I laugh, surprised by her directness. "Trying to gather intel for our cover story?"
She smiles, but there's something cautious in it. "Something like that."
I consider the question, wanting to give her something genuine, not the surface-level charm I usually deploy. "I'm tired," I admit finally. "Of dating women who look perfect on paper but don't make me feel anything real. Of being set up by well-meaning friends with their single cousins who are 'perfect for me' but never are. Of relationships that are more about how we look together than how we feel together."
I hadn't meant to say all that. The words just spilled out, raw and honest in a way I rarely allow myself to be.
Savannah watches me with those perceptive eyes. "That sounds lonely."
"It is," I nod, staring into my mug. "What about you? Tell me something I don't know."
She hesitates, fidgeting with a napkin. "I've never been anyone's first choice," she says finally, so quietly I almost miss it. "Not in relationships, not in friendships, not even in my family. I'm the person people settle for when their first option falls through."
I think about how quickly she agreed to help me this morning, not because she wanted to, but because she's used to being thebackup plan. How many times has she been overlooked? How many people have failed to see what I'm seeing right now?
"Those people are idiots," I say, with more force than I intended.
Savannah looks up, startled.
"I mean it," I continue, leaning forward. "Anyone who doesn't see how remarkable you are isn't paying attention."
"You barely know me," she points out, but there's a vulnerability in her expression that makes my chest ache.
"I know enough," I tell her, and realize with surprise that it's true.
I take a sip of hot chocolate, watching Savannah over the rim of my mug as she wraps her hands around her own cup, her fingers delicate against the ceramic.
"So," I begin, curious to know more about the woman behind the pastries, "have you always lived in Whitetail Falls?"
"No, actually," she says, looking up with a small smile. "I'm originally from Seattle."
"Seattle? How did you end up here?" I ask, genuinely surprised. She seems so perfectly fitted to this small town that I can't imagine her navigating city streets.
"My grandmother lived here. I spent every summer with her as a kid, learning to bake in that little kitchen." Her eyes soften with the memory, crinkling slightly at the corners. "When culinary school didn't work out—"
"You went to culinary school?" I interrupt, leaning forward slightly.
"For a year," she nods, a hint of something like old disappointment crossing her face. "I realized I didn't want to be a chef in someone else's restaurant. I wanted to make things that reminded people of home." She shrugs, a small, self-conscious movement. "When Gran passed, I came here."
Her knee brushes against mine under the small table, and a ridiculous jolt travels up my leg like I'm sixteen again. I should be embarrassed by how strongly I react to such casual contact, but I find myself shifting slightly, maintaining the connection.
"What about you?" she asks, tilting her head slightly. "Always wanted to be a firefighter?"
"Actually, I was pre-med in college," I admit, something I don't usually share with people I'm trying to impress. "Everyone expected me to become a doctor like my father."
"What changed?" Savannah asks, her attention fully on me, no sign of the nervousness that sometimes makes her look away.
"Car accident my junior year. Nothing serious, but the first responders..." I trail off, remembering the calm efficiency, the immediate purpose. "They had this certainty about them. This clarity. I kept thinking about it for weeks afterward."
Savannah watches me intently, like she's collecting each word. "So you switched paths."
"To my father's eternal disappointment," I nod, smiling ruefully. "But I've never regretted it."
"I can't imagine you as a doctor," she says, then immediately blushes. "I mean—"
"No, you're right," I laugh, oddly pleased that she sees me so clearly. "I'd be terrible. All that paperwork, those fluorescentlights. I need to move, to be outside, to do something immediate."
We fall into an easy rhythm after that, trading stories about first jobs and worst cooking disasters . When she laughs at my terrible joke about my first disastrous attempt at CPR training, I find myself leaning closer, drawn to the way her entire face transforms, her usual reserve falling away completely.
