Page 17 of Practically Perfect Together

"We couldn't make it to the ceremony," I improvise smoothly. "Lodge business. But I couldn't let you get married without at least saying congratulations." I extend my hand. "Congrats, man. Long time coming."

Mike pulls me into a back-slapping hug instead. "Thanks for coming! And who's this?"

"This is Savannah," I say, placing my hand back on her waist. "My fiancée."

The word shouldn't affect me anymore. I've said it dozens of times over the past week. But tonight, with her still in my arms, it feels different. Weighty. Real.

"Fiancée? Whoa!" Mike's eyes go comically wide. "The infamous Jameson Callahan, settling down? Now I've seen everything." He turns to Savannah with a grin. "However you did it, you have my eternal respect. This guy was the definition of commitment-phobic in college."

"Was I?" I protest, though we both know it's true.

"Three girls showed up to the same party once, all thinking they were his date," Mike tells Savannah, who raises an eyebrow.

"Somehow I'm not surprised," she says dryly.

"Ancient history," I assure her, shooting Mike a warning look that only makes him laugh harder.

"Well, I won't keep you two lovebirds from dancing," he says, already backing toward another group of guests. "Come find us before you leave. Maria will want to meet the woman who tamed the wild Callahan!"

As he disappears into the crowd, Savannah turns to me with an expression caught between amusement and accusation. "You said he wouldn't notice us."

"I thought he'd be too busy with all his guests to spot us," I admit with a sheepish grin. "But look on the bright side. Now we're officially invited guests."

She shakes her head, but she's fighting a smile. "You're impossible."

"Yet here you are," I point out, drawing her back into the dance.

"Apparently I have questionable judgment." But she doesn't pull away.

As we resume dancing, I find myself studying her face in the soft glow of the lights. The curve of her cheek, the slight furrow between her brows that appears when she's thinking too hard, the way her eyes reflect the tiny lights above us. When did I start noticing these details? When did they start mattering?

"What are you thinking about?" she asks softly, catching me staring.

The truth hovers on my lips.That I don't want this to end. That somewhere between pretending to be your fiancé and dancing at this wedding, I started wishing it was real.

"That Mike's right," I say instead. "I've never been good at commitment. Never saw the point of tying myself to one path when there's a whole mountain of possibilities."

"And now?" She asks it casually, but there's nothing casual about the way she's watching me.

"Now I'm wondering if maybe I was looking at it all wrong." I hold her gaze, taking a chance. "Maybe commitment isn't about closing doors. Maybe it's about choosing the door that matters most and walking through it together."

Something flickers in her eyes. Maybe, a reflection of what I'm feeling.

"That's surprisingly insightful," she says finally.

"I have my moments." I spin her gently, bringing her back into my arms. "Usually when I least expect them."

The song ends, but neither of us moves to break apart. Around us, couples shuffle, some leaving the floor, others adjusting for the next dance. The band strikes up a more upbeat tune, but we remain standing still, caught in a moment I don't want to end.

"Savannah," I start again, my heart racing with words I'm not sure I should say.

She looks up at me, and for once, her careful composure has slipped. Whatever she sees in my face makes her take a small step back, her hand sliding from my shoulder.

"We should go," she says quickly. "We've pushed our luck enough for one night."

I want to disagree, to ask for one more dance, to tell her that nothing about this feels like luck anymore. It feels like something else entirely. But the flash of panic in her eyes stops me.

"Okay," I agree, letting my hands fall away from her. "I'll walk you to your car."

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