Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency) (8 page)

“No need to dress up on my account.”

Chapter Eight

Beau’s feet were freezing, but the rest of him sweated under a strangely heavy fleece blanket. A way-too-warm fleece blanket. Apparently the blanket agreed, because it wiggled, and shifted, and then grew a leg and kneed him in the balls hard enough to make him grunt—and wake up.

A mass of blonde hair greeted his bleary eyes, and beneath the wayward strands he saw Savannah’s sleeping face. Dark blonde lashes didn’t so much as flutter. The imprint from the edge of the pillowcase creased one cheek. She had his blue comforter wrapped around her like a cocoon, with one smooth, slim leg kicked free and slung across his waist.

His abused balls immediately forgave her, and now he sweated for entirely different reasons. Reasons like imagining sliding his hand along her thigh, easing her onto her back and unwrapping her from the layers of blanket, sheets, and robe until he reached the warm flesh beneath. Waking her slowly—and then quickly—until she tangled her fingers in his hair and screamed loud enough to let everyone in the entire building know she was having a good morning.

Bad idea. They’d both agreed not to act on the attraction. Best to remove himself from temptation, because every second he remained here with her he got a little dumber. He slid out of bed as stealthily as possible and turned off his alarm. Whatever plans she had this morning, he doubted they required her to wake up at six. She snuggled into the warm spot left by his body and mumbled something that sounded a lot like, “Gotta check the pie.”

Sweet dreams, Savannah
.

He started his shower with a blast of frigid water, which took care of the lingering disagreement between his dick and his brain. After dressing for work, he headed to the kitchen and filled his commuter mug. Then he took a ceramic mug from the cabinet for his guest, but noticed the one sitting behind it and grabbed that one instead. It suited the occasion better. A brief rummage through his junk drawer turned up a notepad and pen. He scribbled a message to his fiancée and left both note and coffee on the nightstand next to sleeping beauty, who had managed to kick off all the covers and most of her robe in the time he’d been gone. She lay facedown across his bed, with one of nature’s best works of art on full display. Two shallow dimples guarded a perfect heart-shaped ass. For a pulse-pounding moment he imagined leaning over her, bracketing the spectacular sight, and rousing her with the kind of kiss destined to leave a mark on her and make him late for work. He could practically hear her moan his name in a sleep-husky voice, and feel her arch up, lift her hips to offer him—

A slap in the face, at worst, and a whole lot of complications, at best. Get moving, Montgomery. The only thing you’re riding today is a desk
.

A half hour later he stood in the break room, pouring his second cup of coffee when his partner, Hunter, wandered in. The rangy blond propped his hip against the counter, sipped his coffee, and smirked. “So, Humpty Dumpty, do anything exciting for Thanksgiving?”

Beau deliberately took his time topping off his mug and setting the carafe back on the warming plate. He waited until his partner had a mouthful of coffee before saying, “Got engaged.”

Hunter choked, and then erupted into coughs. “Holy shit. I did not see that coming.”

“Me either.”

Hunter pulled a small flashlight from his chest pocket and shined the beam into Beau’s eye. “Exactly how hard did you get hit in the head?”

He jerked his head away. “Cut it out. My brain’s functioning just fine. In fact, I had a flash of genius.” To prove it, he laid out the pertinent points of his so-called engagement.

“Holy shit,” Hunter repeated at the end of the explanation. “You’re temporarily in bed with the tasty little blonde across the hall?”

“We’re not ‘in bed,’ blockhead.” But they had been, last night, and waking up next to her had felt better than he cared to admit.

“Hunter Knox, I’m not your maid, and I’m not cleaning the rig all by myself,” an exasperated female voice interrupted. “Fetch your coffee, kiss your work-wife good-bye, and get your ass out to the garage.”

Beau glanced past his partner to an irate brunette who managed to look like a Hollywood version of a paramedic despite the standard-issue white shirt and dark blue utility pants. “Hey, Ashley.”

The shift supervisor’s flashing gray eyes switched to him and grew a little less irate. “Hi, Beau. How’s the head?”

“Still attached.”

“Try to keep it that way. The fewer calls I have to ride out on with the deadweight you call a partner, the better off the greater Atlanta area will be.”

“Pardon me for taking an extra minute, whip-cracker. My partner just told me he got engaged.”

“Oh, wow. Congratulations.” She crossed the room and gave him a hug. “I’m really happy for you.”

Over her shoulder he sent Hunter a glare he hoped conveyed his utter
What the fuck?
But his so-called partner refused to look him in the face. Ashley drew away, and Beau dredged up a smile for her. “Thanks.”

“I’ll want all the details later.” She took a step back. “And you have to bring her to the holiday party and introduce her.” Her attention clicked to Hunter, and her smile disappeared. “If you’re not out helping me clean the truck in three minutes, I’m going to back it over you.” With the threat hanging in the air, she turned on her heel and walked out.

As soon as she left, Beau punched his partner hard in the chest. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“Ow.” Hunter punched him back. “Nothing. I wanted her to know why I got distracted. You’re the one pretending to be engaged. I’m just making it look real.”

“I’m pretending to be engaged to my parents, and Savannah’s family. Not my coworkers. Not every ER doctor, nurse, and orderly in Atlanta.”

“So what if they think you’re engaged? Where’s the harm? It’s not like you’re dating anyone else, or almost dating anyone, or contemplating dating anyone.”

“But now I have to ask Savannah to come to the holiday party or everyone here will assume I think she’s too good for them. And when we
break up
, I’ll be the poor sap who couldn’t close the deal. No offense, but I’ve had enough sympathy for a lifetime.”

“Okay, fine. Sorry I didn’t think it through that far.”

“No, you were too busy trying to talk your way off Ashley’s shit list. It’s a lost cause.”

“I don’t know why.” Hunter picked up a stray napkin from the counter, crumpled it, and hurled it into the trash. “She treats everyone else around here like a professional, but with me, she’s all, ‘Get your lazy ass out to the garage and don’t hand me any excuses.’ I’m a nice guy. People like me—especially female people.”

“Could be you’re trying too hard. She smells the desperation on you.”

“What desperation? Normal women find me charming, dammit. I’ve got plenty of
friends
who can testify to my charm.”

“That looks a whole lot more desperate than you realize, Hunt.”

“Says the engaged virgin.”

“I’m no virgin.”

“You might as well be, for all you’ve used it lately.”

A memory of half-naked Savannah in his bed spun through his mind, taunting him more than anything his partner said. He held up a hand to reject all of it—the flashback, the powerful longing, the entire conversation. “I’ve used it.” One-night stands counted, and while he didn’t hook up often, he hadn’t taken a vow of chastity.

“Not in a meaningful way,” Hunter argued.

True. He avoided meaningful, unless one considered a few sweaty hours of strictly physical release with a like-minded partner meaningful. Even as the thought formed in his head, the image of Savannah stubbornly resurfaced. Time to shift the focus of this discussion away from him. “Your definition of meaningful involves having ‘plenty of friends.’ I think it’s safe to assume Ash doesn’t find the whole man-whore thing endearing.”

“Why should she care? She’s engaged to some jarhead—God help him—and I have a few morals about that kind of thing, anyway. All I’m asking is for a little respect.”

“I think you’re SOL, Aretha. Maybe you remind her of an ex, or something.”

“So I get my ass kicked just for showing up? How is that fair?”

“Why am I still waiting, Knox?” The question sailed into the break room from down the hall. Ashley’s patience had expired.

“Life’s not fair, Hunt.”

Hunter finished the last swallow of his coffee and banged the mug down on the counter. He tossed Beau a cocky smile. “I love a challenge.”

Beau waved at his partner’s back and tried hard not to laugh. Then he prayed for Atlanta, because Hunter and Ashley wouldn’t survive twelve hours together in the rig.

…

Savannah inhaled sheets that smelled like Tide, and the scent immediately transported her to her formative years. Were it not for the underlying notes of aftershave and testosterone, she might have believed she lolled in her childhood bed. But the havoc those additional scents wreaked on her system was anything but childish.

She cracked an eye open and stared around an unfamiliar bedroom. Well, not totally unfamiliar. It featured the same basic shape, size, and layout as hers, and served the same basic purpose, but otherwise, this stark, clutter-free blank canvas couldn’t have been more different.

Beau’s bedroom
. Whoops, she’d fallen asleep here after all. But where was the man of the house? She looked around the empty room. Her meandering gaze landed on the folded note propped against a coffee mug. She levered herself up on her arms, and—yikes. Her robe was tangled around her waist. When had that happened? Hopefully after Beau had left the room. A couple tugs righted the situation, and then she crawled over to the nightstand. The smell of coffee beckoned. Black, just like she preferred. She picked up the mug, took a taste, and paused to savor the brew. Not bad. Only after she swallowed did she notice the printing on the mug.

Feel safe at night. Sleep with an EMT
.

She laughed. Mission accomplished, and she did feel safe. But alone. Something about the quiet apartment told her she had the place to herself. The note sat on the nightstand like a tiny paper tent. She opened it and found a few lines of strong, spare script written across the page.

Thanks for checking on me last night.

Later,

Beau

P.S. Nice pjs.

Whoops, again. The only pjs she wore were the ones God had given her, and apparently she’d modeled them for Beau this morning. Falling asleep in nothing but a bathrobe certainly courted the risk, but she hadn’t counted on spending the night when she’d tossed the thing on to run across the hall and give him a vision test and memory quiz. Lord knew he’d handled more than his fair share of Savannah Smith T&A in the last twenty-four hours, but the thought of him looking his fill at some of the package while she slept left her a teensy bit embarrassed—and a lot turned on. She fanned her face with the note, and then, for some reason she couldn’t explain, brought the paper to her face and sniffed, mildly disappointed to find it didn’t smell like him. It didn’t smell like anything.

The bedside clock read half past seven. She needed to get a move on. Her bedroom wasn’t going to finish painting itself, and she’d spent some of her rapidly dwindling savings on discounted studio time at Glassworks this evening, in hopes of completing new pieces by the end of the month—on the nonexistent chance one of the galleries she’d queried decided to add her to their stable of artists on exhibit in time for Christmas. Now she could add Beau’s birthday present to her project list.

Another sip of coffee fortified her enough to get out of bed. The next sip got her moving toward the front door, and convinced her the coffee was too good to leave behind. She’d get the mug back to him later. Besides, if a girl couldn’t borrow a mug from her fiancé, the relationship needed work.

The sound of her phone greeted her as soon as she stepped into her apartment. It sat charging on her kitchen counter, and she picked it up to see Sinclair trying to FaceTime her. She hit accept and braced for anything.

Her sister’s smiling face filled the little screen—always an enviable sight. Whereas Savannah looked in a mirror and saw her mom’s untamable blonde hair, soft features, and curvy but diminutive frame staring back at her, Sinclair appeared to have cherry-picked the best of both parents. She had their dad’s thick black hair and tall, lean physique. They shared their mom’s eye color, but Sinclair’s inky hair intensified ordinary blue into something exotic.

Sinclair also got their dad’s dark, arching brows, and she raised one now for full, sardonic effect. “How’s one half of the happiest couple south of the Mason-Dixon line this fine morning?”

“I don’t know. Which half are you referring to? Mom or Mrs. Montgomery?”

Sinclair laughed, and the same mischievous dimple Savannah remembered sticking her finger in as a kid appeared in her sister’s cheek. “Might as well start calling Mrs. Montgomery Mom now, too, don’t you think?”

“I’m not calling her Mom unless I can blame her for all my shortcomings.”

“Bite your tongue. The beautiful and talented Savannah Smith has no shortcomings.”

“It’s too early in the morning to mock me.”

“I suppose you can be a tad moody.”

“That’s Mom’s fault.” She dropped into one of the chairs around her small dining room table—one of Beau’s chairs—and sipped Beau’s coffee from Beau’s mug. Definitely a theme going this morning.

“And vague—a trait you share with your soon-to-be spouse.”

A small knot of guilt twisted tighter in her stomach. “How so?”

“You asked me to design your rings, but neither of you gave me much to go on. I need details. What type of metal? Gemstones or no gemstones? A time frame would be helpful.” She held up a sketch pad filled with half a dozen small, intricately wrought designs. “I worked on some preliminary drawings when I got home last night, but I have no idea if I’m on the right track…”

The guilt knot turned into guilt macramé. “You’re not. No, that came out wrong. Your sketches are beautiful, but, Sinclair, put your pencil down.”

Her sister’s frown filled the screen. “What’s going on?”