, adapting, never tipping over, I feel a flicker of pride. Chaos has invaded, but my rolling carts and towers are dancing with it, transforming my structured order into a sort of wild, beautiful ballet.
The sounds of my struggle drift upward. Soft coos, followed by my voice. A strange mix of sweet-talking persuasion and growing frustration.
My newest client specifically requested a proposal that symbolizes their love taking flight, and I, in my relentless pursuit of turning impossible romantic dreams into reality, decided to become an amateur avian trainer instead of hiring a professional. Because I enjoy making my life unnecessarily complicated.
The rhythmic cooing and my one-sided negotiations must be a persistent, low-grade distraction for Mason. I can feel his irritation radiating down from the loft like heat waves. But I can't seem to focus on anything except the memory of last night. Standing in that parking lot, the space between us heavy with everything we hadn't said, the way he leaned in and started to say my name before I cut him off. The kiss has ruined everything. It introduced a variable I can't plan around, a risk assessment I can't complete. Our agreement was supposed to restore order, but control is a myth when it comes to Mason Kincaid.
