I’m fine. He wants to win—the lawsuit, the Morrison Center, everything. He’s giving us until the festival to surrender. I’m going to head home to shower and prepare. I’ll see you at the barn in the morning.
Maddy
Of course. We’ll figure this out together. Drive safely. Love you.
Me
Love you too.
I finish my scotch, leave a few bills on the bar—Gloria protests, of course—and head for the door. Behind me, The Cork & Crown hums with warmth and easy laughter. It’s a sharp contrast to the cold offer still echoing in my head.
The drive back to my Manhattan apartment gives me time to think, to process what happened. Richard didn’t threaten us—he gave us a gift. Now we know what we’re fighting and how much time we have.
Tomorrow, we'll plan our strategy, marshal our resources, prepare for a battle that will determine not only the fate of a community center, but the future we want to build.
Richard Kingston is about to discover that the most dangerous opponents are the ones with something worth protecting.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MADDY
The smell of fresh coffee hits me before I even open the barn doors, Mason's here already. Again. For someone who used to work in a Manhattan high-rise, where morning routine meant a dry-cleaning handoff, he's embraced barn life surprisingly fast. I find him at the kitchenette, sleeves rolled, shirt crisp, hair tousled like he got ready in ten minutes flat and still managed to look unfairly good. "Morning," I say, accepting the mug he hands me with gratitude reserved for life-saving medical interventions. "You look like you've been thinking."
"Extensively," he confirms, settling against the counter with his own coffee. "About last night. About Richard's timeline. About what we're up against."
The magnitude of it settles between us, not uncomfortable, but serious. Real. Yesterday, our biggest concern was whether the fog machine would behave during the festival. Now we're strategizing against a man who treats entire communities like chess pieces.
"Talk to me," I say, hoisting myself up onto the counter beside him. "What's the worst-case scenario?"
"Richard doesn't file legal motions and hope for the best. He builds pressure from multiple angles until his opponents can't sustain the fight." Mason's voice carries the careful control of someone who's seen this strategy deployed before.
"He'll go after our vendors, our permits, our funding. He'll find ways to make the festival impossible to execute, then use our failure as evidence that the Morrison Center project is fundamentally unstable."
"So we make sure the festival isn't impossible to execute."
"Maddy." He turns to face me fully, and the look in his expression makes my stomach clench. "Richard has resources we can't match. Money, connections, lawyers who specialize in finding pressure points. If he sets his mind to destroying this festival, I don't know that we could stop him."
The familiar flutter of panic rises—impossible deadlines, and mounting obstacles. Then I think about Mrs. Russell wanting to include her roses in her will. About how this community embraced Mason despite Mrs. Patterson's newspaper campaign, and how he ended up drafting Mrs. Patterson's will, somehow turning his sharpest critic into an ally. And about the ridiculous bear rug that somehow became the foundation of everything we're building. "You know what Richard doesn't have?" I ask.
"What?"
"He's about to find out what happens when you underestimate a team fueled by grit and a healthy disregard for conventional limits," I say, flashing Mason a grin that feels like a battle cry. "Around here, impossible is an average Tuesday."
Mason stares at me, then laughs, that real, surprised sound that I'm becoming addicted to. "You're looking forward to this."
"I'm looking forward to showing Richard Kingston what happens when he threatens my family." The word slips out before I can stop it, hanging in the air between us with all its implications.
"Family," he repeats softly.
"You are," I say, suddenly serious. "You're family now, Mason. Whether you signed up for it or not, you're stuck with us. With me. With this whole beautiful mess."
His expression changes—surprise, gratitude, and a depth that makes my chest tight with emotion. Before either of us can examine it too closely, I slide off the counter and gesture toward the loft.
"Speaking of family obligations," I say with exaggerated gravity, "are you sure you need to go to the community center this morning? Because our bear is suffering from separation anxiety. Look at him."
Mason follows my gaze to the loft, where the ridiculous fake bear rug is visible through the railing, its plastic snout pointed in our general direction with what could charitably be described as a forlorn expression.
"He does look depressed," Mason agrees solemnly. "Very tragic. But Mrs. Russell is meeting me at ten, and she specifically requested help with her estate planning. I guess the rose provisions require immediate attention."
