Savvy
How's day one of the arrangement going?
I glance up at Mason's organized kingdom, then around at my vibrant sprawl of fabric swatches, foam core displays, and emergency craft supplies that don't belong in anyone's quarterly reports.
Me
Ever watch oil and water fight for territory? Except the oil wears designer suits and the water is caffeinated, vindictive, and temporarily in charge of protecting our business empire.
Savvy
That bad?
Me
He commandeered my loft.
Ivy
OUR loft, Maddy. Shared space, remember?
Me
Details.
Game on, Kincaid.
I pocket my phone and glance up, where Mason's voice carries—deep, measured, every word delivered with that lawyer cadence meant to impress clients and make opposing counsel rethink their career choices. Fine. He wants to play the polished professional with his perfect furniture and flawless corporate theater. Two can play that game.
I march to my supply area and take out materials for my most ambitious project yet—a proposal setup requiring every creative skill I possess and enough glitter to be visible from orbit. If Mason Kincaid thinks he can intimidate me with ergonomic chairs and executive swagger, he's about to discover why I'm River Bend's premier Romance Logistics Specialist.
I flip on my speaker system, cueing up my “Creative Genius at Work” playlist—a selection with enough bass to make the old beams groan and lyrics about chasing dreams and refusing to surrender. I catch the slight pause in Mason's phone conversation above, a tiny disruption that tells me his professional cool isn't as unshakeable as he pretends.
Perfect.
Time to show Mr. Executive Loft what real work looks like. The gloves are off. The territory has been claimed. And Mason Kincaid is about to learn that I don’t back down from anyone, especially not corporate lawyers with perfect jawlines and furniture insured like a classic car. This barn isn’t big enough for both of us.
But I was here first.
CHAPTER TWO
MASON
The loft stands above the Ever After workspace, a vantage point with a commanding view.
From up here, I can see the full scope of Maddy's creative hurricane. Fabric samples that are organized in a system that makes no sense to me but works for her, half-built proposal displays that look like fairy tale fever dreams, mannequins wearing tiaras, and enough glitter to blind a pilot.
My desk—solid walnut with clean lines and all the cables tucked away—sits beneath the old barn beams. The ergonomic chair supports my back, which is good since I'll be spending a lot of time in this converted barn that smells like a fresh start, redemption, and that ridiculous perfume Maddy wears that's a mix of oranges and marshmallows.
This is nothing like my Manhattan office and the corporate life I left behind. The drive from the city each morning is a stark reminder of the two worlds I'm straddling now.
I open my laptop and begin the methodical process of establishing digital security protocols, the familiar ritual of passwords and encryption, an anchor of normalcy in this worldwhere anything can be turned into a romantic backdrop if you have enough imagination and a disregard for fire safety codes. The James Morrison Preservation Center's legal framework requires absolute confidentiality, particularly given the sensitive nature of dismantling Richard Kingston's remaining business interests. Henry trusts me with this responsibility while he honeymoons with Savvy, and I intend to prove that trust is well-placed, even if I have to do it surrounded by enough decorative butterflies to populate a nature documentary.
Below, Maddy has begun what can best be described as an audio assault. Her playlist features music designed to short-circuit concentration. Upbeat pop anthems about dreams and self-empowerment, sung by people who've never had to draft a corporate trust document while sitting above a miniature circus built out of silk flowers and sheer willpower. I adjust my noise-canceling headphones—an investment that's proving its worth—and focus on the trust documents that require review.
The irony isn't lost on me. Six months ago, I was Richard Kingston's right-hand man, the role I inherited when my father passed away, along with his unwavering loyalty to a man who viewed human decency as a quarterly expense to be minimized. I helped Richard acquire properties and businesses with ruthless efficiency. My legal expertise became a surgical instrument for dismantling people's lives, handled with the control of a master craftsman.
Until Henry and his grandfather, James Morrison, showed me a different path. One that led away from the gleaming towers of Manhattan and toward a life with actual substance. Now I'm working to undo that damage, to build an enterprise that's ethical and sustainable. The shift from corporate raider to community builder feels like wearing someone else's clothes. They are technically functional but not quite fitting right. It's a suit tailored for the man I'm becoming, not the one I was.
