"I was going to say distraction, but glitter works.”
"Wait." I step into his path, arms spread wide, blocking what is a distinctly hostile takeover. "That's my premium inspiration zone. The creative nerve center. The VIP consultation space where magic happens and dreams come true.”
He pauses, one foot on the bottom step, and I can see him calculating whether it's worth the effort to go through me or around me. Daniel never hesitated. He'd have charmed his way past my defenses before I realized I was being maneuvered.
"Your nerve center?”
"Where dreams are born," I say, my voice carrying the weight of someone defending sacred ground. "Where true love gets its battle plan. Where Savvy, Ivy, and I planned to hold our most important consultations—the ones where people cry happy tears and make decisions that change their entire lives.”
"Where I'll need to establish a secure base of operations for Kingston-Kincaid Ventures.” His voice carries an authority thatmakes opposing counsel weep into their legal briefs. "Henry's trusting me to manage the entire framework for The James Morrison Preservation Center. That requires confidentiality, stability, and minimal risk of craft supply contamination.”
"Glitter enhances everything," I argue, but I can see this battle slipping away. Mason has the look of someone who's never met a problem he couldn't solve through superior capability and what I'm starting to suspect is an unlimited credit line. "It adds sparkle to people's lives. Literally.”
"I'm sure it does." He continues up the stairs, each step claiming more territory. "In its proper context.”
I follow him up, watching as he surveys the loft with the same methodical assessment he applied to the main floor. The space is perfect—windows on three sides that fill the area with golden afternoon light, built-in shelving that some antique-loving soul installed decades ago, and enough room for a proper office setup. It's what I'd pictured for intimate client consultations, and judging by the satisfied look on his face, it matches what he envisioned for whatever mysterious work he does.
"This will work," he declares, as if my opinion ranks somewhere between decorative and irrelevant.
"This will work for me," I correct, my voice rising with each word. "I had plans. Vision boards. A whole digital shrine to 'Loft Office Aesthetics'—complete with lighting schemes and annotated furniture layouts.”
"I'm sure your design aspirations are detailed.” His tone suggests he's never encountered mood boards and hopes to keep it that way. "However, my work involves sensitive financial documents, client confidentiality agreements, and the occasional video conference with people who expect professional surroundings. Not..." He gestures vaguely at thespace where I'd mentally placed a vintage fainting couch and at least three different types of ambient lighting.
"And mine involves helping people find their happily ever afters," I fire back, packing every word with all the righteous indignation I can manage. "Which is arguably more important than whatever paperwork you’re shuffling around in your overpriced suits.”
For the first time, Mason's professional mask slips. What might be amusement flickers across his features. It’s there and gone so fast, I almost miss it. "Arguably," he says, his voice calm. "Though my paperwork keeps most happily ever afters from ending in bankruptcy court.”
“Maybe, but I’ll take vibrant creativity over spreadsheets and disclaimers any day,” I say, giving him a pointed look.
I blow out a breath and turn away, determination stiffening my shoulders. Without waiting for a further comment, I head downstairs—because unlike some people, I don’t have time today for petty territorial wars. Ribbon spools and floral wire await me below, a silent chorus of judgment. I dive into my work, twisting greenery and looping silk bows, trying to ignore the weight of Mason Kincaid perched in my loft like some smug corporate gargoyle.
For thirty minutes, I trim, arrange, and mentally plot his immediate eviction.
He reads. Or works. Or scrolls through stock reports for all I know—barely moving, except for the occasional rustle of paper or the soft click of his phone. The man treats the loft like it’s his personal corner office, complete with an unearned view of my workspace.
By the time I finish the centerpiece for tomorrow’s proposal, my nerves have stretched to the breaking point.
The sound of a truck engine cuts through the quiet. I glance toward the barn doors in time to see a sleek delivery truck roll up the drive.
"That would be my furniture." He pauses at the top of the stairs, surveying the scene below.
"Wow, you weren't kidding about the one-hour delivery. What did you order?"
"Executive desk. Ergonomic chair. Filing cabinets." He heads toward the stairs, his tone flat. "Nothing too extravagant.”
I trail after him, watching as uniformed delivery personnel begin unloading an entire office suite that belongs in a Manhattan high-rise. The desk alone appears to be handcrafted by artisans who take the wood grain personally. The chair seems to have been designed by NASA for optimal human performance while also monitoring quarterly earnings.
"Where did you even find furniture that delivers in an hour?" I ask, watching them maneuver components nicer than any piece I've ever owned.
"Connections," he says, directing the movers toward the loft stairs with gestures that leave no room for interpretation. The man could organize a military coup with nothing but subtle hand movements and that commanding voice.
Within thirty minutes, my rustic barn loft has become Mason Kincaid's headquarters. Mason retrieves his supplies from the entrance and heads up to the loft. He tests the chair like a man who takes lumbar support as a personal mission, adjusts the desk height by careful increments, and arranges his supplies with a focus most people reserve for defusing bombs. From my spot at the bottom of the stairs, I watch him create order, staking his claim with a level of efficiency that’s both impressive and intensely irritating. Behind me, the milk crate desk sits abandoned in the corner, a monument to my tactical failure.
"Impressive," I call up, trying to keep grudging admiration out of my voice and failing.
"Adequate," he corrects, not looking up from his laptop setup, which involves more cables than I knew existed and what could pass for a mobile command center.
My phone buzzes with a text from Savvy.
