Me
What kind of everything?
Ivy
Venue, flowers, dress, THEME. She's decided she wants "rustic elegance" instead of "bohemian chic" and thinks three days is enough time to transform a beach house into a barn.
Me
Yikes. Do you want me to overnight you some emergency barn supplies?
Ivy
Yes! You're the best. How's operation "Don't Murder the Lawyer?"
I glance up at the loft. Mason stands behind the railing, phone pressed to his ear, his hand slicing the air in sharp, deliberate motions like he's unraveling some complicated problem for a client who charges by the comma.
Me
Jury's still out. He helped clean up a foam disaster yesterday.
Ivy
What? Mason Kincaid got his hands dirty?
Me
It’s almost like he's human underneath all that expensive tailoring.
Ivy
Don't do anything I wouldn't do.
Me
That leaves me with a LOT of options.
Ivy
Exactly. TTYL. Bridezilla is calling.
I pocket my phone and take stock of today's mission. Crafting a proposal setup so spectacular, so flawlessly executed, it makes Mason's buttoned-up brand of order look quaint. My client wants "Parisian café meets enchanted forest," which sounds impossible … until you remember that impossible is where I do my best work.
I start by spreading fabric swatches across every available surface, organizing them not by color or texture but by the emotional response they evoke. Romantic Dawn. A blush silk that catches light like hope. Mysterious Twilight. Deep purple velvet that holds secrets. First Kiss Pink. The exact shade of vulnerability and joy combined. Each piece tells part of a story, and my job is to weave them together into a design that makes two people believe in forever.
Above me, Mason's phone call continues in those low, measured tones that reassure clients and make opposing counsel check their notes like they’re written in another language. Remarks about trust amendments and fiduciary responsibilities. I wonder if anyone's ever told him life's too short to spend it conjugating legal terminology into submission.
I connect my phone to the speaker system and scroll through my "Creative Genius at Work" playlist, settling on a track upbeat enough to inspire greatness but not so aggressive it qualifies as psychological warfare. The music fills the barn, and I catch the slight shift in Mason's voice that suggests he's registered the soundtrack. Perfect.
The miniature Eiffel Tower from yesterday's project sits nearby, a testament to my ability to source ridiculous props on unreasonable notice. For today's Parisian café vision, it'll serve as the centerpiece. Assuming I can figure out how to make it appear enchanted rather than like a relic liberated from a tourist trap gift shop.
I'm winding fairy lights around the tower's base when Mrs. Patterson materializes in the doorway, her little dog trotting at her side. Head high, ears perked, as if scouting enemy lines.
"Morning, dear," she calls, striding over with that too-bright smile and the boundless energy of a self-appointed social chair … and part-time town gossip. "Busy day ahead?"
"The best kind," I reply, testing a strand of lights that may or may not have survived their last deployment. "Morning, Mrs. Patterson. How are you?"
"Oh, can't complain. Though I did want to check on our new resident up there." She nods toward the loft, where Mason's call has ended and he's presumably gone back to whatever work calls for leather chairs and a desk built to survive a nuclear war. "Seems pleasant enough. Maybe a bit formal."
