"Alright," I say, throwing my hands up in surrender. "Fine. FINE. Everyone gets coffee, we clean up this disaster zone, and then we plan a festival. But NO MORE PINTEREST BOARDS until after we've had actual breakfast. And Savvy, if I see one more photo on social media, I'm putting you in charge of porta-potty placement."
"Deal," Savvy says cheerfully. "But I'm keeping the ones I took. For posterity."
My mother nods approvingly. "See? Leadership skills. She'll make an excellent mother."
"MOTHER."
And Mason, the traitor, grins and says, "I can't wait to see what happens next."
I have a feeling none of us can.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MASON
Watching Gloria fuss over Maddy while planning our hypothetical future fills me with a hollow ache I wasn't expecting—a phantom limb of the family life I never had. Growing up in boarding schools and summer programs, with a father who was always working and a mother who died when I was twelve, I learned early that holidays meant empty dormitories and family meant whoever was left behind. But this morning, surrounded by the lively tangle of people who show up with coffee and unsolicited advice, I’m getting my first real taste of what I’ve been missing.
The feeling should terrify me. Instead, it settles into my chest like something I've been missing my entire life.
“All right,” Maddy announces, stepping in like someone taking charge of a runaway situation, “if we’re going to plan a festival while my personal life becomes public entertainment, we need systems. Real ones. Contingencies, backup plans, and industrial-strength coffee.”
She transforms the consultation area into what she calls our “war room,” spreading architectural renderings across everyavailable surface while Gloria contributes a continuous stream of pastries and Henry provides the logistical analysis that makes my lawyer heart sing.
Savvy documents everything, moving like someone who’s done this before, creating what she claims will be “behind-the-scenes content that makes people believe in true love and small-town magic.”
Maddy spreads swatches across the table, but they don’t follow any logical order—no gradient, no pattern. It’s instinct. She arranges them by feeling. Warmth. Mood. A quiet brilliance that doesn’t ask to be noticed.
She chews the end of her pen, eyes narrowed, calculating if the wild idea in her head can survive the real world. Then that crease appears—dead center between her brows—like it does when she’s trying to bend physics to her will with nothing but tulle and determination.
And somehow, watching her do it all, I feel like the one man in the room lucky enough to witness a miracle in motion.
When she reaches for the same architectural rendering I'm grabbing, our hands brush for a moment. The brief contact is more potent than the industrial-strength coffee I've been drinking all morning, sending electricity racing up my arm and making me acutely aware of every place our bodies aren't touching.
“Sorry,” she says, but doesn't pull her hand away.
“Don't be,” I reply, letting my fingers linger against hers long enough to see her pupils dilate.
From across the table, Savvy makes a sound that might be a cough or might be poorly suppressed laughter. “Should we give you two a moment? Because there are children present.” She gestures to herself with mock innocence.
“We're being professional,” Maddy says primly, though the flush creeping up her neck suggests otherwise.
“Incredibly professional,” I agree, reluctantly releasing her hand and missing the contact.
Gloria, who's been watching this exchange with maternal satisfaction, slides a plate of scones between us. “Sustenance for the workforce. Can't have you two fainting from exhaustion when there's planning to be done.”
I start a spreadsheet to organize Maddy’s ideas, translating her creative bursts into timelines and task lists. It doesn’t feel controlling. It feels like an act of service, a way of building a fortress around her dreams. Every vendor confirmation adds a brick. Each contingency plan lays down another layer of protection for the brilliant vision she’s bringing to life.
I find a sticky note in her handwriting stuck to one of the mood boards:
Festival Theme: Hope, but with more glitter!
For the first time since I met her, I understand her language. It's not random—it's intentional joy, deliberate optimism in the face of everything that could go wrong.
“So essentially,” Savvy says, surveying our growing pile of plans and vendor lists, “we're taking Mrs. Patterson's yearly community potluck and putting a twenty-four-karat gold bow on it.”
“Don't forget she specifically requested a petting zoo this year,” Henry adds, consulting his notes. “It was all about 'authentic rural charm.'”
I wince. “The liability issues alone would be a nightmare. Insurance, health permits, animal welfare regulations?—”
