Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency) Page 11

  “Sweet mercy, I can’t feel my limbs,” a breathless voice said from somewhere near his ear.

  Him either, now that she mentioned it, but he put his weight on them anyway, because otherwise he was crushing her. He pried his eyelids open as he levered himself off, but stopped short at the sight of flushed, feminine satisfaction lying in boneless disarray on the table.

  Her eyelids fluttered open. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

  “I am.” Because he couldn’t resist, he slowly lowered his chest to hers and placed a quick, hard kiss on her mouth. Then he reached down between their bodies to pinch the base of his cock and hold the condom in place while he…oh shit.

  No condom. The oversight never entered his mind until now. He’d only had unprotected sex with one woman in his life, and they’d had a daughter together. Granted, they’d planned on conceiving and given the whole endeavor plenty of enthusiastic effort, but the point was, he wasn’t shooting blanks.

  Fuck. He eased out and glanced at Savannah. She stretched, smiled, and then held out her tangled wrists to him. “Can you do the honors?”

  As soon as he freed her hands and pointed out he’d jumped her without taking any precautions, she’d probably deck him. And he deserved it. He untwisted the bra straps from around her wrists, then the shirt, and offered them to her, along with a hand to help her sit up. “We”—he broke off and cleared his throat—“that is, I, neglected to use protection. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh.” Her smile faded, and her glow dimmed a little. “I’m sure we’re okay. I’m on the pill for contraception, I’m healthy, and in the past I’ve always used a condom.”

  Relief washed through him. He wallowed in it for a moment before his conscience reminded him to return the favor. “Me, too. Healthy, I mean. I’m not on the pill.”

  She patted his hand. “I’ve got you covered.” Her words came easily, but she looked away and started pulling on her clothes. He tucked himself into his briefs, fastened his jeans, and crouched to pick up her jeans and underwear from the floor where he’d tossed them.

  She gave him a perfunctory smile as she took the clothes, and then focused her attention on getting dressed. “To what do I owe the visit? Based on the lack of preparation, I have to assume you didn’t come here for this.” She hitched up her jeans and then waved a hand over her pelvis.

  Her careless question didn’t fool him, and his reason for coming could wait. He stepped close, cupped her jaw, and kissed her pursed lips, sucking and nibbling until they softened. She let out a low sigh and brushed her fingertips along the short hair at the back of his neck. After a moment he drew away and rested his forehead on hers. “The apology was strictly for forgetting to use protection. If you need an apology for the rest of it, I’m going to have to disappoint you.”

  She laughed. “No. You’re three-for-three. I’d be insulted if you apologized. I hope you’re not expecting one, either. I know we agreed not to complicate things.”

  “And we haven’t. Not really,” he added when she would have interrupted, but a cynical voice in the back of his mind wondered which one of them he was trying to convince. “You’re leaving in a month. The mandatory expiration date eliminates any possible complications. We both know where this ends.”

  “Venice. Italian prince. Half-dozen bambinos and happily ever after?” She tipped her head and shook out her hair.

  “Right.” He picked up the UPS envelope from beneath the table where it had fallen and offered it to her, but for some idiotic reason a vision of her riding along the Amalfi Coast in a convertible with the wind in her hair and some slick Italian dude at her side made his gut clench.

  She took the envelope, tore the tab open, and pulled out an itinerary. “Looks like this ends at 11:30 a.m. on January first.”

  He ignored the uptick in his heartbeat. “That gives you plenty of time.”

  Dark blonde brows arched. “Plenty of time for what?”

  “Plenty of time to test my average.”

  …

  Savannah balanced the fresh-baked apple pie in one hand, tightened her hold on the handle of her oversize shopping bag, and knocked on Beau’s door. He answered almost immediately, unreasonably handsome in an off-white fisherman’s sweater with the sleeves shoved up. Dark blue cords completed the ensemble.

  “You’re early.” His slow smile sent all sorts of suggestions to her erogenous zones about how they could pass the extra time. “I forgive you, because that pie looks amazing.”

  “Apple. I baked it this morning, in honor of my future in-laws’ visit. I figured we could come back here after dinner for dessert and coffee.”

  “You’re making me look good.” Then he took in the bag, and his smile faltered. “What’s this?”

  “Your parents will be here in less than an hour, and they’re going to expect an apartment full of commingled stuff.” She handed him the pie, hefted the bag, and told her sex drive to settle down. “Prepare to commingle.”

  He eyed the tote like it contained a live hornet’s nest. “That’s a big-ass bag. You sure you’re leaving any room for me in this mingle?”

  “Relax. I only selected essentials. Everything I brought serves a particular function in making this engagement look real.”

  She walked to the kitchen and put the bag on the counter. He followed, placed the pie on the stove, and hovered as she took out a matching set of red-and-white hand towels decorated with snowflakes, folded them, and draped them over the handle to the freezer portion of his refrigerator. She Frisbee’d a matching pot holder onto the counter next to the stove.

  “Turning my kitchen into a Bed Bath & Beyond is essential?”

  “Consider this the bare minimum. I only wish I had time for curtains.”

  She opened the fridge and placed a six-pack of diet soda, a bottle of chardonnay, and four Greek yogurts inside.

  “Um, thanks, but I’m not a big yogurt and soda guy—”

  “Of course you’re not. I am. When your mom or dad digs around in your fridge for water or whatever, they’ll see it’s stocked for two.”

  She brushed past him, scooped the bag off the counter, and headed to the living area. Once there, she paused to put an e-reader in a hot-pink protective case on the end table, and a couple of bridal magazines on the coffee table next to her glass sculpture.

  He picked up the magazines and handed them back to her. “Now you’re just cluttering up the place.”

  She took them and returned them to the coffee table. “I’m setting a scene. All these things say, Hey. I hang out here. You don’t want your parents to think I just come over, have sex, and leave, do you?”

  “Maybe we hang out at your place, so you don’t have to drag all your cra…stuff over here?”

  “We hang out at your place. Your parents have already seen my bedroom, so they’re going to know we use yours.”

  “Then they know more than I know.”

  Men. She took him by the hand, led him to the bedroom, and gestured. “What do you see?”

  “My bedroom.”

  “Dominated by what?”

  Now he frowned. “My bed?”

  “Exactly. Your big, roomy California king. I have a standard queen. You’re what, six three? Tell me, Beau, which bed do we use?”

  “Mine.”

  “Damn right we do.” She reached into her bag, pulled out a red silk nightie, and chucked it at the head of the bed. It spilled across the white pillowcases. Satisfied with the effect, she headed into the adjoining bathroom and began unloading the last remaining items in her bag. She placed a toothbrush in the glass holder next to Beau’s, lined up her face cleanser, moisturizer, and perfume on the counter, and then placed shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and a razor in the metal caddy hanging from the showerhead. When she opened the medicine cabinet, she caught a glimpse of Beau’s face in the reflection.

  Her disk of birth control pills fit perfectly on the narrow shelf, between a bottle of Visine and a box of Band-Aids.

 
“Savannah, they’re not going to search the place in the time it takes to have a drink and then head out for an early dinner. Ditto for pie and coffee afterwards. They’ll be here an hour, tops.”

  She shut the cabinet and faced him in the mirror. “Moms are nosy. Trust me, Cheryl checks your medicine cabinet every time she visits.”

  He reached past her, opened the cabinet, and grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen. In the time it took her to turn around he dry-swallowed two. “Headache?”

  “Call me crazy, but something about the idea of my mom snooping through my medicine cabinet hurts my brain.”

  “You look a little pale.” Concerned, she reached up and touched his forehead. “Do you think you’re coming down with something?”

  “No. It’s…” He trailed off and his eyes drifted to the counter, then the shower, then back to her. “It’s been a while since I shared space with things like this.” He touched her perfume. “Brings back memories.”

  Shit. She’d been so intent on setting the scene to make the proper impact on his parents, she hadn’t stopped to consider the impact on him. “You know what? This is overkill.” She reached for the bottles on the counter, but he caught her hand.

  “Leave them.” He glanced around again and nodded. “You’re right—every detail. It just took me by surprise. I never envisioned what this place would look like if I were involved with someone.”

  “Because you never envisioned getting involved again?” Now wasn’t the time, and his bathroom wasn’t the place for this conversation, but she couldn’t hold back the question.

  He leaned back against the counter, crossed his arms, and let out a long, tired breath. “Not really, no.”

  “That’s crazy. You’re not even thirty. Would your wife have expected you to live like a monk for the rest of your life?”

  “You can take the halo off my head, Savannah. I haven’t lived like a monk. But no, Kelli would have expected me to mourn for a decent amount of time, and then move on and let some new woman enjoy all the hard work she sank into training me to put the toilet seat down.”

  A glance at the toilet confirmed Kelli had trained him well. “So why haven’t you?” She asked the question quietly.

  “Because I can’t go all-in again.”

  “I don’t understand.” But she wanted to. She touched his forearm and felt a muscle jump.

  “Losing Kelli left a scar—a bad one—but losing our daughter…” He looked down, and took a deep breath before continuing. “I don’t really have the words to describe the loss, but it’s true what they say. A parent should never have to bury a child. Losing Abbey hurtled me down a very deep, very dark rabbit hole, and hitting bottom broke something inside me. I can’t fix it.”

  “That’s a father grieving, but, Beau, you’re still a father. All those paternal instincts? All the love? They’re there, waiting for—”

  “No.” He jerked his head up, and she almost backed away from the desolation in his eyes. “I can’t. I don’t have the capacity to withstand that kind of loss a second time. Maybe other people do, but I don’t.”

  “Maybe you wouldn’t have to,” she pointed out as gently as possible. “Maybe the next time around is its own unique, completely different experience?”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t get past the ‘maybe’ risk.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I see the wrong side of ‘maybe’ all the time on the job. Nobody’s immune. And just in case I started to forget that little fact, my mom got hit with a cancer diagnosis.”

  She smoothed his hair off his forehead and wished she could smooth away his worry as easily. “Beau, your mom’s going to be okay.”

  He captured her hand and gave it a squeeze. “I hope so. Her doctors say things like good probability of a surgical cure, and low likelihood of recurrence, but words like ‘probability’ and ‘likelihood’ basically amount to different versions of ‘maybe’.”

  She took the hand holding hers and turned it palm up. “Did you know in addition to my Master of Fine Arts, I’m also a master of the ancient science of palm reading?”

  “You’re a woman of many talents. I didn’t realize the University of Georgia offered the degree.”

  “This one’s courtesy of the University of YouTube, but a lot of people would argue it’s more valuable than the MFA.” She ran her index finger over his palm, letting her nail trace the long, measured curve bracketing his thumb. “This is your lifeline.”

  “Do that again and some things are definitely going to spring to life.”

  “Keep it in your pants, Montgomery. I’m working here. See these tiny lines intersecting the lifeline?”

  He leaned in, bringing his face close to hers, and her mind took an unauthorized trip back to last night, to the heat of his mouth on her skin and the slide of his tongue.

  “Yes,” he answered, but she got the feeling his reply addressed the all-too-clear invitation her hormones issued rather than her question.

  “Focus, please. These little lines signify points where a guardian angel entered your life. You’ve got one way down here, when you were small—four or five. Maybe a grandparent or family friend passed?”

  Narrowed eyes found hers. “My grandfather died when I was five.”

  “There you go.”

  “Someone mentioned it to you recently, or you remember from back then—”

  “Or I’m a master palmist. Either way, the lines don’t lie. It’s there. You’ve got two more here,” she pointed to the pair intersecting his lifeline farther along. “We know who they are.”

  “Okay, and your point?”

  “You don’t pick up any more guardian angels until way down here.” She ran her finger along the line, toward his wrist, circled the next line, and then folded his hand, held it in both of hers, and planted a kiss on his knuckles. “Your mom’s going to be fine. So are you.”

  “The lines don’t lie, huh?”

  “Never. Now that we’ve eliminated the pesky maybes from your future, what will you do? The coast is clear the next time you’re tempted to go all-in.”

  “Maybe the coast is clear because I keep it clear?”

  “For a man who hates ‘maybe’, you sure find your way back to the word quickly.”

  “Because I don’t need any more guardian angels.” He gave her a grim smile. “And I do need to stay out of the rabbit hole.”

  “Helloooo? Anybody home?”

  “Showtime,” Beau said, and then called out, “Come in. We’ll be right there.”

  She folded her shopping bag and shoved it into the cabinet under the sink, banking her frustration over the premature end to their conversation while she was at it. Though really, was the end premature? He’d been honest, and who was she to tell him how he should feel or what he should do? She hadn’t walked in his shoes.

  Even so, the persistent voice in the back of her mind kept insisting he sold himself short.

  So be it, she decided as she followed him to the living area. He hadn’t asked her to change him, or fix him. She was helping him out, and enjoying some extremely cathartic rebound sex in the process. But as she watched him kiss his mom and hug his father, the annoying voice spoke up again.

  Nice try, but this goes beyond a favor or rebound sex. You’re invested. You care.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Beau scraped the feet of his chair against black and white octagonal tiles of the restaurant floor as he pushed back from the table. He crossed his arms and tried to emulate his father’s calm expression while his mom chatted matter-of-factly about going under a surgeon’s knife in a week to remove cancer from her body.

  If he pulled off the outward calm, he deserved an Academy Award. While he waded into grisly scenes on a routine basis at work without so much as a hard swallow, the idea of his mom’s surgery made his head pound, his palms sweat, and the full rack of Memphis-rubbed ribs he’d just finished threaten a stampede. The restaurant filled with young families and retirees at this early hour suddenly seemed too loud and way
too hot. The trademark red-and-white-striped decor boasted holiday flourishes in addition to the normal overload of vintage signs and regional memorabilia, and the exuberance of color attacked his retinas.

  A slim, cool hand slid over one of his. Savannah. She was a sight for sore eyes, with her blonde curls cascading down the back of her slouchy black sweater, one shoulder on display courtesy of the wide neckline. Skinny white jeans clung to her slim thighs and disappeared into the tops of high black suede boots.

  The boots had launched an armada of fantasies when he’d seen her standing at his door tonight, but now he felt nothing but gratitude as she sat next to his mom, listening attentively while she casually swept her fingertips along his tense knuckles. He uncrossed his arms and took her hand, wove his fingers between hers, and held tight. She spared him a warm glance and a quick smile before turning again to his mom and saying, “I can’t believe it’s an outpatient procedure.”

  His mom nodded. “The tumor is small and there’s no sign the cancer has spread, so I’m looking at simple lumpectomy and a sentinel lymph node dissection. The procedure itself will take less than an hour. Then I go to recovery, wake up, get dressed, and this handsome fellow”—she gestured to his dad—“takes me home. The next week I’ll have a follow-up appointment with my surgeon, but assuming clear margins and no cancer present in the lymph nodes, I’m done.”

  Assuming. Another word he disliked. Assuming clear margins and negative lymph nodes didn’t guarantee such an outcome. Falling short of assumptions meant additional, much more invasive surgery, maybe chemotherapy, radiation, and years of maintenance medications. Again, with no guarantees. The vital, energetic woman who’d bandaged his skinned knees and nursed his every fever when he was a kid might be embarking on a long, painful battle with a killer, and there was nothing he could do about it. He hated feeling so helpless.