Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Jameson
"A nd that's when I knew she was the one," I say, reaching for Savannah's hand across the white tablecloth. "When she organized an entire stargazing event down to the minute, but still stopped everything to help a little girl find her lost teddy bear."
Savannah's smile is perfect—just the right blend of bashful and affectionate—but I catch the slight widening of her eyes. She wasn't expecting that particular embellishment to our fictitious love story.
"He's exaggerating," she tells Dorothy Bennett, Harold's wife of forty-seven years. "It was hardly that dramatic."
"Nonsense," I insist, squeezing her hand gently. "You looked like a corporate angel, flashlight in one hand, activity schedule in the other, refusing to start the event until that little girl stopped crying."
The fact that this actually happened during one of Savannah's corporate retreats two months ago is probably why she looks momentarily thrown. I'd forgotten she wouldn't realize I'd noticed her that day.
"How lovely," Dorothy coos, reaching over to pat her husband's arm. "Harold always says you can tell a person's character by how they treat those who can't do anything for them."
Harold Bennett nods sagely, cutting a piece of his steak with precise movements. "That's why we've maintained our client relationships for so long. We treat every retiree's nest egg with the same care, whether it's five thousand or five million."
"A philosophy Mountain Laurel Lodge shares," I add smoothly. "Every guest matters, whether they're here for a weekend getaway or—" I glance at Savannah with deliberate warmth "—planning the corporate retreat of the year."
Harold chuckles appreciatively. "You two make quite the team. How long have you been together?"
"Seven months," Savannah answers at the exact moment I say, "Eight months."
We exchange a quick look, and I laugh, jumping in to cover the discrepancy. "We have a running debate about when it officially started. I count from our first coffee together, but Savannah?—"
"Only counts from our first actual date," she finishes smoothly, her professional smile never faltering. "Jameson asked me for coffee three times before I said yes."
"Persistent," Harold approves, nodding at me. "That's important in both business and love."
Savannah has been nothing short of impressive throughout dinner. She's navigated the business portions of the conversation with effortless precision. Facility capacities, activity scheduling, contingency planning. She rattles off details like she's discussing the weather.
But every time the conversation veers personal—questions about our relationship, our future plans, families, I feel her tense beside me, her answers becoming just a fraction more measured.
"Tell me, dear," Dorothy asks Savannah while our desserts are being served, "have you thought about the wedding yet? Harold and I can recommend the most wonderful lakeside venue. That's where our Sarah got married last spring."
"We're still in the early planning stages," Savannah says, her voice perfectly pleasant though I notice her straightening the dessert fork that was already perfectly aligned with her plate. "With both our busy schedules, we're taking our time."
"You should consider Mountain Laurel Lodge," Harold suggests. "I've always thought it would make a stunning wedding venue."
"It would," I agree, genuinely warming to the idea. "The garden terrace in spring, with the mountain laurel in bloom..." I turn to Savannah, and the image forms so vividly that for a moment I forget we're pretending. "You'd look beautiful with those pale pink blossoms as a backdrop."
Surprise flickers in her eyes. For a breath, it's easy to forget this is all an act, that the warmth in my voice isn't entirely fabricated.
"The garden is lovely in spring," she agrees quietly, and there's a softness in her expression I haven't seen before.
Dorothy claps her hands together delightedly. "Oh, a spring wedding would be perfect! You must send us an invitation when you set the date."
Savannah's smile tightens almost imperceptibly. I can practically see her calculating how deep this deception might have to go.
"More importantly," I say, steering the conversation back to safer ground, "have you had a chance to see the lakeside meditation deck? It's perfect for morning yoga sessions during retreats."
As Harold takes the bait and launches into questions about the lodge's wellness offerings, I feel Savannah relax slightly beside me. Under the table, her knee bumps against mine in what I choose to interpret as silent gratitude.
The rest of dessert passes with business talk. Perfect territory for Savannah, who outlines the potential retreat schedule with such enthusiasm that even I start to believe we could fit fly fishing, team building, and financial seminars all within a single afternoon.
"I must say," Harold announces as the server clears our dessert plates, "I'm impressed with the detailed attention you've given to our needs, Savannah. And seeing the lodge in person confirms what a special place this is." He glances at his wife, who nods encouragingly. "I believe we're ready to move forward with booking our leadership retreat."
Savannah's genuine smile breaks through her professional facade, and I'm struck by how it transforms her entire face. "That's wonderful news, Mr. Bennett. I know the team will exceed your expectations."
"Harold, please," he insists. "After all, we're practically family now that you're marrying into the lodge."
Savannah handles the comment with a practiced nod, but I notice the slight tension returning to her shoulders.
As Dorothy launches into a story about their own engagement, I lean closer to Savannah under the guise of refilling her water glass. "You know," I whisper near her ear, "for someone who claims to hate improvising, you're remarkably good at it. I almost believed we were engaged myself."
I feel rather than see her slight intake of breath, the barely perceptible shiver that runs through her at my proximity. It's not part of the act—we're the only ones who could possibly notice it—and the realization sends an unexpected jolt through me.
"Beginner's luck," she whispers back, her voice slightly less steady than usual.
I should lean away. Return to a respectable distance. But something keeps me close enough that I can smell her perfume. It’s subtle and elegant, making me think of rain-washed mountains.
"What do you think, Jameson?" Harold's voice breaks the moment, and I straighten, realizing I've missed a question.
"I'm sorry?" I ask, hoping my momentary distraction wasn't obvious.
"I was saying that young people today often rush into marriage without truly knowing each other," he explains. "But you two seem to have a solid foundation. What's your secret?"
I glance at Savannah, whose composed expression gives nothing away. "Balance," I answer honestly. "Savannah plans for every contingency, and I..." I search for the right words. "I help her remember to enjoy the moments in between."
It's not an act, not really. It's what I think we could be, in some parallel universe where she wasn't all business and I wasn't just a convenient fake fiancé.
"That's it exactly," Dorothy says approvingly. "Complementary strengths. The key to our forty-seven years."
As the evening winds down, I find myself playing the role of devoted fiancé with increasing ease. My hand finds the small of Savannah's back as we walk the Bennetts to their lodge suite. My eyes seek hers naturally when something amusing is said. I finish her sentences not because it's what a fiancé would do, but because I'm starting to anticipate her thoughts.
"We're so pleased you could join us for dinner," Dorothy says as we reach their door, embracing Savannah warmly. "I can see why Jameson fell for you."
"The feeling is mutual," Savannah replies, and there's something in her voice that makes me glance at her sharply. She sounds sincere.
"I'll check in tomorrow to finalize the retreat details," she adds more professionally as we say our goodbyes.
The Bennetts disappear into their suite, leaving us alone in the quiet hallway. For a moment, neither of us speaks, as if we're both unsure how to behave now that our audience is gone.
"Well," Savannah says finally, smoothing her already-perfect dress, "that went better than expected."
"You sound surprised," I say, leaning against the wall. "Did you doubt my fiancé skills?"
That draws a small smile from her. "I doubted our ability to be convincing together. We're not exactly..." she gestures vaguely between us, "compatible types."
"I don't know," I muse, studying her face in the soft hallway light. "I think we make a pretty good team."
Something shifts in her expression—a flicker of vulnerability quickly masked. "For business purposes," she clarifies.
"Right," I agree, though the word feels hollow. "Business."
We walk in silence toward the main entrance, our pretense no longer necessary but something else lingering in its place. Something undefined and unexpected.
"You surprised me," I admit as we step outside into the cool evening air. "With how easily you adapted to all those personal questions."
"I'm good at improvising when required," she says, with a ghost of a smile.
"And here I thought you had a detailed flowchart for every conversation possibility."
She laughs. It’s a genuine sound that I'm beginning to crave. "I considered it, actually. A decision tree for potential questions."
"Of course you did." I can't help grinning at her. "Did you account for Dorothy asking about our honeymoon plans?"
"No," she admits with a slight grimace. "That was an oversight."
"Good thing I jumped in with that story about us dreaming of Italy."
"Yes, about that," she says, giving me a curious look. "How did you know I've always wanted to visit the Amalfi Coast?"
I hesitate, surprised she's noticed that detail. "Lucky guess? You mentioned Italian art history once, when we were discussing the paintings in the lodge's west wing."
She looks momentarily taken aback, as if she doesn't remember the conversation. Or perhaps she is surprised that I do.
"It's getting late," she says, checking her watch. "I should head back to Juniper Falls. I have to start planning the Bennett retreat now that they've committed."
"That's a lot to tackle after a long day," I observe.
She shrugs slightly. "I work best at night. Fewer distractions."
An idea forms that has nothing to do with our fake engagement and everything to do with seeing more of her. "I could help," I offer. "After all, I know the lodge better than anyone. Plus, you promised to look over that Altitude Adventures proposal for me at some point."
"I don't know..." she hedges.
"Come on," I press gently. "Two heads, faster work. You've got the corporate expertise, and I know exactly which lodge activities would work best for Bennett's team. We could knock out the preliminary retreat schedule tonight."
She considers this, clearly weighing efficiency against spending more time with me. Efficiency wins, as I suspected it might.
"Alright," she concedes. "But I warn you, I'm very particular about how I organize event planning."
"I would expect nothing less," I say, unable to keep the smile from my voice. "My cabin or your office in town?"
She hesitates only briefly. "Your cabin would be more efficient. You have all the lodge activity information there, I assume?"
"Complete with my notes on what works best for different group dynamics," I confirm, far too pleased with this development. "I'll make coffee."
* * *
Three hours, two pots of coffee, and dozens of sticky notes later, my coffee table has disappeared under a sea of paperwork. Savannah sits cross-legged on the floor, suit jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back in a messy knot. It's the most relaxed I've seen her, and I can't stop sneaking glances.
"The morning hike should definitely go before the team-building exercise," she says, moving colored tabs around on her carefully constructed schedule. "They'll be more receptive to cooperation after physical activity."
"Good call," I agree, using it as an excuse to slide closer. "And we should schedule Declan's cooking demonstration for the second day. Bennett mentioned his wife loves Italian cuisine."
Savannah nods, making a note. There's a small smudge of ink on her cheek that she hasn't noticed, and I find myself unreasonably charmed by it. Corporate warrior meets human being.
"You're staring," she says without looking up.
Caught. "Just impressed by your system." Not entirely a lie. "You've transformed chaos into order in record time."
"Organization is efficiency," she replies, making another note in the margin of her planner. "Every minute saved in planning saves ten in execution."
"Is that a Savannah Carter original quote?" I tease.
She glances up, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. "It might be. Though I suspect someone famous probably said it first."
"Either way, it's impressive." I nod toward her meticulously arranged notes. "I'm more of a 'write it on whatever's available' kind of planner."
"Let me guess—napkins, receipts, and occasionally your own hand?"
I turn my palm up to reveal a faded ink reminder for "dog food" that I scribbled there yesterday. "Guilty as charged."
She shakes her head, but she's smiling now. A real smile, not the polished professional one she uses in meetings. It transforms her face, softening the angles, reaching her eyes.
I need to stop noticing these things.
"Want more coffee?" I ask, standing abruptly.
"I'm good, thanks." She stretches, rolling her shoulders. "We've made good progress."
In the kitchen, I take longer than necessary refilling my own mug, trying to regain some perspective. This is a business arrangement. She needed a fake fiancé. I needed help with a contract. Simple.
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."