Page 22 of Practically Perfect Together

A flash of vulnerability crosses her face before her professional mask slips back into place. "That was a moment. We both got caught up."

"A moment," I repeat, the words hollow. "Is that what you tell yourself to make this easier?"

"Make what easier?"

"Leaving. Walking away." I step closer, close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat. "That's what you do, isn't it? When things get too real, too messy, too unplanned?"

Her eyes narrow slightly. "That's not fair. This is an opportunity I've worked years for."

"I'm not saying it isn't. I'm saying there's something real here, Savannah. Between us. And you're looking for an escape route before you have to admit it."

"There is no 'us,' Jameson," she says, though her voice lacks conviction. "We had an arrangement. It's done. We just need to find a way to tell your family the engagement is off."

"Is that what you felt when we were dancing? An arrangement?" I challenge. "Is that what you felt when I kissed you?"

She looks away, her composure finally cracking. "What I felt doesn't matter. What matters is what makes sense."

"And Denver makes sense." It's not a question.

"Yes," she whispers. "On paper, it's perfect."

Something in her phrasing gives me hope. A fragile, dangerous hope. "And off paper?"

Before she can answer, I remember the small gift I'd made for her. I reach into my pocket and pull out a simple leather bracelet, three braided strands with a small wooden charm attached. The wood is polished smooth, carved in the shape of a mountain peak.

"I made this for you," I say, holding it out. "Bear helped by stealing the leather strands twice and hiding them under the porch."

She stares at it, conflict written across her face.

"I carved the mountain," I continue when she doesn't speak. "It's the view from the east trail. Where I first realized I was in trouble."

"Jameson..." Her voice breaks slightly. "I can't?—"

"You plan everything in life," I say quietly, "but you're too scared to plan for your own happiness."

Her head snaps up, eyes wide with surprise or maybe recognition.

"I don't think you ever needed a fake fiancé," I continue, laying my heart bare in a way I've never done before. "I think you just needed someone to believe in you. Someone who sees past all those carefully constructed spreadsheets and five-year plans."

She takes a step back, panic flashing across her face. "This isn't—we aren't—" She shakes her head. "What happened between us was never supposed to be real."

"But it is," I insist. "You know it is."

"It can't be." Her voice hardens with resolve. "I have a life, Jameson. A career. Goals. Things I've worked toward for years. I can't throw that away for... for..."

"For what?" I press. "For someone who makes you laugh? Who sees the real you? For a place where you belong?"

"I don't belong here," she says, but the tremble in her voice betrays her. "This was always temporary. A business arrangement. Nothing more."

She's retreating behind her professional armor, and I can almost see the walls going up around her heart.

"So take the job," I say, unable to keep the hurt from my voice. "Go to Denver. Be Regional Director. But don't pretend this was nothing. Don't pretend we were nothing."

"We were pretending the whole time," she whispers. "That was the point."

She turns away, gathering the dessert plates with hands that aren't quite steady. "We should get back. Everyone's waiting."

"And what do we tell them?" I ask. "That our engagement is off because you're moving to Denver? Or that it was never real in the first place?"

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