Page 9 of Practically Perfect Together
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."
