Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Jameson
"A nd then you press down like this," Savannah explains, guiding Mia's hands as they fold the origami paper with careful precision. "See how it makes a perfect triangle?"
"It looks like a mountain!" Mia exclaims, her face lighting up with delight.
"That's exactly right," Savannah agrees, her smile genuine and warm in a way I've rarely seen from her. "And when we're done, it will be a fox that can sit right on top of that mountain."
I lean against the doorframe of the lodge's crafting room, watching them with a mug of coffee cooling in my hands. I should be setting up for the afternoon nature hike, but I can't seem to tear myself away from this scene.
It's been three days since that kiss. Three days of polite, professional interactions between us as we finalized the Bennett retreat plans. Three days of pretending nothing had changed, even as everything has.
"Uncle Jay!" Mia spots me and waves excitedly. She's not really my niece—she's Declan's stepdaughter—but I love that she calls me uncle. As the newest addition to our family, she's quickly claimed her place in all our hearts. "Savannah's teaching me ori—ori?—"
"Origami," Savannah supplies, glancing up with a smile that falters slightly when she meets my eyes.
"I can see that." I step into the room, setting my mug on a side table. "You've found the perfect teacher. Savannah's good at making complicated things look easy."
A faint blush colors her cheeks, but she quickly looks back to the paper fox taking shape in Mia's hands. "Mia's a natural. She's got much steadier hands than most adults I've taught."
"We Callahans are good at adopting naturals into the family," I wink at Mia, who giggles. "Though usually our talents run more toward rugged pursuits than paper folding."
"Not everything needs to be rugged to be worthwhile," Savannah counters, carefully helping Mia with the final fold. "Sometimes precision beats brute strength."
"You won't get any argument from me," I say, watching as they complete the little fox. "Not when the results are this good."
The way she interacts with Mia fascinates me—patient, encouraging, and completely lacking the corporate armor she usually wears. There's a gentleness to her that surfaces in these unguarded moments, like glimpsing a rare bird that typically stays hidden in the forest canopy.
"There," Savannah says as they finish. "Your very own fox."
Mia holds up her creation triumphantly. "I'm going to show Mom and Declan!"
She dashes off without waiting for a response, leaving me alone with Savannah for the first time since that night in my cabin.
"I didn't know you were coming to the lodge today," I say, filling the suddenly awkward silence between us.
"Last-minute meeting with your brother about the Bennett retreat menu." She begins tidying the scattered paper with precise movements. "She has some ideas about incorporating local produce."
"Declans always pushing the farm-to-table angle," I nod. "Did Mia kidnap you into origami duty afterward?"
That draws a genuine laugh from her. "Actually, it was the other way around. I saw her looking bored while Declan talked to Liam about food orders, and I remembered I had these papers in my bag." She shrugs slightly. "I used to fold them during long meetings when I was starting out. It helps me think."
This small revelation—this glimpse into a younger Savannah folding paper animals during corporate meetings—hits me with unexpected force. I want more of these moments, more insights into the woman behind the polished professional exterior.
"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.
"We're not dressed for a wedding," she protests, though with less conviction.
I glance down at her simple navy dress. The same one she wore to our family dinner. "You look beautiful. And everyone's too busy having fun to care about dress codes at this point." I nod toward a groomsman who's removed his tie and jacket, currently spinning an elderly woman who might be someone's grandmother.
"Five minutes," she relents finally. "One dance, no talking to the bridal party, and then we leave before anyone realizes we don't belong here."
"Deal."
As we slip along the edge of the reception, I can't help but enjoy the conspiratorial thrill of it all. Savannah Carter, professional rule-follower, sneaking into a wedding reception. If only her corporate clients could see her now.
The band transitions to a slower song, a cover of an old standard that has couples naturally drawing closer. I extend my hand to her with a slight bow.
"Ms. Carter, would you do me the honor?"
She rolls her eyes but places her hand in mine. "You're ridiculous."
"Part of my charm."
Leading her onto the dance floor, I pull her gently into my arms as the music washes over us. I settle one hand at the small of her back and take her hand in my other, beginning to move to the melody. For a moment, she's stiff in my embrace, glancing around as if expecting security to escort us out at any second. Then, gradually, she relaxes against me, her feet finding the rhythm as we begin to sway and step together.
"You're a good dancer," she says, sounding genuinely surprised.
"Don't sound so shocked. We mountain men have hidden talents."
"Very hidden," she quips, but she's smiling now, finally letting herself enjoy the moment.
As we move together, something shifts. Maybe it's the music, or the soft glow of the string lights, or the way she feels in my arms—but suddenly this isn't a joke anymore. It isn't pretend. Her hand fits perfectly in mine, her body moving in sync with my steps as if we've been dancing together for years.
She must feel the change too, because her eyes lift to mine, questioning.
"What?" she asks softly.
So many answers run through my mind. You're beautiful. This feels right. I'm falling for you.
"Nothing," I say instead. "Just thinking this fake engagement has its perks."
"Like crashing weddings?"
"Like dancing with the most beautiful woman here."
Her rhythm falters slightly. "Careful, Jameson. There's no audience to perform for."
"I know." The honesty in my voice surprises even me.
She studies my face, as if trying to decode a particularly complex contract clause. "What are we doing?" she asks, her voice barely audible over the music.
"Dancing," I say lightly, though we both know that's not what she's asking.
"At someone else's wedding reception."
"Minor detail."
The song shifts to something slower, more intimate, but we don't break apart. Her hand remains in mine, and I find myself drawing her closer. In this moment, with no business deals or family members watching, no pretense necessary, there's something different about the way she feels in my arms. Something honest and unguarded that makes my heart beat faster.
"Savannah," I begin, not entirely sure what I'm going to say, only knowing I need to say something. "I think?—"
"Jamie! I thought that was you!" A hand claps me on the shoulder, and I turn to find Mike, the groom himself, beaming at us. "Man, when did you get here? I didn't see you at the ceremony!"
Savannah's eyes widen in a clear I told you so expression.
"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."
As we make our way off the dance floor, I catch Mike watching us from across the terrace. He gives me a knowing thumbs-up, clearly misreading our exit. If only he knew. There's nothing to congratulate. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But as Savannah's hand finds mine again to navigate through the crowd, fitting perfectly between my fingers, I can't help but hope.