Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency) (5 page)

“For me, it was the little things. The way you sing in the shower. The way you bite your lip when you’re trying to make an important decision. The home-baked apple pie might have been a factor.”

Those naked lips quirked into her tilted smile, and he silently added that to his list.

“You’re good at this. But you should fall in love with my talent, too. I’m an artist. My professional name is S.E. Smith, and without her in the mix, I’m just another pretty face.”

Untrue, but now wasn’t a wise moment to point out all the other talents he’d noticed every time she’d gone up or down the stairs at Camden Gardens. Never would be the better time for that conversation. He straightened. “I have to confess I don’t know shit about art. Give me a couple catchphrases so I don’t sound like an asshat talking about how your work captures the complex, shifting essence of what it means to be human.”

Her laugh eased some of the tension in the room. “Lucky for you, I went through my ‘complex, shifting essence’ phase years ago. I’m a glass artist.”

“Right. Glass artist. I’m not sure what that means.”

“I blow glass. You should come down to Glassworks Studios—that’s where I rent furnace time—and see for yourself. But in the meantime, just use words like ‘colorful,’ ‘vibrant,’ and ‘extremely breakable.’ If you really want to impress my family, you can say my work looks like Dale Chihuly had a tempestuous affair with Queen Elsa from
Frozen
.”

“You’re way better than Dale Chihuahua.”

His ignorance earned him another throaty laugh. “And that’s why I fell for you.”

“Because of my art appreciation?”

“Because you make me laugh.” She fiddled with the collar of his shirt, and her smile turned sly. “Plus I like how you fill out your paramedic’s uniform.”

The comment surprised him. Not the flirtatiousness—he’d never mistaken her for shy—but based on her boyfriend choice, he’d pegged her for the suit-and-tie type. “I didn’t realize you’d noticed.”

“Are you kidding? We all noticed.”

“We all?”

“Mrs. Washington in one-twenty-two—”

“Shut up. She’s ninety years old.”

“Nothing wrong with her eyesight. She fans her face and says, ‘Oooh mercy, dat ass,’ every time you walk by. And Steven in one-oh-two says next time the temperature hits triple digits, he’s going to fake a swoon and hope for mouth-to-mouth.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and added, “Don’t tell him I divulged his plan.”

As a rule, people in medical professions didn’t embarrass easily, but the thought of his neighbors discussing his…assets…did the trick. “His plan contains a fundamental flaw. He has to do more than pass out to get the kiss of life.”

The corners of her mouth tightened, pushing her lips into a sexy little pout, and his lip-biting fantasy returned in full force.

“I had no idea paramedics were so stingy with the mouth-to-mouth.”

“We like to play hard-to-get.”

Amusement danced in her eyes. “In that case, I guess I should be flattered by your offer.” She smoothed her fingers over his shoulder and down the front of his shirt, frowning slightly as her hand came to rest in the center of his chest. “There’s a lot of chemistry here, but for both our sakes, we probably shouldn’t act on it.”

She’d read his mind. Why the relief her words should have brought felt more like irritation, he couldn’t say. She’d just come out of a relationship, and if he interpreted the theme of this morning’s music medley correctly, she wasn’t looking to get involved again soon. His default setting was “not looking to get involved.” Even if they were looking, getting involved with each other put a lot at risk. “We’re on the same page,” he said, and told the renegade in his jeans to calm down. “No complications.”

She nodded. “Agreed. No complications.” But her frown deepened. “Our families might expect an occasional display of affection.”

His right palm tingled with the phantom weight of her breast, and his left hand twitched at the memory of cupping her tight, round ass. “I’m sure we can muster up something convincing.”

“I don’t know. You’re blushing pretty hard right now just thinking about it.”

“I’m blushing thinking about my pervy neighbors speculating on my mouth-to-mouth skills.”

“If you say so.”

The allegedly logical part of his mind insisted she had a point. “You want a demonstration?”

She tipped her face up, shook her hair back, and he caught a flowery hint of shampoo or perfume, or maybe just
her
drifting under the antiseptic hospital smell.

“A dress rehearsal might be in order. I don’t mean to criticize, but the last time you kissed me, your technique needed work.”

He had no idea what she was talking about, but he had a strong and unwise desire to trace every curve of her teasing grin with his tongue. See if she tasted as sweet as she smelled. “I think you’re confusing me with someone else, Smith. We’ve never kissed before.”

“My mom’s got a photo that tells a different story.”

Another small step on her part brought her body flush against his. The move produced a swift inhale from her, and then her eyes rounded at the evidence of what he’d
mustered
up pressing against her stomach. He found both reactions extraordinarily gratifying. She rested her palms on his chest. Having her hands on him also didn’t suck. “Exactly how old was I in this alleged kissing photo?”

Her gaze traveled over his face and came to rest at his mouth. “Fairly young…and fairly naked. We both were. To be honest, if not for the nudity, I’d have a hard time telling us apart.” She licked her lips.

“Well, brace yourself, Savannah. I’m all grown up, and you’ll know which one is me, even with our clothes on.”

Eyes locked on hers, he lowered his head. Her eyelids drifted down, her body melted into his…

“Hold up there, Romeo. This here’s an ER, not a kissing booth.”

Chapter Five

Dammit. His better judgment needed to get a leash on his libido, or these next few weeks would be torture. Beau reluctantly dropped his arm from Savannah’s waist and stepped away as Delilah West walked into the exam room.

“That’s right. Back away from the blonde. You keep your lips to yourself for the next little while and let your brain have the oxygen.”

That drew his attention away from the mouth he’d been a hairbreadth from sharing oxygen with. He turned to the doc. “Seriously?”

She nodded. “’Fraid so. CT shows a little swelling. Are you scheduled to work tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations, you’ve got the day off, or go in and do administrative stuff if you’re like me and always have a stack of paperwork on your desk. After tomorrow, if you feel fine, you can go back in the bus.”

“Shit.” So much for downplaying the incident with the rest of the crew. By this time tomorrow everyone he worked with would know he’d gotten a concussion and a headful of stitches for Thanksgiving. He could already hear them talking trash and calling him Frankenstein. Heartless motherfuckers. All of them. He might as well save himself some trouble and get a middle finger tattooed on his forehead.

Delilah motioned him to the exam table and began assembling a tray of supplies to stitch up his cut. “Can someone check on you tonight? Wake you up a couple of times and make sure you know your name, date of birth, and how many fingers they’re holding up?”

His parents would stay if he asked them, but his one-bedroom apartment offered no comfortable space for guests. His partner, Hunter, could crash on his couch. He’d bitch like the princess with the pea about spending a night on the sofa, but he’d do it. “Yeah, I’ll get—”

“I can,” Savannah said.

He glanced over at her. She wore a guilty I-gave-him-brain-damage look.

“Perfect.” Delilah ran down the symptom list with Savannah while she prepped him for stiches, concluding with, “Do you want to stay while I close this up, or would you like to step out to the waiting area?”

“She’ll stay.” High-handed of him, yes, but he wanted to present a united front to their parents. They didn’t have their story tight, and if they got out of sync, the charade would be over before they made it out of the ER.

…

Watching Dr. West suture a neat line of stitches along the top of Beau’s forehead didn’t tie a knot in Savannah’s stomach. The older woman worked with the speed and efficiency of someone who knew what she was doing. Receiving the list of instructions and symptoms to keep an eye out for didn’t raise her stress level much. But tendrils of tension unfurled in her stomach when Beau linked his fingers through hers and led them to the waiting room—and their parents—all of whom stood as they approached.

The moms clucked over the bandage on his forehead and the stitch count. Seven. Beau downplayed the concussion to a lingering headache, and gave her hand a thankful squeeze when she refrained from blurting out the actual diagnosis, which probably made her the world’s best fake fiancée.

And a crappy fake daughter-in-law
, a little voice in her head tacked on as they made their way out to the cars. Whatever. None of this was likely to earn her any honesty points, but going along with the omission seemed like the kind of thing a real fiancée might do to spare her future in-laws a sleepless night.

They re-formed their rush-to-the-hospital groups for the trip home, and Savannah spent the ride in the back of the Navigator again, buckled next to Beau. This time the moms didn’t have a medical emergency to distract them, and they jumped right into information-gathering mode.

“So,” Beau’s mom prompted, “tell us how he popped the question.”

Following his advice to stick to the truth, she responded, “Um. Very unexpectedly,” and glanced sideways at him.

“Really?” Her mom’s eyebrows lifted. “No need to play coy, Savannah. Sinclair told us you suspected last night’s dinner would include a proposal.”

Shoot. She straight up sucked at this. Less than a minute into the official spinning of the web of lies and already caught in an inconsistency of her own making.

Beau laughed and brushed her hair behind her shoulder, as if he’d performed the small, intimate gesture a thousand times before. She shivered as his fingertips lingered on the curve of her ear. “Guess I tipped my hand when I told you to wear something pretty?”

She turned to him, grateful for the rescue line. “I hoped you’d ask. I had a feeling, but I didn’t take it as a foregone conclusion.”

A teasing smile didn’t quite overshadow the sympathy lurking in his eyes. Yes, they’d touched on her situation before, but now she was one of two people sitting in the car who realized she’d gone to dinner last night expecting to become someone’s one and only, and instead came home alone. She looked away and blinked rapidly. A lump formed in her throat.

“What did you wear, honey?” her mom asked.

Beau beat her to the response while she battled the lump.

“She wore a purple dress that turned her eyes violet and turned me into the most envied man in the restaurant.”

Okay, two things just became immediately apparent. He really did have amazing powers of observation, and she should let him do most of the talking, since he could come up with a line like that from a two-second glimpse of her yesterday evening when she’d passed him in the hall on her way to meet Mitch.

“Which restaurant?” This time Beau’s mom posed the question.

Savannah held her tongue, waiting for him to respond, but he didn’t automatically toss out a place. Maybe he wanted her to go ahead and name the actual restaurant? The silence stretched.

“Le Bistro,” she blurted, at the same time Beau said, “Barcelona.”

“Le Bistro Barcelona,” she stammered. “It’s new…French-Spanish fusion.”

Beau’s mother laughed and turned in her seat to beam at them. “Olé and ooh la la! Sounds very sophisticated. I remember a time when this one wouldn’t eat anything he couldn’t pronounce.”

“I still don’t, but I can pronounce more stuff now.”

“Hmm.” Mrs. Montgomery faced front again, her smile undimmed. “I’d say someone broadened your horizons. Keep at him, Savannah. He’s a diamond in the rough.”

“Speaking of diamonds,” her mom broke in, “I can’t wait to see the ring!”

Dang. Her either. Nothing in her jewelry box could pass for an engagement ring. She stared at her naked left hand, and then at Beau. He ran his thumb over her ring finger and gave her an almost imperceptible headshake. Message received. He had nothing.

Stick to the truth as much as possible
. Savannah cleared her throat and leaped into the void. “Well, actually, the thing about the ring is…I guess I talk about Sinclair’s talents a lot, because Beau knew when it came to something as important as the rings we’d use to symbolize our love, I’d want her to design them. We planned to ask her today after we made our big announcement.”

Their moms sighed in unison, but she battled a stab of regret. Her sister designed and created gorgeous, distinctive, and increasingly coveted jewelry, and Savannah had secretly dreamed of someday asking Sinclair to design her rings, but now she’d wasted the once-in-a-lifetime special gesture on this sham engagement. When she finally found the right man to spend the rest of her life with, how could she go to her sister and ask her to design the “perfect rings” for her again? On the other hand, if Mitch had gotten down on his cheating knee last night and proposed, he probably would have presented her with a standard platinum-and-diamond solitaire of whatever color, cut, clarity, and carat befitted the spouse of a junior partner at Cromwell & Cox. He would have wanted the same when it came to the wedding rings, because why spend money on an outward show of sentiment if it didn’t also convey a definitive message about his taste, status, and money?

She’d dodged a Tiffany & Co. bullet when she got right down to it, and from here on out she should take a page from Beau’s playbook—specifically the “not worry about the future” page. Hell, maybe there was no right man for her? She ought to enjoy this fake engagement to the utmost, because it could be the closest she came to fulfilling the silly wedding fantasies she carted around in her mental hope chest.

Her mom steered the Navigator into a guest spot near the entrance to the complex and the dads pulled into the open slot beside them. “Any thoughts on a dress yet? I know you don’t consider yourself a traditional girl, but you look nice in white.”

“I don’t know, Mom.” Strapless white mermaid dress. Hair swept up, no veil, and the tallest heels she could find.

Beau held the door for her, helped her out of the car, and kept her hand clasped in his. Goodness, she’d never had such an attentive fiancé.

“If you’re planning a spring wedding, you’ve got plenty of time to shop,” Mrs. Montgomery pointed out as they made their way upstairs.

“But if you want to move more quickly…”

“Jesus, Mom—”

“What? Oops. That came out wrong. I’m not saying you
need
to move more quickly. Um…do you?”

“Should I get my shotgun?” her father joked, sending her a wink.

“Only if you want me to use it on Mom.”

They stopped in front of her door. Beau raised their joined hands to his mouth and kissed her wrist. “We haven’t talked about timing yet, but there’s no particular rush.”

The first touch of his lips to her skin since they were babies sent a current of heat straight up her arm. Yes, he could muster up a convincing public display of affection. Too convincing. A thousand new ideas about her fantasy wedding ran through her mind…all of them involving the wedding night and those lips of his roving over her entire body.

The door swung open. “Oh my God, you two. Get a room.” Sinclair fanned her face.

Beau nudged her inside, and the sarcastic retort on the tip of her tongue evaporated as she took in the dining table, complete with seven settings and two extra chairs she suspected Sinclair had lugged over from Beau’s apartment. The handblown champagne flutes she’d made years ago sparkled against the Irish lace tablecloth Grandma Smith had given her when she left home for college. She’d used it precisely once, and couldn’t even guess which drawer or cabinet Sinclair had dug it out of. The drop cloth from her bedroom had been folded into a rectangular banner and now hung across the kitchen archway, with bold yellow letters painted across the front, reading “Congratulations!”

“Wow. The place looks amazing. I can’t believe you went to all this trouble.”

She shrugged. “I had time to kill, and I wanted today to be special, despite not going as planned.”

Salt stung the backs of her eyes. She laid the blame for her hyperemotional state on a sleepless night, her not-gone-as-planned life, and plain, old-fashioned guilt. Sinclair had invested considerable effort on account of a lie.

What if there is no such thing as a harmless deception?

Oh God. She couldn’t do this.