"I'm a wedding planner, not a fucking miracle worker." Savannah zips her suitcase with more force than necessary, already probably dreading what she has committed herself to.
When I bend down to grab Savannah's suitcase from Emma's guest room floor, the weight catches me off guard. Either she's planning to stay longer than three months, or she's one of those people who packs like they're moving to another planet. The moment my hands close around the fabric handle, her scent hits me - intoxicating vanilla bourbon clinging to everything she touches. My own cool mint scent sharpens in response, and I grit my teeth against the unwanted reaction coursing through me.
"You don't have to carry it," Savannah says from the doorway, laptop bag over her shoulder and portfolio pressed against her chest.
"I know you can. Doesn't mean I'm going to watch you struggle with it." I heft the suitcase, testing its weight.
"Struggle? It's a suitcase, not a piano." She raises an eyebrow at me.
"Heavy suitcase." I give her a pointed look.
"Are you calling me an overpacker?" Savannah tilts her head, a smile tugging at her lips.
"I'm calling you thorough," I say, and she laughs.
God, her laugh. Like warm honey and sunshine, the sound that used to make me forget whatever I was stressed about. Still does, apparently.
"Thorough is a nice way of saying I brought too many shoes." Savannah follows me toward the door.
"How many shoes does three months require?" I ask as we head outside.
"More than you'd think. Fewer than I brought." She shrugs, completely unapologetic.
I grin despite myself as we head toward my BMW. This feels familiar in ways that should worry me but don't. The easy back-and-forth, the comfortable teasing, the way she makes conversation feel effortless instead of like work.
"Emma mentioned you might need help getting around town," I say as I load her suitcase into the trunk.
"Emma worries too much." Savannah adjusts her laptop bag strap.
"Can't blame her for that." I close the trunk with a solid thud.
My alpha instincts recognize her like coming home after a long trip, and I have to grip the steering wheel to keep from doing something stupid.
Like reaching over to touch her face. Or telling her how much I've missed that scent.
"So," she says as I start the engine, settling back into the leather seat, "what's changed in Pine Hollow since I left?"
Everything. Nothing. You left and took something with you that we never figured out how to replace.
"Quite a bit, actually. Want the tour?" I pull out of Emma's driveway.
"Lead the way, Dr. Blackwell.” Savannah buckles her seatbelt, eyes already scanning the familiar streets.
The way she says my name makes something warm unfurl in my chest. Not mocking, not distant, just... familiar. Like she's testing how it feels to say it again after eight years of silence.
I drive us through downtown first, past the changes that have accumulated slowly enough that most locals don't notice them. "Peterson's Hardware became a coffee shop," I point out as we pass the corner building with its new glass front and modern signage.
"A coffee shop? In Pine Hollow?" Savannah leans forward slightly, peering through the windshield.
"Two coffee shops, actually. Plus a yoga studio and something called a 'wellness center' that I'm pretty sure sells overpriced smoothies." I gesture toward the strip of new businesses.
"Gentrification comes for everyone eventually." She sits back with a slight frown.
"Not gentrification exactly. More like... evolution. People started moving here from Denver for the small-town charm but wanted city amenities." I slow down as we approach the main intersection.
"And you? Do you like the changes?" Savannah turns in her seat to face me.
I consider this as we pass the new yoga studio, its windows full of women in expensive athletic wear doing impossible things with their bodies. "Some of them. The coffee's better. The medical supply deliveries are more reliable. There's actually decent internet now."
