Page 12 of Practically Perfect Together

Except there's nothing simple about the way my pulse jumps when she laughs, or how I keep finding excuses to sit closer, to see what she's writing, to suggest alternatives that require us to lean over the same document.

When I return, she's standing by my bookshelf, examining the framed photos. Her fingers hover over one of the whole family at Christmas, everyone in ridiculous matching pajamas.

"Your family seems close," she observes.

"Suffocatingly so, sometimes," I admit, joining her. "But yeah, we are."

"That must be nice." Something in her voice makes me look at her more closely.

"It is," I say carefully. "Though they're also completely in each other's business. Privacy is a foreign concept."

She turns back to the schedule laid out on the coffee table. "We should finish the activity sequence for day two."

I recognize deflection when I see it, but I let it go. Instead, I settle back on the floor next to her, our shoulders almost touching as we review the retreat plan.

As the night wears on, I notice her blinking more frequently, stifling a yawn. It's nearly midnight, and we've been at this since eight.

"Why don't you take a quick break?" I suggest. "We're almost done, but you look exhausted."

"I'm fine," she insists, even as she rubs her eyes. "Just need to finish mapping out the final morning."

"Five minutes," I say, gently taking the pen from her hand. "The schedule will still be here. I promise not to reorganize your color-coded system."

She looks like she wants to argue, but another yawn undermines her case. "Fine. Five minutes."

I watch as she settles onto my couch, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. "Just resting my eyes," she murmurs.

"Of course," I agree, though I suspect she'll be asleep within minutes.

I sit quietly, pretending to review our notes while stealing glances at her. With her guard down, the carefully maintained facade of corporate perfection slips away. She looks younger, softer.

Five minutes pass, then ten. Her breathing deepens, tension leaving her body as sleep takes over. I know I should wake her, but I can't bring myself to disturb her peace.

Bear pads over from his bed by the fireplace and settles at my feet with a contented sigh.

"I know, buddy," I whisper. "I'm in trouble too."

ChapterFive

Savannah

Warmth. That's the first thing I register as I drift between sleep and wakefulness. Not just physical warmth, but something that wraps around me like a cocoon, safe and comforting in a way I can't immediately place.

I don't remember falling asleep. The last thing I recall is reviewing the schedule for the Bennett retreat, my eyes growing heavy as Jameson suggested a quick break.

Five minutes, I'd told myself. Clearly, I've overshot that mark by a considerable margin.

My eyes flutter open to find Jameson leaning over me, a soft blanket in his hands as he tucks it around my shoulders. The cabin is dark except for a single lamp that casts his face in a gentle glow, shadows playing across the angles of his jaw. He moves with a quiet care that seems at odds with his usual boisterous energy.

"What time is it?" I murmur, my voice husky with sleep.

He startles slightly, clearly not expecting me to wake. "Just after one," he says softly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you."

Something warm and solid shifts against my legs, and I look down to find Bear curled up beside the couch, his large head resting near my knee. Normally, this would prompt an immediate repositioning, a polite but firm request for the dog to move. Instead, I find myself oddly comforted by his presence.

"I shouldn't have fallen asleep," I say, trying to summon my usual professional concern and finding it diluted by lingering drowsiness. "We still have work to finish."

"It can wait until morning." Jameson hasn't moved away, still perched on the edge of the couch beside me. The blanket he's draped over me smells faintly of pine and something distinctly him. It’s a woodsy, clean scent that I find myself inhaling more deeply than necessary.

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