Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency) (10 page)

She complied. “Good to know, I guess.”

He studied her balled fingers, lifting and turning her wrist to view her fist from various angles. “Okay. Open your hand completely and part your fingers as wide as you can.” He demonstrated, and she followed his example. “You’re not feeling sorry for him, are you? Or having second thoughts?”

“No. He blew his shot. To be honest, I don’t know why I gave him one in the first place.”

Beau took her fingers, one at a time, and gently pushed each toward the knuckle. “Because on paper he checked all the boxes…clean-cut, educated, gainfully employed, and not overly demanding of your time or attention.”

“Ouch. When you sum it up like that, I sound really pathetic.”

“Or really logical. You put a lot of yourself into your art, so you steer clear of guys who won’t be happy unless your world revolves around them. Some people instinctively know where they need to draw the line—what they can offer, and what they can’t. Not everyone is willing or able to invest everything they’ve got in a relationship.”

Tidy notion, and maybe true to an extent with regard to Mitch, but it ignored one important fact. She needed her world to revolve around more than just her art, and refused to believe she wasn’t capable of giving more. She wanted a true soul mate, and children someday,
and
her career. Was that so selfish? Deep down, didn’t he need more, too? She wanted to ask, but her expression must have telegraphed her intention to turn the conversation to him, and apparently it wasn’t a direction he wanted to take. He kept talking.

“Why you got involved isn’t really my point. What I’m trying to pin down is how definite you feel about the breakup. Somewhere around the time your fist connected with his face, he got the hint you weren’t interested in talking, but if you call and apologize, you’re going to undermine the message. He’ll think he has a chance. You wouldn’t want to do that, would you?”

Long, competent fingers encircled her wrist, and his warm, hard palm slid against hers.

She shivered.

“No. I wouldn’t.” The words came out steady, even though her insides trembled. She couldn’t take her eyes off the sight of his fingers around her wrist. Her other wrist tingled as if caught in his grasp, too. She imagined him lifting her arms over her head, pinning them there while he slowly lowered his mouth to hers.

He drew his hand back, running his fingertips over her palm as he retreated.

“What would you want to do, Savannah?”

Chapter Ten

Savannah’s lips parted. She ran the tip of her tongue along the dip in her upper lip, and Beau strained his ears in the hopes of hearing her say, “I want you to fuck me, hard,” over the pounding of his pulse.

The pounding came again, only louder, and her lips formed the words…

“I better get that.”

Huh?

She walked past him and opened the front door.
Without
looking through the peephole. Sinclair stood on the other side of the threshold with a wheeled carry-on bag parked beside her. She leaned in and wrapped Savannah in a big hug. A bottle of wine dangled from one hand.

What the hell?

“Hey, sis. Since I didn’t get your good news until after I-85 stole the better part of my evening, I stopped by the Circle K on my way here and splurged on a bottle of their finest”—she paused as her gaze landed on Beau—“which we can split three ways.” Deep blue eyes looked him up and down. “
Oooor
I could leave the wine and go get a bite to eat. The Waffle House on the corner stays open all night, right?”

“Shut up and get in here.” Savannah made a move to grab the handle of Sinclair’s bag with her good hand, but he crossed the room and shooed her away.

“I’ve got it.” He hefted the luggage and placed it inside the door. “You moving in, Sinclair?”

“For one night. I’ve got an early flight out of Hartsfield-Jackson tomorrow morning. Savannah offered up half her Serta so I didn’t have to wake up at the crack of dawn and make the drive.”

So much for his prurient fantasies involving Savannah and her Serta. A brick of disappointment settled in his gut—or thereabouts—even though it was for the best. The “no complications” pledge remained in full force and effect. Getting physically involved with a woman who planned to dump him come the first of the year invited unnecessary tension into an already-tricky situation. The comparatively straightforward situation in his jeans persisted, but he had plenty of experience resolving that on his own. He eyed the bottle of wine in Sinclair’s hand. “What are we celebrating?”

“Some fiancé you are. You don’t even know your future wife got an offer to participate in a special exhibit at the Mercer Gallery?”

No, he didn’t, and that probably seemed kind of odd. He glanced at Savannah. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks, but you can stop racking your brain for a way to explain why you weren’t the first to get the news. Sinclair’s messing with you. She knows we’re not really engaged. I told her last week because I didn’t want her wasting time designing rings for us.”

“Oh.” Could Sinclair keep a secret?

Sinclair patted his arm as she walked past him on her way to the kitchen. “Don’t worry. My lips are sealed.” She put the wine on the counter and dug around in a drawer for a corkscrew.

Savannah went to the table and took a seat. He picked up the bag of blueberries and settled it across her knuckles. She gave him an exasperated look but left them there.

Sinclair brought the bottle, the corkscrew, and three glasses to the table. He commandeered the corkscrew and did the honors while Sinclair fussed over Savannah’s hand.

“Dang, girl. You really nailed him, didn’t you? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. The paramedic who rushed to my rescue assured me nothing’s broken, which is good because I’ve got a load of work to do between now and New Year’s Eve.”

He poured a glass of wine and pushed it to Savannah. “What happens New Year’s Eve?”

“The Mercer hosts a series of showcases, kicking off on New Year’s Eve. They spotlight artists to watch in the coming year, invite their best clients, curators from major museums, and buyers for private collections. After my gallery folded, I approached Mercer and had a really good meeting with the director. She felt me out about participating in a showcase, but mentioned they’d already finalized their featured artists for New Year’s. This week a mixed-media artist they originally selected withdrew for personal reasons. They called me. I’m in.”

Sinclair accepted the glass of wine he slid toward her and high-fived Savannah. “I told you they’d call. Which of your works are you going to exhibit?”

“Well, there’s the thing. I have three large pieces I managed to get back from my old gallery before the Feds closed them down, but Mercer wants more—the manager told me the commission agreement they’re sending will specify five additional works. Smaller scale, thank God, because I can create those mostly on my own, but I’ve got four weeks to work my magic. I’m going to be busy.”

“Here’s to busy.” Sinclair raised her glass and tapped it to Savannah’s. Beau poured a splash of wine into the third glass and did the same. Then he took a sip and immediately wished for a beer. Which he had, waiting for him across the hall in the bag of groceries he’d yet to put away. Time to head out.

He pushed the cork into the bottle and placed it in the middle of the table. “My work here is done. Sinclair, have a good flight.” And then, to Savannah, he said, “Keep the ice on for another ten minutes, then take a break, then ice it for another ten before you go to bed.”

“I will. Thanks for everything. Sorry for dragging you into my drama.”

He shrugged off the apology and crossed to the door. Compared to the dramas he confronted on the job, hers barely fit the definition, but he was happy enough not to transport anybody to the ER—particularly her. “Being engaged to a paramedic comes with certain fringe benefits.”

The comment earned him a smile, but then her eyes widened and she jumped up. “Speaking of which, being engaged to a glass artist comes with certain benefits, too. Hold on a minute.”

He waited by the door while she ran to her bedroom, and returned in the promised minute carrying a package about the size of a shoe box. She handed it to him. “What’s this?”

“Happy birthday.”

Oh, right. The birthday present. The package suddenly felt much heavier in his hands. The idea of putting some colorful, breakable memento in his apartment tensed him up. He turned the box in his hands, looking for the easiest way to unwrap it. “Thanks.”

Her laugh told him he failed at hiding his reservations about the gift. “I packed it pretty well. Open it at your place. But don’t worry. It’s small and unobtrusive, just like we discussed.” She fiddled with his hair as she spoke, brushing it back from his forehead, and then his temples. Maybe he’d hold off on a trim.

“Okay.” He opened the door and paused at the threshold. “See you later.”

“No kiss goodnight?” Sinclair stared at the two of them expectantly.

He blew Sinclair a kiss, and walked back to his apartment. The birthday present went on his kitchen counter while he put the groceries away and popped the cap off a beer. He made a sandwich and ate it, rinsed the plate, loaded the dishwasher, and took care of a bunch of other small chores, all the while feeling oddly solitary. The mood irritated him, because he
liked
his space, dammit. He got all the interaction he needed at work, and plenty of chaos to go with it. At home, he preferred calm. Quiet. Order. He enjoyed control of his environment.

The box on the counter caught his eye. He finished his beer, tossed the empty, and rubbed his palms on his jeans. Then he reached for the box. And hesitated. Every colorful, cluttered inch of Savannah’s apartment flashed through his mind. Not a calm, orderly space.

Shit. This thing was going to stick out like a neon rainbow in his apartment.

It’s temporary. You can put it in a closet after your parents visit
.

Right. He used a letter opener to cut through the tape across the top of the box, dug into a bunch of Styrofoam peanuts, and pulled out…a blue blown-glass vase. A bouquet of spiral-petaled daisies bloomed out the top, and a sneaky, iridescent green snake curled around the vase, from the base to the neck.

He felt his lips twitch as he slowly turned it, viewing the thing from all sides. Very funny. And fitting. And a guy like him could appreciate the practicality, because these flowers would never die.

…

Sinclair stood in the doorway between the bedroom and the bathroom, her toothbrush loaded up with toothpaste, and pointed it at Savannah. “So, what’s the status with you and Beau?”

Savannah paused in the act of rummaging through her tall dresser for something to sleep in. “You know the status. We’re neighbors, childhood friends, and I’m helping convince his parents they don’t need to worry about him.”

Sinclair rolled her eyes and retreated into the bathroom to rinse. From the sink, she called, “You’ve omitted key details from your report.”

Savannah found an old Bulldogs T-shirt she’d scored from a boyfriend in college, yanked off her tank tops, shrugged out of her bra, and pulled on the weathered red cotton. “Such as?”

Her sister poked her head out the bathroom door. “Such as I practically burst into flames every time he looks at you—and he looks at you constantly. It’s a miracle I’m not bruised from wandering into the middle of all the eye-banging.”

Thank God Sinclair disappeared into the bathroom again, because Savannah felt heat seep into her cheeks. She wiggled out of her jeans and stepped into a pair of gray cut-off sweatpants. “You have an overactive imagination.”

“Oh, please.” Sinclair swept into the room, wearing black flannel sleep pants with grinning white skulls on them and a black camisole. “The sexual tension between you two might as well have been a fourth person in the room. A really horny fourth person.”

“We’re pretending to be engaged…”

“Not to me, you’re not, so don’t try to tell me it’s an act. Anyway, for the sake of the charade, you need to find a way to release some of the tension.”

“What? Why?” She got into bed. “An engaged couple ought to throw off a little heat, don’t you think?”

Sinclair dug her hairbrush out of her overnight bag. “Heat yes, but not nonstop sparks of hungry anticipation—”

“Maybe we’re holding out until our wedding night?”

“Um…no. Sorry.” She ran the brush through her hair. “Nobody’s going to believe that.”

“Well, jeez, thanks a lot.”

“Come on, Savannah. You’re both pushing thirty…”

“I’m twenty-seven!”

“Exactly. And you’ve been in several serious relationships. Beau’s been married. It’s too late for either of you to take a virginity pledge.”

“So what are you suggesting? I march over there, knock on his door, and say,
Hey, we need to have sex because right now it’s painfully obvious we haven’t, and our families are going to know something’s not right
?”

“You’re attracted to him, aren’t you?”

“Sinclair, believe it or not, I don’t have sex with every guy I’m attracted to.”

“But this is a unique situation.”

“It’s also a temporary one. This ‘engagement’”—she made air quotes—“ends in January, and we agreed not to complicate things. Why risk the messy emotional fallout?”

“You talk like having sex automatically leads to complications. I beg to differ. Sometimes it’s just about attraction, affection, and fun. Neither party expects more, and everybody walks away happy.” She shrugged. “Two people enjoying one of life’s little perks. Safely and responsibly, of course.”

Sinclair spoke from experience. As far as Savannah could tell, her sister focused exclusively on attraction, affection, and fun. She had her own theories about why her little sister avoided anything more, but now wasn’t the time to delve into them unless she wanted to drag them both through some extremely messy emotions.

But maybe, in this case, Sinclair had a point. “Enjoy a little perk, huh?”

A knock from the other side of the wall made her jump.

Sinclair stepped back from the bed. “What the hell was that?”

“Beau,” she mouthed, and then pointed at the wall behind her and whispered, “His bedroom is on the other side.”

Her sister looked at the wall. “Do you think he heard us?”

She lifted a shoulder.
Who knows?

Sinclair climbed onto the bed, leaned her face close to the wall, and motioned for Savannah to do the same.

“Good night on three,” she whispered, and used her fingers to tick off the count.

In unison they called out, “Good night, Beau!”

“Good night, Smiths,” he called back.

Sinclair grinned and crawled under the blankets. Savannah did the same, and then clicked off her bedside light, plunging the room into darkness.

A voice through the wall disrupted the silence. “For the record, there’s nothing little about my perk.”