Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency) (14 page)

“For real?”

“For real,” Beau said, and helped the little boy to his feet. “Can I get a high five?” He held up his big, strong hand for a slap from Liam’s miniature one, and Savannah’s ovaries exploded. A little more of her emotional safe ground slipped out from under her.

“Thank you so much.” Beth wrapped Beau in a hug, and then, to Savannah’s surprise, she found herself the recipient of the same treatment.

The woman smiled as she drew away. “He’s so good with kids. Hang on to him, honey. You’ve got yourself a keeper.”

Chapter Fourteen

Beau ate the last handful of his french fries and watched his partner crumple his empty burger wrapper, toss it in the bag nestled in the console between them, and take a giant slug of his bladder-buster-sized soda. A second later Hunter let loose a thunderous belch, and then grinned proudly. “My compliments to the chef.”

“Jesus Christ.” Beau threw his wadded sandwich wrapper at Hunter, who batted it back at him. “You’re a pig.”

“I hate to break it to you, princess, but that burp is likely to be the least offensive thing to come out of me over the next half hour.”

“Great.” Beau hit the button to lower his window. “Hard to believe no lucky girl has scooped you up, what with all your charm.”

Hunter gathered up the rest of the trash and dumped it in the bag. “I reserve some of my charm just for you, Beauregard. But speaking of lucky girls, how’s your fiancée working out?”

“Fine.”

“Better than fine, I’d hazard. Based on the goofy smile stretching your ugly face these past few days, I assume you finally gave up your second virginity to your tasty little neighbor.”

The second virginity comment irked, and Beau decided Hunt could handle the next puking drunk call they caught. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“You do. You just don’t know you do. Did you two sell it to your parents the other night?”

“Yeah. We sold it so well she got roped into going wedding dress shopping the week after my mom’s surgery.”

“Hmm.” Hunter leaned back in his seat and smiled. “I picture her in something ivory and form-fitting.”

“Stop picturing her in anything, dumbass. We’re not getting married, remember?”

But it was all too easy to envision Savannah wrapped in curve-hugging satin. Just like it had been all too easy to ask her to spend the night after dinner with his parents, all too easy to fall into a habit of listening for her footsteps on the stairs, opening his door in invitation, and watching her accept with a slow, sexy smile. The easiest thing of all? Sinking into her warm, giving body, hearing her uncensored cries, and feeling her tremble as her eyes went blind and his name fell from her lips.

“The better question is do
you
remember? And does
she
remember?”

“We remember.” True, he was batting a thousand every night with Savannah and they were both enjoying the hot streak, but this season would come to an end. Neither of them had lost sight of the fact.

A woman with a little girl about three or four years old walked down the sidewalk past the rig. The girl had long white-blonde curls just like Savannah’s when she’d been that age. What was she doing right now?

“If you two are hitting it off so well, why not let things ride and see where this goes? I know your families expect a wedding, but tell them you decided on a long engagement to…I don’t know…save up for your dream wedding.”

Hitting it off with Savannah had turned out to be easier than he’d imagined. He’d pegged her as loud and distracting when she’d first moved in—and he really hadn’t known what to make of her being an artist except it sounded flighty and impractical—but she was also vibrant, funny, passionate, and incredibly
com
passionate. Whether critiquing their first kiss, punching her ex in the nose, or reading palms, she never failed to captivate, and as much as he’d balked about having her clutter spill over into his life, he was getting used to seeing her earrings sitting on his nightstand or her sweater tossed over the back of his sofa.

“She’s leaving for nine months in Italy come the first of the year.”

“So? I hear absence makes the heart grow fonder. Nine months of long-distance calls and Skype sex, then you’re back to doing whatever you’re doing now.”

Sounded great, except that other than pretending to be engaged for the sake of his parents, he couldn’t explain what they were doing now, and he sure as hell couldn’t say where it led, other than far short of a place fair for Savannah. She wanted the whole deal—marriage, kids, happily ever after. She deserved a man who could give her all that and more. He was not that guy, and it was only a matter of time before she found some lucky bastard to step up and deliver.

“What we’re doing works for now, but I don’t have any more to offer. I’m played out when it comes to gambling on the future.”

Hunter stared out the windshield for a moment, then turned, and Beau found himself on the receiving end of an uncharacteristically serious look from his partner. “You might want to reevaluate your hand before the first of the year. I don’t know what the future holds, either, but I do know these last few days you’ve been happy. Happier than I’ve seen you in three long years.”

…

Savannah hurried off the elevator and down the corridor to the surgi-center waiting area. She scanned the small, sparsely occupied lounge for Beau’s dad, and almost started for the reception desk to ask if Cheryl Montgomery had come out of surgery when she spotted Beau sitting in the corner of the room. He wore jeans and a brown crew-neck sweater the same shade as his eyes, and looked big and restless with an arm slung across the back of the empty seat beside him and his right ankle resting on his bouncing left knee. He stared blankly at the television mounted on the wall beside the reception desk. A daytime soap played with the sound down.

Dark eyes moved her way when she approached. “Hey,” she whispered and took the seat beside him. “Any news?”

His expression remained unreadable. He shifted, drawing himself in, resting his forearms on his thighs and linking his hands. The move effectively turned him into an island. As if he believed nobody would detect his anxiety so long as he maintained a perimeter.

“I thought we agreed you’d go to the meeting with the gallery today.”

“I did go, but we wrapped up quickly. The showcase is on track so I popped over to see if your dad needed anything.” She rubbed his tense shoulders, and then let her hand stray down his arm. Available if he wanted it. “What’s your excuse?”

“I always come here on my days off, and”—he looked up at the TV—“watch my stories.”

“Right. Because you don’t have a TV at home.”

“I don’t like to watch the show alone. It’s too intense.” He unclenched his hands and took hold of hers. “The redhead there is a sociopathic man-eater.”

She wove her fingers between his, gratified when he squeezed them. “You diagnosed all that with the sound down?”

“The acting stands on its own.”

“I’ll take your word. How’s your mom?”

He leaned in and rested his forehead on her shoulder. His breath released in a long, shaky exhale. “She’s good. The surgeon said the procedure went textbook, and lab results should be available by the end of the week. Mom’s in recovery and Dad just went back to be the first thing she sees when she wakes up.”

“That’s sweet.” She reached for his other hand and held it in hers. “I’m glad the surgery is over and everything went well.”

“Me, too.” He lifted their linked hands, ran his lips over her knuckles, and then raised his head and looked her square in the eyes. “Thanks for coming, Savannah.”

God save her from this self-contained man. She’d have driven over with him if he’d asked her to, but he hadn’t. Still, his appreciation eased the sting of his blatant reluctance to rely on her. “I couldn’t stay away. You understand.”

“Yeah, I do.” He brought her hand to his lips again and kissed it. “Want to get out of here?”

“Whenever you’re ready. If you prefer to stick around and see your mom?”

“No. She’s in good hands, and I don’t want to make her uncomfortable.” He stood, pulled her to her feet, and started toward the elevator. “My dad’s going to take her home. I’ll call tonight and check in.”

They rode the elevator in silence. He walked her to her car and paused by her door. “Feel like a late lunch?”

She shook her head. Not so much. And if she was reading him right, neither did he.

“See you at home?”

She nodded and tried to ignore the reckless pirouette her heart executed at his use of the word “home.”

On the drive
home
she attempted to talk sense into herself. By home, he probably meant Camden Gardens, but in truth she was starting to feel at home in his bed. They’d spent every night together since the evening at her studio, and each time she’d drifted off to sleep as breathless, boneless, and thoroughly satisfied as the first time. The inferno between them showed no sign of burning out. Her hormones insisted any sane, healthy woman would find herself addicted to rebound sex of this magnitude, but her better judgment kept harping on the danger of the addiction. It insisted getting hooked on devastating orgasms was problem enough, but getting accustomed to falling asleep with her head on his chest and his heartbeat thumping like a steady lullaby in her ear only invited heartache. She was already in deeper than she ought to be, and she’d begun to look at the first of the year with a weird combination of dread and relief.

The exact same combination of emotions churned in her stomach when she climbed out of her Explorer and saw Beau leaning against the wall by the stairwell, waiting for her. He straightened as she approached, took her hand, and said, “Can I buy you a drink?”

A peek at her watch told her it was barely two in the afternoon, but she suspected mentioning the time wouldn’t dissuade him. Not that she blamed him for wanting to take the edge off. His mom’s surgery had gone well, but now the stress of awaiting the lab results became all the more acute. This strong, independent, don’t-rely-on-anyone man needed comfort and company. She could offer both.
And love
, a fatalistic inner voice acknowledged.
You’ve in love with this strong, independent, don’t-rely-on-anyone man
. She couldn’t pinpoint the moment when she’d lost the battle to keep her emotions on a safe path, but she had. She’d fallen, and there wasn’t a thing in the world she could do to reverse course, even knowing he’d sooner cut out his heart than risk loving again. Hopefully her heart was more resilient. Hopefully she could be here for him while he needed her, and then find the strength to get on a plane and move on with her life. “Where did you have in mind for this drink?”

“I know just the place.” He led her upstairs and into his apartment. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll find the bartender,” he said and stepped into the kitchen.

While he dug around in the cabinet above the fridge, she pulled the ponytail holder out of her hair and tossed it on an end table. Next came the stack of silver “bamboo” bangles Sinclair had given her a few birthdays ago. Then she settled herself on the arm of the sofa and kicked off the Prada zipper-back black stilettos she’d treated herself to when she’d sold her first piece in Atlanta—shoes she should have waited to purchase until she’d collected her commissions. Her slightly punished toes forgave the fashionable torture as she massaged them through her black tights. After a moment she straightened, peeled out of her cropped leather motorcycle jacket, and tossed it across the back of the sofa.

The rustling in the kitchen ceased. She looked up to find Beau staring at her.

“What?” She got to her feet, and her hands automatically drifted over her long black knit dress, checking the turtleneck collar, straightening seams, smoothing the line of the skirt.

He shook his head and smiled. “Nothing. Just admiring how you come into a room.”

The little trail of cast-offs around her drew her attention. In the course of three minutes she’d strewn more personal items into his living space than he kept there on a permanent basis. “Sorry. I’m not neat.” She made her way into the kitchen. “But I have other qualities.”

His smiled tightened into a cocky grin. “I’m intimately familiar with your qualities.”

She patted his cheek and gave him her own cocky grin. “You’ve only scratched the surface of my qualities.” She’d never witnessed him drink anything stronger than beer, so she was a little surprised to see he’d lined up a nearly full bottle of tequila, a still-sealed bottle of vodka, and three-quarters of a bottle of whiskey. “You were serious about that drink.”

“Any preference?”

“I prefer simple.” She reached up and opened the long, narrow cabinet to the right of the sink, pulled out two short tumblers and placed them on the counter. Then she unscrewed the top from the bottle of Jack and poured two fingers in each glass.

After handing him one, she lifted the other and tapped it to his. “To your brave, strong, totally kick-ass mom.”

“To Mom,” he echoed, and downed his drink.

She did the same and refilled their glasses. “To your dad, who keeps her path smooth, in that laid-back, quiet way of his.”

“To Dad.” He knocked back the second shot. She followed suit.

The throat of the bottle tinkled against the rim of the glass as she refilled their tumblers. After putting the bottle aside she lifted her shot. “To you, for being there, even though it’s scary. Even though she gave you an out because she’s trying to protect you.”

He downed the third shot without toasting, lowered his chin to his chest, and exhaled through his nose before replying. “I don’t need protecting.”

Those normally sharp brown eyes didn’t quite lock on his glass, or her, or anything he looked at. “Of course you don’t.” She poured more Jack into their tumblers. “You’re a big, strong, invincible guy. You can handle anything.” She tipped her head toward the living room. “Want to sit down?”

“Sure.” The word came out a little soft around the edges. Three shots in as many minutes had a noticeable effect on Mr. Invincible. She carried the bottle and her glass over to the coffee table and sank down on the sofa. He followed, and she noticed the little stumble and the way his lax body took an extra bounce when he plunked down beside her. He faced her and wound a stand of her hair around his finger while his eyes roamed her face. “You’re beautiful.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m getting there, but you’re still beautiful.” His eyes narrowed. “And sober.”

She folded her legs under her and turned her body toward his. “Honey, the man I dated my last two years of college and all through grad school came from a family of whiskey distillers. Me and Tennessee do just fine.”