Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency) (6 page)

Chapter Six

Savannah wore her emotions the same way she wore her clingy black thermals—as if she had nothing to hide. Fine and dandy, when it came to the shirt and leggings, not so fine when it came to the panic Beau read clear as day in her eyes.

“Thanks, Sinclair. Today is special, no matter what happens.” He dropped a hand to the nape of Savannah’s neck and gently squeezed the muscles knotted there. They relaxed infinitesimally under his touch, and she exhaled slowly.

He understood her second thoughts. Honestly, he did. The conversation during the drive home, the celebratory homecoming Sinclair arranged, all took their deception out of the hypothetical. Shit had gotten real, and now they both realized pulling this off involved a big lie supported by a hundred little ones. While the end, for him, justified the means, it might not for her. They were his parents, after all, not hers, and she would have a harder time reconciling her desire to ease their minds with her discomfort over deceiving her loved ones.

As much as he wanted to pull her aside and give her a pep talk, she deserved some time alone to run the reconciliation for herself. Normally, an apartment full of family precluded significant alone time, but he could buy her twenty minutes or so, depending on how fast she scrubbed.

“Will anyone starve if I grab a shower before dinner?”

“Goodness no,” Mrs. Smith said. “I’m sure both of you would like to clean up.”

Sinclair marched over to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of champagne from inside, and held it up. “We’ll be fine.”

“Okay. Great. I’ll be back in a few.” He turned to head over to his apartment, but caught his mom watching him expectantly. And Savannah’s mom. And Sinclair.
What?
Then he looked at Savannah, and her words from earlier came back to him.

Our families might expect an occasional display of affection.

Apparently so. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her in close, and lowered his head to give her a kiss. She tipped her face up and puckered her lips for a quick, affectionate peck. Perfect. That’s all they needed. His lips brushed hers, and…

The velvety cushion gave under the pressure of his mouth. And gave. And kept on giving. His brain shouted,
Abort!
but his lips disregarded the order and went back for more while the rest of his body enjoyed a surge of desire more powerful than he’d experienced in a long time. A very long time. Too long.

Those soft lips opened for his tongue, and her fingers curled into the front of his shirt. Other parts of him went rogue, and the next thing he knew, he had a handful of her sweet, round ass. Her quick intake of breath shot another hot bolt of lust through him. He tightened his grip. She grasped his shoulders and came up on her tiptoes, and he imagined the scrape of her nipples over his chest through the layers of clothes. He plunged his fingers into her hair and pulled her even closer, took the kiss deeper…

Montgomery, you are fucked
.

“Don’t mind me. I’m just gonna stick my head in the freezer for a second.”

Sinclair’s comment pierced the fog of need obliterating his self-control. He pulled back, as did Savannah. They both dropped their hands and stepped away from each other, which only made the moment more awkward. Awkward for everyone, judging by the sound of his father clearing his throat. So much for a casual farewell. There was nothing quick or affectionate about the kiss, and the intensity of the attraction might well work against him, because Savannah looked downright shell-shocked. He probably looked the same.

No means of silently reassuring her they could stick to the plan sprang to mind, so he went with retreat and turned to leave. And nearly barreled into his mom. She hugged him, and he inhaled the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5.

“Even with a trip to the emergency room, this easily ranks as the best Thanksgiving ever. For the first time in too long, we feel truly thankful.”

He hugged her back and glanced over his shoulder at Savannah. She sent him a weak smile.

“I’m glad,” he murmured, broke eye contact to kiss his mom’s cheek, and hoped for the best as he walked across the hall.

He showered in surprisingly little time—gotta love water-based paint—and changed into the one pair of black dress pants in his closet and a light gray cashmere sweater his mom had bought him somewhere along the line. A sarcastic voice in the back of his head asked him if he seriously believed pants and a sweater competed with Brooks Brothers. He told the voice to shut the fuck up.

A short call to work sorted out the schedule for tomorrow. He’d come in and do desk stuff if he felt up to it. With that loose end tied off, he made his way back to Savannah’s apartment and slipped inside to figure out if any true confessions had occurred during his absence.

Both sets of parents, and Sinclair, sat around the coffee table. Next to the bowl sat an uncorked bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket. At least one round of toasts had been made by the looks of things, and he took it as a sign he was still engaged. Sinclair and the moms sipped champagne on the sofa. The dads occupied the armchairs, their attention riveted on a bowl game, but their eyes lit up when he moved deeper into the room and they spied the sixer of SweetWater he carried. His dad rose to relieve him of two bottles.

All of this registered in the periphery, though, because Savannah walked in from the kitchen and claimed his attention. She must have put her hair up when she’d showered. It cascaded over her shoulders, with just a few damp tendrils gleaming in the light from the dining room fixture. She leaned over and placed a gravy boat on the table. The neckline of her black sweater gaped, and he caught a wisp of black lingerie before she straightened and absently adjusted the top. Was she wearing the same bra she’d had on before? Hard to say, but a picture of her pale, generous breasts encased in the black lace flashed through his memory, and now he had some adjusting to do.

He took care of it as discreetly as possible while putting the beer in her fridge. Behind him, Savannah announced, “Dinner is served.”

Everyone flowed into the dining area and took seats around the table. He sat opposite Savannah, with his mom on his left and his dad on his right. They joined hands for silent grace, said amen, and then…holy shit, he should have prayed for mercy because the conversation took a fast, dangerous turn and dragged him along like a tin can tied to a bumper.

Savannah’s mom passed the potatoes and said, “We should shop for dresses when you come home for the Daughters of Magnolia Grove Christmas Eve dinner.”

His parents turned to him in unison. “You’re coming home for Christmas Eve?” His mom asked the question cautiously. Hopefully.

Hell, no. The last time he’d come home for Christmas Eve, Kelli had been pregnant. Life had seemed so bright and shiny and full of blessings. Less than a year later fate had snatched all those blessings away. He’d skipped the occasion—and the painful memories of what should have been—ever since.

“I don’t—”

“We wouldn’t miss it,” Savannah interrupted, and gave him an impatient look. One that said,
You’re doing this to make them happy, so make them happy already
.

Fuck. He hadn’t requested the time off. He’d be swapping shifts and owing favors to God and everyone just to clear his schedule.

“We’ll have to ride our contractor to get the basement done in time,” his dad said to his mom, and shot him a grin. “You and Savannah will be the first to try out our guest suite.”

There you go, Smith. Want to bite back the “We wouldn’t miss it”?

She chugged her champagne, swallowed with an audible gulp, and said, “Guest suite?”

“Oh, yes,” his mom chimed in, nodding. “It will be very comfortable. King bed, fireplace, fancy bathroom. There’s even a small, separate sitting room.”

“That is so sweet of you, but I wouldn’t want to impose, or make anyone uncomfortable,” Savannah said.

“Oh please.” Her mom dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand. “You’re full-grown adults, you’re engaged, and you practically live together as it is.” She pointed in the general direction of Beau’s apartment across the hall. “Besides, if you’re in the Montgomerys’ basement, that leaves our spare room available for Sinclair.”

“Hey now”—Sinclair froze with her fork halfway to her mouth—“I have a perfectly good place of my own.”

“Honey, I refuse to leave you holed up in that barn you call home over the holidays. You’ll spend Christmas with us. Your sister and Beau will stay with the Montgomerys. It’s settled.”

“Sounds”—Savannah swallowed again, and her lips drifted into the off-center smile—“lovely.”

“After Christmas, I’ll set up meetings and tours at the country club, Lakeview Landing, and the Oglethorpe Inn,” her mother continued, then looked at Beau’s mom. “Anywhere else, Cheryl?”

“Maybe the Whitehall Plantation?”

Mrs. Smith pointed a finger at his mom. “Absolutely.” Her finger shifted to him and Savannah. “You two should see what these places have to offer as possible wedding venues.”

Were the walls closing in? Suddenly he was spending Christmas in Magnolia Grove, sharing a bed with a woman he’d just promised himself he wouldn’t complicate things with, and touring half the county for potential wedding sites. Hell, he might even have to plunk down a nonrefundable deposit to make the charade look real. When he’d thought about a hundred little lies, he hadn’t anticipated taking their show on the road and putting on an act for his entire hometown. The lidocaine from the stitches started to wear off, and his head ached like a son of a bitch.

But he took in the sight of his parents leaning toward each other, strategizing about how to get the basement done in time, and where to put the tree, and he felt the tightness in his chest abate. They glowed with anticipation. All he had to do was stay the course and he’d give them the merriest Christmas they’d had in a long time. They deserved it.

So he plastered a smile on his face, fielded questions as best he could, and nodded with Savannah when his parents mentioned they’d be back in Atlanta the following week for an appointment with a specialist and wanted to take their son and future daughter-in-law out for dinner. At the end of the evening he congratulated himself when both sets of family huddled for a last round of hugs before meandering down the hall, leaving a trail of chatter behind them.

“Drive safe,” Savannah called, and shut the door. Then she sagged against it, expelled a breath, and rubbed her hands over her face in a gesture he already recognized signaled fatigue.

“Thank you.” His quiet words seemed to fill the apartment.

She straightened and smiled up at him. “You’re welcome. All in all, I thought it went pretty well.”

“You did amazing. My parents are high-fiving each other right now.”

“I’d say both sets of parents are high-fiving right now. I’m almost offended.” She moved away from the door. “I had no idea I was such a lost cause.”

“You’re the catch. I’m the lost cause.”

Her eyes roamed his face for a long moment. Finally, she said, “Nobody’s caught and nobody’s lost. We’re both works in progress.”

Her fingertips skimmed along the front of his hair. She was a toucher, he’d already noticed, and anything textured drew her—the flannel shirt he’d worn to the hospital, his sweater, his hair. As an artist, the tactile tendency probably came with the territory, but he’d have to get used to it or spend the next few weeks dealing with a constant hard-on.

“How’s your head?”

Let me pull it out of my pants and check.
It felt like someone had taken a hammer to his frontal bone, but he said, “Fine.”

“Sure it is. And your eye always twitches in time to the invisible drummer banging on your skull.” She strolled into the kitchen, opened a cabinet, and pulled out an industrial-sized bottle of ibuprofen. “How many would you like?”

So much for his tough-guy stoicism. “Three hundred.”

She laughed, tipped three tablets into her palm, and handed them to him, along with his glass of water from dinner.

He downed the pills while Savannah yawned so big he could have examined her tonsils if she hadn’t brought her fist up to block her mouth. “Tired?”

“I guess I am.” She leaned against the kitchen counter and glanced at the clock on her stove. “God, how pathetic. It’s not even nine.”

“I’ll shove off and let you get some rest. Tomorrow I’ll come by, get my chairs, and we can talk. Decide how we play this thing out.”

“Wait.” She held out her hand, palm up. “I need a key so I can wake you up later and make sure your brain isn’t swelling.” With her other hand, she unconsciously smoothed her sweater over her hips.

Something was swelling, but not his brain. “You’re tired. Get some sleep. I’ll be fine.”

“Uh-uh.
I
won’t be fine. Dr. West gave me very specific instructions and I’ll lose sleep worrying about you if I don’t follow them to the letter. Name, birthday, and finger count, once at eleven and again at three. Two check-ins mandatory and a third at seven recommended. I’ve already set my alarm.”

“I don’t remember her using the word ‘mandatory.’”

“Are you afraid I’m going to laugh at your jammies or something?”

He spent another useless minute arguing the check-ins weren’t necessary, but she pulled out the symptom sheet she’d gotten at the hospital, ticked off headache, irritability, and memory loss, and suggested maybe she should go ahead and call an ambulance. He relented, retrieved his extra key, and handed it over with an exasperated, “See you at eleven. For the record, I sleep naked.”

“For the record, I’ve already seen you naked,” she tossed back, just before she closed the door.

Very funny. Sharing a bath as infants hardly qualified as seeing him naked. Even so, he caught himself smiling as he got ready for bed. In deference to his night nanny, he left the hall light burning, and pulled on an old pair of sweatpants and a not-so-old white T-shirt before he crawled into bed. He picked up the remote from his nightstand and turned on the TV centered on the wall across from his bed. With the sound down, he clicked over to the sports network, thinking he’d catch some final scores, but then found himself listening to Savannah humming to herself through the wall. It took him a moment to place the song.