Page 13 of Practically Perfect Together

"Since when does anything wait in my world?" I joke weakly, pushing myself up to a sitting position. The movement disturbs Bear, who lifts his head to look at me with sleepy eyes before settling back down with a contented sigh.

"Even Savannah Carter has to rest sometimes," Jameson says, his voice low and intimate in the quiet cabin. "Though I'm starting to think you run on coffee and sheer determination."

"Don't forget spreadsheets," I add, which earns me a smile. An easy, genuine smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and does something strange to my heartbeat.

"I wouldn't dare." His gaze holds mine, and I become acutely aware of our proximity. In the dim light, with sleep still clouding my defenses, he seems less like the carefree activities coordinator and more like...something else. Something I'm not prepared to name.

"You're a secret gentleman, Jameson Callahan," I murmur, reaching to smooth a wrinkle in the blanket, needing something to do with my hands. "Blankets and letting sleeping workaholics lie. Who would have thought?"

"Don't tell anyone," he says with mock seriousness. "It would ruin my reputation as the irresponsible Callahan brother."

"Your secret's safe with me." I'm smiling now too, unable to help myself.

His eyes drop to my lips for just a moment, so briefly I might have imagined it if not for the sudden tension in his shoulders. Something shifts in the air between us, an electric current I can't attribute to static from the blanket.

"I should probably get going," I say, though I make no move to rise. "It's late."

"Too late to drive back to Juniper Falls," he counters softly. "You could stay. Take the bed. I'll sleep on the couch."

I should refuse. I should gather my things, thank him for his help, and leave before whatever's happening between us goes any further. But my limbs feel heavy, my mind still wrapped in the comfortable fog of interrupted sleep.

"Jameson," I whisper, though I'm not sure what I'm trying to say.

He leans in slightly, his movements deliberate, giving me every chance to pull away. His eyes search mine, asking a question I'm not sure I know how to answer. Time seems to stretch, seconds expanding into minutes as we hover on the precipice of something neither of us planned for.

And then he kisses me.

His lips are warm and surprisingly soft against mine, tentative at first, as if he's waiting for me to push him away. The taste of coffee lingers, mingling with something sweeter I can't name. It's nothing like the performative kiss I'd half-expected from him. There’s no grandstanding, no theatrical passion. Instead, it's gentle, almost reverent, his hand coming up to cup my cheek with a tenderness that sends a shiver through me.

I should stop this. This wasn't part of our agreement. This crosses every boundary I carefully established.

Instead, my hands find the soft fabric of his shirt, fingers curling into the material as if to anchor myself. The faint scratch of stubble against my palm as I touch his jaw, the whisper of his breath against my skin, the quiet sound he makes when I respond to his kiss, every sensation amplified in the stillness of the cabin.

When we finally break apart, the absence of his warmth is almost physical. My heart hammers against my ribs, a quick, staccato rhythm that seems too loud in the quiet room.

"That wasn't—" I begin, my voice unsteady.

"Part of the deal," he finishes, still close enough that I can feel his words as much as hear them. "I know."

"Then why?" The question escapes before I can stop it.

He doesn't answer right away, his thumb tracing a gentle path along my cheekbone, his eyes studying mine with an intensity I've never seen from him before.

"Because I wanted to," he says finally, simply. "Because it stopped feeling like pretend somewhere between you falling asleep over event schedules and Bear deciding you're his new favorite person."

As if on cue, Bear shifts beside us, his tail thumping once against the back of the couch before he settles again.

"This complicates things," I say, which might be the understatement of the year.

"I excel at complications," Jameson replies with a ghost of his usual smile, though his eyes remain serious. "It's kind of my specialty."

I should have a plan for this. Some predefined protocol for when fake engagements develop real feelings. Some carefully considered response that maintains professional boundaries while acknowledging whatever this is.

Instead, I find myself at a rare loss for words, my usual strategic thinking abandoned somewhere between sleep and the taste of his lips on mine.

"I should go," I say again, this time with more resolve, pulling myself back from the magnetic field that seems to exist between us.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his eyes searching mine. "The offer still stands. My bed's all yours, and I'm fine on the couch."

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