Page 15 of Practically Perfect Together

"You're good with her," I say. "With Mia, I mean."

"Kids are easier than adults," she replies, gathering her things. "They don't have hidden agendas or ulterior motives."

"Is that what you think I have?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

Her hands still, and she finally meets my eyes directly. "I don't know what you have, Jameson. That's what makes this complicated."

Before I can respond, Mom appears in the doorway, Bear padding along at her heels. The moment my dog spots Savannah, his whole body wags with undisguised joy. He bounds across the room to her, nearly knocking over a chair in his enthusiasm.

"Bear, down," I command, but it's half-hearted at best.

To my surprise, Savannah doesn't flinch or step away. Instead, she crouches slightly to greet him, her hand finding that spot behind his ear that makes his back leg thump against the floor.

"Hello to you too," she murmurs to him. "At least someone's straightforward about his feelings."

Mom watches this exchange with poorly concealed delight. "He's completely smitten," she says, and I'm not entirely sure she's talking about the dog. "Just like Mia, who's now insisting everyone call her 'Fox Girl' thanks to your origami lessons."

Savannah straightens, but her hand remains on Bear's head. "I hope that's okay. I didn't mean to distract her."

"It's wonderful," Mom insists. "That child needs more creative influences. She's surrounded by too many mountain men teaching her to fish and climb trees."

"There's nothing wrong with fishing and climbing trees," I protest automatically. “And Declan has her getting creative in the kitchen.”

"Of course, dear." Mom pats my cheek as she passes. "But a well-rounded education includes paper foxes too." She turns to Savannah. "Would you like to stay for dinner? Declan's testing recipes for the Bennett retreat, and we could use an objective opinion."

"I really shouldn't," Savannah begins, but Mom's already waving away her objection.

"Nonsense. It's the least we can do after you entertained Mia. Besides, I want to hear more about your ideas for the welcome reception. I was thinking mountain laurel centerpieces..."

As Mom leads Savannah away, Bear trailing happily behind them, I'm left standing in the crafting room surrounded by colorful paper and the lingering scent of Savannah's subtle perfume.

I watch through the window as they cross the lawn toward the main lodge, Mom talking animatedly while Savannah nods. When Mia runs up to join them, Savannah immediately bends down to her level, examining something the little girl is showing her. The three of them, plus Bear, make a picture so natural it steals my breath for a moment.

This isn't good. This isn't good at all.

Because watching Savannah fold paper with Mia, laugh with my mother, and absentmindedly pet my dog—seeing her slowly, reluctantly fit into my world—makes the pretense of our engagement feel less like an act with each passing day.

I'm in trouble. The kind of trouble that can't be fixed with a charming smile or an easy joke.

The kind of trouble that starts with a kiss that wasn't supposed to happen and ends with wanting something that was never meant to be real.

* * *

"This is absolutely not happening," Savannah hisses, even as she allows me to tug her by the hand toward the garden terrace where string lights twinkle above a makeshift dance floor. "We cannot crash a wedding reception, Jameson."

"It's not crashing if you know the groom," I counter, grinning at her obvious discomfort. "Besides, Mike already spotted us and waved us over."

"He did not."

"Okay, he didn't, but he would if he saw us. We roomed together in college."

The Bennett retreat had wrapped up hours ago, a resounding success by all accounts. Savannah had been in her element, directing staff, charming executives, and handling every contingency with the precision of a military commander. It was only after the final handshake, when she thought no one was looking, that I caught her shoulders sagging with exhaustion.

That's when I suggested a celebratory drink on the lodge's quiet west patio. What I hadn't mentioned was the wedding reception taking place on the adjacent garden terrace—until we were close enough to hear the music and laughter.

"One dance," I say, giving her my most persuasive smile. "Consider it research. You organize corporate events, they're having the time of their lives—don't you want to see what's working?"

She glances toward the dance floor, where couples sway under the canopy of lights strung between mountain laurel trees. For a moment, I see longing flicker across her face.

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