But neither does possibility.
And from up here, I'm starting to believe in both.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MADDY
Something's shifted in the days since the drone incident. Not in the space, though everything glows with morning light, but in me. The man in the loft has become part of my rhythm, and suddenly this barn, built for other people's dreams, feels tangled up in mine. I've stepped into one of my own proposals. The rush is familiar, but this time it's personal. And terrifying.
A small voice deep inside is holding its breath. My last attempt at love went up in smoke when a musician I trusted turned my most intimate proposal ideas into a performance for someone else.
That betrayal taught me vulnerability isn't always safe, and sharing anything meaningful can backfire. What's happening with Mason feels too perfect, too fast. Like it could shatter at any moment. Every time we're together, I wonder how long it'll last. And deeper still, I ask myself, can someone like him, so precise, so controlled, ever accept the messy way I love without trying to fix it?
My instincts won't let it go. They've been nagging me since things got easy. Because sometimes, when it all feels toosmooth, it's not a sign of trust. It's a sign you're being guided somewhere you didn't choose.
Our morning ritual becomes the cornerstone of my day. I wake up with a jolt of anticipation, an emotion so foreign it takes me a moment to place. Then I remember … Mason.
I swing by Timeless Treats on my way to the barn, grabbing an almond croissant for him and a blueberry muffin for myself before pushing open the big double doors. And there it is, waiting on the corner of my cluttered worktable is a steaming mug of dark roast from Common Grounds. He's here, up in the loft, but the coffee says it first. I'm here. I see you.
In return, I set the croissant on a napkin at the edge of the main table, in full view of the stairs, hoping he'll notice it and maybe come down. It's become our unspoken game of offering and response. I don't know if he reacts when he sees it. But I like to think he does. And lately, the idea of coaxing Mason Kincaid down from his fortress has become the best part of my day.
My mind, a place often consumed with timelines and vendor lists, is being hijacked. It's now a screening room, playing a highlight reel of our recent interactions on a continuous loop.
I sketch a floral arch and see his hands over mine on the drone controller, remembering the unexpected warmth that shoots up my arms, the low rumble of his voice in my ear. He's so close I can feel the heat of his body, catch the clean, crisp scent of his shirt. That instant of shared focus, so electric, so intimate, leaves me breathless.
Later, I'm on the phone with a florist and flash back to the meeting with Clara, to the moment he steps down from the loft, portfolio in hand, a shield for my dream. He spots problems I haven't even thought to worry about, treating my fairy tale vision like it's as important as a Supreme Court case.
He's a keeper.
Clara's text is the spark that lights the fuse. At first, I try to rationalize it away. She doesn't know him. She's romantic. But Clara isn't a romantic. She is a pragmatist who lives by data and flowcharts. Her assessment isn't emotional. It's an objective analysis of the facts presented. And the facts are undeniable. The way he studies me, the way he supports me, the way our two disparate energies combine to create a force that's stronger than either of us alone … it isn't a working relationship.
The hope I've been working so hard to suppress is now running rampant through my system. After my last romantic flameout, that stinging reminder that even the most beautiful ideas can be stolen and repurposed for someone else's gain, I allow myself to think the word maybe. Maybe my history of romantic failure isn't a life sentence. Maybe this man, this infuriatingly handsome, fiercely intelligent, unexpectedly gentle man, is different. Maybe he is my happy ending.
It is a beautiful, fragile, and exquisitely foolish thought.
The soft crunch of tires on the gravel outside is familiar, but the sharp squeal of brakes that follows has to be Ivy. Seconds later, the barn door swings open, and she strides in, battle-worn, a goddess of efficiency on a mission. Her sleek Hamptons-chic suit sits askew, a smudge of glitter, most likely mine, dusts her cheek, and a few rebellious strands have broken free from her once-perfect chignon.
"Maddy, my dearest co-founder!" she announces, her voice ringing out in a theatrical flourish that makes the rafters tremble. She holds up a single, bedraggled white rose as if claiming victory. "The Hamptons nightmare is over. The bride has been placated, the rogue bridesmaid exiled to a distant table, and I personally supervised the cake cutting to prevent any structural mishaps."
She spots Mason descending the loft stairs, a coffee mug in hand, looking remarkably composed given the energeticassault on the barn's peace. She gives him a brisk, appreciative nod. "Kincaid. Still holding down the fort, I see. And managing to look like you slept more than three hours, which is frankly insulting to us mortals."
Mason's lips twitch. "Good morning, Ivy. Hamptons crisis resolved, I gather?"
"Resolved, sealed, and delivered with a contract that ensures I never have to witness that much exposed midriff at a black-tie event ever again," she says, then turns back to me, her eyes glinting with a familiar, cynical look. "But no rest for the stylish. I'm off to Rome in two hours. The clients are obsessed with fountains. Now I get to find out if their romantic vision can cascade without turning Piazza Navona into a wading pool."
She leans in, lowering her voice. "So, how is our resident corporate raider behaving? Any more spontaneous foam attacks? Or is he now trying to alphabetize your glitter collection? Savvy's texts have been vague."
I glance at Mason, who's leaning against one of my worktables, phone in hand, pretending to read. But I know he's tuned in. The feeling that settles over me isn't a rush, it's steadier. A sense of being backed up. Of knowing someone's in it with me, not watching from the sidelines. This, I think, is what it means to truly belong.
"Remarkably useful," I admit, a small, genuine smile tugging at my lips. "Turns out risk analysis applies to rogue doves and keeping clients happy. And when Clara's proposal nearly derailed? Stepped in without missing a beat. Surprisingly good in a crisis."
Ivy's eyebrows lift, an acknowledgment of the high praise. "Mason Kincaid, good in a crisis. Who knew? Well, try not to burn the barn down, you two. I expect full, highly embellished reports when I get back."
She blows a kiss in my general direction and sweeps out the door with her usual dramatic flair, leaving behind a whisper of expensive perfume and the fading echo of her laughter.
Her departure leaves a different stillness, gentler, almost golden. The barn feels lighter, the world a little less overwhelming, from having her chaotic energy pass through.
And it's this exact thought taking center stage in my mind when Mrs. Patterson's Volvo crunches up the gravel drive. A moment later, she steps out, pie in hand, purpose in her eyes.
