Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency) (16 page)

“How’re we doing in there?”

We’re trying on a dress I’d have to sell a kidney to afford, for a wedding that’s never going to happen.
“Good.”

“Your mother, sister, and future mother-in-law are dying to see the gown on you,” the sales associate prompted. “Should I start the drum roll?”

“Sure.” She took a deep breath, pasted a smile on her face, and opened the door. The sales associate’s eyes moved over her in quick assessment.

“Go on out and step up on the riser. I’m going to grab my hem clips. Y’all are going to want to see the way this will actually look on the big day.”

Guilt stabbed Savannah as she walked to the main room of the boutique where her entourage sat chatting. The salesclerk clearly thought she was going to say yes to the dress. The willowy brunette was probably already mentally spending her commission check…hopefully not on shoes for her five fatherless children.

Three sets of eyes turned to her, and conversation stopped. After a beat or two of being silently stared at, she started to feel self-conscious. “This one’s pretty, but maybe a little too…too?”

Mrs. Montgomery let out one warning sniffle, and then dissolved into tears.

All of a sudden Savannah realized Beau’s mom had been through this ritual before. “Oh my God. I’m sorry. Is this stirring up painful memories?”

“No,” the older woman assured her between sobs. “Kelli’s dress was completely different, and perfect for her, but this dress…Savannah, this gown is perfect for
you
.” She offered up a watery smile. “I can’t wait to see Beau’s reaction.”

Yeah. That will be interesting
.

“You look lovely,” her mom agreed as she took a couple of tissues from the box the sales associate offered, and mopped her damp cheeks. “That is definitely the one.”

“You guys need to take it easy on the champagne.”

The saleslady knelt at the base of the riser and began clipping the hem at the front of the dress to the appropriate length. “Don’t think it’s just the champagne talking. The dress really does flatter you. I’ve developed sort of an eye for matching the gown to the girl.”

Guilt prickled again. Time for some honesty. “You absolutely have.” She ran her hand down the rich fabric and sighed. “I love this dress. It’s straight out of my dreams. And way out of my price range.”

“I wouldn’t be much good at matching the gown to the girl if I didn’t factor in the budget.” She stood and winked at Savannah. “Your mother and future mother-in-law have a surprise for you.”

Uh-oh.

“Cheryl and I are going splitzies on the dress,” her mother announced, beaming.

Savannah turned to Sinclair and caught her in the act of wiping her brimming eyes.

“What? It wasn’t my idea.”

No, she had a pretty good idea the moms came up with the gesture themselves, but her sister was sitting there, enabling all the same. “Stop crying. You haven’t had any champagne.”

“Can I help if I’m a sucker for a perfect wedding dress?”

“But you
know
we shouldn’t rush to a decision,” Savannah insisted and sent her sister the best
Help me!
stare she could manage.

Sinclair lifted one slim shoulder and let it drop. “You love the dress. It’s straight out of your dreams. What reason do I have for suggesting we sleep on it?”

She could think of three thousand reasons, but she couldn’t utter a single one.

“Please, Savannah, let your mother and me do this. You don’t know what it means to me to see Beau take another chance at love, marriage—sharing his life with someone. What happened with Kelli and Abbey shook his faith in everything, including himself. Trent and I feared he’d never open himself up to love again.”

Mercy, what could she say? “His ability to love so intensely is part of what makes him so amazing.”

“He does love intensely. I see the intensity when he’s with you. He reaches for you. He seeks comfort from you. He lets you in. You’re good for him, and he’s needed something good for a long time. We all have.”

Savannah sank into the empty chair on the other side of her mom. Condolences leaped to her tongue, but she held them back because she noticed Mrs. Montgomery’s voice remained stable and her eyes dry. This woman would burst into tears at the first hint of joyful news, but she’d learned to be strong in the face of adversity. She’d learned to be strong for her son.

Her heart broke for them all over again. “I can’t imagine how awful it was, for all of you.”

Cheryl nodded. “I don’t wish the experience on anyone, but I do wish I’d handled it differently.”

“You were there for him—”

“No, we were there
with
him, but not really for him. Trent and I allowed our grief to distract us from a troubling reality. Beau coped with his pain, and his profound sense of helplessness, by emotionally withdrawing from everyone. He took the same detachment he relies on to do his job effectively and applied it to all aspects of his life. Oh, he went through the motions of interacting, and maintaining relationships to a degree—a very superficial degree—but he wasn’t truly connecting anymore. We told ourselves to be patient. He’d let people back into his life when his heart healed. We also made excuses. Trent and I told each other, ‘It’s only been a year. Give him time.’ A year stretched into two, and then three, and we started to fear he’d never take down the wall he’d constructed around himself. And then suddenly he did, and we have you to thank.”

No words could express how badly Savannah wished the sentiments were true, but they weren’t. He still had the wall, and all she’d done was help him camouflage the barrier so the people who cared about him wouldn’t detect it. She stared at the floor because she couldn’t look anyone in the eye. “Please, don’t thank me. He loves you.” At least she could say that much honestly. This whole stupid deception arose out of his love for his parents and his desire to ease their concern. “Your patience and love made him realize he couldn’t lock his feelings away. Trust me, what Beau and I have wouldn’t exist if not for you.”

“You have it, and that’s what’s important,” her mom insisted. “Fate’s full of surprises, and some of them are happy ones. When the happy surprises come along, we grab on to them, and we celebrate.” She turned to the saleswoman and handed over her credit card. “We’ll take the dress.”

Sinclair gave Savannah a
told-you-so
look and Savannah recalled her sister’s prediction.
You and Beau are going to end up married through the sheer force of Mom’s will.

Cheryl sniffled. “Beau’s going to lose his mind when he sees you in that gown.”

Savannah and Sinclair responded at the same time.

“No doubt.”

Chapter Sixteen

The laughter echoing in the stairwell gave them away. Beau opened his door and stepped into the hall in time to see four tipsy women meander up the stairs, pausing every few steps to talk over one another and then dissolve into fits of giggles. His mom and Laurel had their arms looped around Savannah. Sinclair brought up the rear. Laurel leaned across Savannah and in a loud whisper said to his mom, “Now I just need to find someone for Sinclair, and then I can sit back and wait for grandbabies.”

Sinclair sighed, gave him a pointed look, and checked her watch.

Correction. Three tipsy women and one sober one—though he doubted Sinclair would stay that way for long after her designated driver duties ended. She herded everyone to the landing. Savannah looked up at him with wide, owlish eyes and hung back.

Hmm.

The moms spotted him. His called out, “There’s my boy!” The next thing he knew he was the recipient of two sloppy, unsteady mom hugs.

“Hey”—he caught each woman in an arm and supported them—“seems like you all had fun.”

Sinclair rolled her eyes and peeled the moms off him. “‘Fun’ is not the word. These two are mine. This one’s yours.” She nudged Savannah his way. “She’s hammered.”

He tucked Savannah under his arm and looked down at her. “Really?”

She nodded. “Lil’ bit.”

She smelled like tequila and…tequila. He knew she could handle her whiskey. How much tequila did it take to get her drunk?

“We went out to dinner, to celebrate,” his mom chimed in. “We found the perfect—”

“Shhh.” Savannah put a finger to her lips. “Secret, remember?”

“Oh, that’s right. I’m not supposed to tell him we picked out the perfect dress.”

Laurel burst out laughing, staggered into his mom, and hung on. “You’re like a vault, Cheryl.”

He turned to Savannah, who winced and evaded his gaze. “You picked out a dress? As in, bought it…already?” he added when he realized his incredulous tone sounded odd for a supposedly engaged man.

“Not
a
dress,” his mom scoffed. “
The
dress. You’re going to love it—and such a steal at just three thousand dollars.”

“Three thousand…” He couldn’t finish the figure. Speech failed him.

Savannah slumped against him and moaned. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Him, too. But now he understood why she’d resorted to the Jose Cuervo. Clearly the afternoon of dress shopping had gone off the rails. “I think everyone’s had enough excitement for one afternoon. Let’s go inside and have some coffee.” He swept her into his arms. She draped her hands around his neck and buried her face against the side of his throat.

“Sorry.”

No, that should have been his line. He’d dragged her into this. He kissed her sweaty forehead. “Everything’s okay, Smith. I’ve got you.”

The moms sighed in unison, and then his said, “Remember the time Savannah fell off Beau’s scooter and skinned her knee, and he carried her home?”

Savannah’s mom nodded. “I always knew these two were destined to be together.”

“On second thought, this might require a
lot
of coffee,” he muttered, and led the way into his apartment.

“I’ll make it,” Sinclair offered, and walked over to the machine sitting on his kitchen counter.

He set Savannah on the sofa and eased one tall red heel off her foot. “Cabinet above the machine.” He slid the other heel off, rotated her ankle in a slow circle, and smiled at her appreciative moan.

“Got it,” Sinclair called from the kitchen.

Savannah’s mom grabbed a magazine from the coffee table, sat down beside her daughter, and fanned her. “How’re you doing, honey?”

She leaned back and her eyelids drooped to half mast. “Good. No.” She straightened. “Not good.” Then she leaped to her feet, scrambled around him, and hurried down the hall.

“Oh dear,” his mom said. “Poor Savannah. What a way to end such a wonderful day.”

Laurel stood, weaving a bit on her feet. “I better check on her.”

He gestured Savannah’s mom back to her seat. “Sit. I’ll take care of her.”

A short trip down the hall and through his bedroom brought him to the closed bathroom door. He knocked once and then walked in. Savannah sat on the tile floor, her back propped against the tub, arms resting on her drawn-up knees. She raised her head and gave him a terrified look. “Three thousand dollars.”

He hunkered down next to her and gathered her up onto his lap. “Don’t panic.” He stroked her hair and tried for a joke. “We’ll return it when they’re not looking.”

Sinclair appeared at the door and handed him a bottle of water. “Nope.”

He took the bottle and offered it to Savannah. “Hydrate.” Then he looked up at Sinclair. “What do you mean, ‘Nope’?”

“Dresses need altering. They’ve already done the first cuts.” She leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms. “That sucker is nonreturnable.”

Okay, it took a moment to choke the news down, but he managed. “That is…unfortunate, but don’t worry, I’ll pay for it.”

A combination of a sob and a hiccup erupted from the woman on his lap. “T-that’s not the w-worst part.”

There was worse? He glanced at Sinclair. “It’s an ugly dress?”

“Gorgeous dress. She’s upset because the moms paid for it, as a wedding gift. There was no talking them out of it.”

Aw, fuck
.
This wasn’t about the damn dress. She was crumbling under guilt.

She sobbed harder, her tears soaking through his shirt, and now guilt—and something else he refused to name—formed an uncomfortable weight in his stomach. “Don’t cry. Please. There’s nothing for you to feel bad about. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I’m lying to our families. I’m a big lying liar.”

He pulled a towel off the rack above their heads, tipped her face up, and dried her tears. “You’re helping me heal my relationship with my parents, and you don’t deserve to spend a second feeling conflicted about it. What you’re doing means a lot to me.” He tightened his hold on her. “
You
mean a lot to me.” A flood of words gathered in his throat, but he swallowed them. He had a bad feeling what spilled out would break their “no complications” rule beyond repair.

As if it already isn’t, for you. You shattered the rule the first time you kissed her, and letting her go will feel like ripping open a wound you never should have left vulnerable in the first place.

The only thing he could avoid at this point was inflicting any wounds on her. “Any fallout from this is on me, understand?”

Sinclair coughed. He’d been so intent on easing Savannah’s conscience he’d forgotten she still stood there. “I’m going to go check on the moms,” she said quietly. “Give you two a chance to talk.”

He was racking up all kinds of debts to the Smith sisters. “Thanks.”

Savannah sniffed and rubbed her eyes. “We’ll be out in five.”

“Take your time,” she said, and shut the door behind her.

…

“How are you feeling?”

Savannah opened her eyes and stared into Beau’s. They’d said goodbye to their moms and Sinclair, and she’d wandered back to his bedroom and flopped across the bed while he’d washed up the coffee mugs. No leaving dishes until tomorrow for him.

“I’m okay.” Between washing her face, brushing her teeth, and downing two painkillers and a bottle of water, she felt almost human. The soft light from the bedside lamp didn’t hurt, either. She reached up and brushed her fingers through his hair. “Sorry about tonight. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I got stressed, and I didn’t handle it well.”

He gave her a quick smile and then flexed his arms and slowly lowered his body to hers. “Trust me, Smith. I’d be stressed to the breaking point if I spent the day dress shopping with our moms. Lucky for you”—he paused and bestowed a gentle kiss at her temple—“I know a foolproof”—another pause, another kiss on the opposite temple—“stress reliever.”

God, she was easy. She raised her chin and parted her lips, already anticipating the pressure of his mouth on hers. Instead he lifted himself off her. Before she could utter a word of protest, he swept her red sweater over her head and flipped her around so she lay facedown on the mattress.

“Um”—she popped her head up—“I’m not so sure this constitutes a foolproof stress relieverrrrr…” Her words trailed off as big, warm hands moved her hair out of the way and went to work on the sore spot where her neck met her shoulders. “Never mind.” Her muscles dissolved and her forehead hit the mattress. “I was wrong.”

“Too hard? Too soft?”

“No, no.” Those magic hands moved to her shoulders, and she bit back a moan. Sort of. “Just right.”

“Then relax.” He leaned in and his words feathered over her skin. “I told you I’d take care of you.”

His palms slid down her back, along either side of her spine. Every sweep of his thumbs released tension she hadn’t even realized her body held. Even her head felt better. He wrung the aches out like water from a sponge. When his thumbs found the dimples bracketing the base of her spine and pressed firmly, she groaned with relief.

Warm lips brushed the small of her back. Heat flowed in to replace the pain, and even though it felt like heaven, she raised herself onto her elbows and tried to roll away. Heat she could handle. There’d been heat between them from the very start. But this—his hands and mouth moving over her with tender yet erotic touches—made it too easy for her to feel cherished. Cared for. Loved. He made it too easy to let her soft heart hope for things she knew damn well he didn’t want to offer. Case in point? The debate she’d been having with herself about passing on the fellowship and accepting the offer from the gallery. How much of her indecision stemmed from her desire to stay right here, in his arms, enjoying moments like this?

Too much.

His hand at the center of her back stopped her roll. “Did I hit a sore spot?”

“No.” She blew her hair out of her face. “You hit all the right spots. No need for the seduction. I’m good to go.”

He settled her against the bed again and trapped her hips between his knees. “What part of ‘I’ll take care of you’ did you not understand?”

“The part where I had to lie here with a bad case of lady blue balls while you sat on me?”

He laughed, but only moved to shift himself lower. “Now you know. Shut up and let me finish my job.”

She shut up, closed her eyes, and somehow endured as he trailed his mouth up her spine, using his tongue to trace every single vertebra. The whiskers on his cheeks and jaw tickled her skin, and she nearly squirmed. Quick fingers unclasped her bra and then teased the sides of her breasts while he nibbled her shoulder.

When he slid his hands under her and cupped her breasts, she sank her fingers into the bedspread and tried not to beg.

“Still good to go?”

She didn’t trust her voice, so she nodded.

He rolled her over, and his eyes locked on hers. Slowly, purposefully, they slid down her body. His fingertips followed, gliding along her throat before trailing down her arms to draw the bra off. He popped the button on her jeans. The rasp of her zipper filled the room, and then he stood and tugged her jeans and underwear off.

Next came his shirt, and if he hadn’t already rendered her speechless, the sight of shadows and light playing over every hard-etched curve and angle of chest and abs would have done the trick. She folded her arms behind her head and waited for him to remove his jeans. He unbuttoned the fly, but didn’t take them off. Instead he knelt between her parted legs and kissed the inside of her knee. The scrape of whiskers contrasted with the soft kiss, and everything north of his lips started to tingle.

She levered herself up onto her elbows. “I appreciate the effort you’re putting in here, but it’s not necessary. I believe I mentioned my condition?”

He kissed the other leg, a little higher, and then deliberately ran his chin along her thigh until she shivered. “The lady blue balls?”

“Yep.”

“I’ve got the cure.” He moved to the other side and kissed her again, very high. She dropped back onto the mattress and sank a hand into his hair.

“I might not survive your cure.”

His laugh tickled her skin, and then he hitched her legs into his arms and forced them wider. “You’re safe with me.”

She braced for what came next, anticipating his hot mouth, his lips, teeth, and tongue driving her straight into a fast, hard orgasm. But he lied. She wasn’t safe at all, because he lowered his head and danced his tongue over her. Slowly, leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world and nothing more important to do than savor every second it took to reduce her to a trembling mass of need.

She tightened her fingers in his hair—probably too tight, but the urgency didn’t allow for manners. “Oh God.”

He came back for another pass. Her body tensed. Nerve endings caught fire. She blindly chased his tongue, which only made him tighten his hold to keep her hips still.

“Let me take care of you.” His plea caressed her, as torturously light as his touch. Then his lips closed over the part of her most in need of care and bestowed a featherlight kiss. Followed by another, and another. She rocked into him, as much as his hold on her hips would permit, while the need built into something crushing.

“Beau,” she breathed, but he didn’t increase the pressure or the pace, just kept driving her insane with those slow, unbearably gentle kisses. Even the smallest move of his jaw brought his whiskers into contact with oversensitized flesh, to the point she literally itched for more.

Did he understand what he was doing to her? He slid a hand up her body, over her stomach, her torso, to come to rest between her breasts. On either side of his wide hand, her nipples throbbed in time to the slow, steady pull of his lips between her legs. She closed her eyes and waited for him to touch the aching peaks. It took several seconds before she realized he wasn’t going to. No, he expected her to come like that, with his hand on her heart and his mouth slowly, patiently drawing the orgasm out of her.

“I can’t. I can’t…”

She sucked in a breath for a third denial, and that’s when he proved her wrong. She could. She did, with devastating intensity. All the more devastating because he stayed with her, using increasingly light strokes to prolong every wave of pleasure. When he finally eased away, even she couldn’t identify the sound that came out of her—some kind of moan.