"Impressive." The admiration in her tone sends warmth spreading through my chest.
Griffin's work deserves appreciation, even if our pack dynamics don't always deserve praise.
I come to a stop, and park my car. Then, I step out and grab her luggage from the trunk and lead her up the front walkway, past the landscaping that Liam created as soon as we moved in. Native plants mixed with carefully chosen flowers that bloom in rotation, creating year-round color without requiring much maintenance.
"The guest room is upstairs," I explain as we enter the foyer, gesturing toward the staircase. "Private bathroom, decent closet space, windows that actually open for fresh air."
"Luxury accommodations." Her lips curve into a small smile as she takes in the spacious entryway.
"We try to be good hosts." I shoulder her suitcase, starting up the stairs.
She follows me up the stairs, her vanilla bourbon scent mixing with the familiar smells of home: the leather conditioner Logan uses on his furniture, the wood polish Griffin insists on for his custom cabinets, the subtle cedar undertones from the planks he milled himself.
The guest room sits at the end of the hallway, separated from our bedrooms by the common bathroom and linen closet. Private enough for comfort, close enough that she'll be integrated into our daily routines whether we plan for it or not.
I set her suitcase on the luggage rack Griffin built into the closet and turn to find her examining the space with obvious pleasure, her fingers trailing along the window frame. The room is simple but comfortable: queen bed with a custom headboard Griffin made from reclaimed barn wood, dresser and nightstand to match, reading chair by the window that overlooks the back garden.
"This is really nice," she says, running her fingers along the smooth wood of the headboard with reverent appreciation. "Griffin's handiwork again?"
"All custom. He insisted on building furniture instead of buying it. Said store-bought stuff doesn't fit right in custom spaces." I lean against the doorframe, watching her explore.
"He's not wrong. This is beautiful craftsmanship." She moves to the dresser, opening and closing a drawer to test the smoothness.
I watch Savannah move to the window, and everything in me wants to follow. She pushes aside the curtains to look out at the garden, and sunlight catches the auburn highlights in her hair that I'd forgotten existed. Eight fucking years since I've been in the same room with her, and my body remembers everything my mind tried to forget.
She's exactly as beautiful as I remembered, maybe more so. The years have given her a confidence she didn't have before, a self-possession that makes her more attractive instead of less. It also makes her more dangerous to my peace of mind.
"You can see the mountains from here," she says, and her voice is soft with wonder.
I step closer, close enough to catch her scent properly. Vanilla and bourbon, just like before. "Griffin positioned all the windows for the best views. He's got an eye for that kind of thing."
She turns from the window to face me, and there's a teasing glint in her brown eyes that hits me like a punch to the gut. "And you? What's your specialty in this pack arrangement?"
I cross my arms, grinning at her skeptical expression. "I keep everyone from killing each other. And dying.”
“There are hospitals for that. I’m surprised you said that considering you work in one?” She raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.
"Logan's job involves running into burning buildings. Griffin's job involves power tools and heavy machinery," Iexplain, counting off on my fingers. "When accidents happen, having a doctor in the house comes in handy."
"Emergency room visits must be expensive," she observes, and there's that familiar mischief in her eyes.
"Not when you can handle most of it at home. Logan came back last month with second-degree burns on his forearms. Griffin nearly lost a finger to his table saw two weeks ago." I shake my head ruefully. "Sometimes I feel more like a trauma surgeon than a family doctor."
"You always did like the adrenaline cases," she says, and something in her voice tells me she remembers more about my work than I expected.
"Still do. Though the ER rotation gets old when you're dealing with actual pack injuries on top of human medicine." I lean against the dresser, watching her face carefully. "What about you? Apart from weddings, what do you do in your spare time?”
“There isn’t any,” she says, crossing her arms with mock defensiveness. "Three-day destination weddings with guest lists of four hundred and dietary restrictions require their own spreadsheet."
“I can imagine,” I say.
“One time, I had to organize a wedding on a working cattle ranch where the bride insisted on wearing a white ballgown and wanted the ceremony to take place in the middle of the herd," she says without missing a beat. "The groom was convinced the cattle would be 'atmospheric. And the pack wasn't helpful either. They did nothing to support anything I suggested.”
"Please tell me that you managed to talk them out of it."
"I did not. I bought industrial-strength stain remover, and prayed to every deity I could think of." She grins wickedly. "The photos were actually beautiful once we edited out the cow patties."
"You're insane," I say, shaking my head in admiration.
