Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency) Page 17

  Over the rush of his own pulse in his ears he heard a voice say, “Stay.”

  Shit. Had he said that out loud?

  The way she stilled in his arms suggested yes. And worse, a reckless part of him wasn’t even sorry.

  Her fingers resumed sifting through his hair. “Stay, like, in the bed, or in Atlanta?”

  “The bed, definitely, but…” You opened this door. Man up and walk through. “Let’s say Atlanta for the sake of argument.”

  “How would that work?” He heard no demand in her voice, just caution.

  “Like it does now. But if you’re determined to pack your stuff, we could see if there are any larger units available in Camden Gardens.” Fuck it. Move in with me sounded weak. Glaringly short of Be my everything, and deafeningly silent about little things like marriage and children. Things she wanted. Things she deserved. Things he didn’t have in him anymore. He closed his eyes and lowered his forehead to hers. “Sorry. This is coming out wrong. I don’t mean to be glib. I care about you.”

  You care about her? Do you mean to be an asshole?

  Incredibly, instead of slapping his face, she blinked fast, as if fighting tears. “It’s the most unexpected offer I’ve received all week.”

  “Yeah, well”—he started to roll off her—“it needed to be said.”

  She tightened her hold on him. “This needs to be said, too.” Soft lips quivered into a fragile ghost of his favorite smile. “I love you.”

  Those three little words should have scared the shit out of him, but they didn’t. The only scary part was the strength of his urge to say them back to her, but those self-protective instincts he’d paid too dear a price to learn tamped it down with a ruthless warning.

  Don’t.

  Loving her put him on a slippery slope right back into the rabbit hole, and he refused to risk a second visit. Even knowing this, a greedy impulse filled him, to accept what she offered no matter how unfair of him so long as it convinced her to stick around. Some vestige of conscience forced him to be up-front.

  “Savannah, I-I’m honored.”

  Any hint of a smile disappeared from her face.

  Honored? She’s not the Nobel Prize nominating committee, for Christ’s sake. Don’t tell her you’re honored.

  “Delete that. What I should have said is—hell—you have to know I feel more for you than I planned to feel for anyone, ever again, but I have limits. They exist. I can’t pretend they don’t, and I can’t change them. Not even for you. I can’t give you pledges and a bunch of promises about a future I know damn well I don’t control. I’m not that guy.”

  Can’t. Can’t. Can’t. That’s all she’s hearing. All you’re giving her. What can you do?

  “I don’t make promises I’m not one hundred percent sure I can keep. That said, I promise you this: if you take me on, I’m yours—all there is of me—for as long as you’ll have me.”

  Okay. There. That’s something.

  “I’m not asking for promises. I didn’t tell you I loved you to challenge your limits, or coerce something out of you you’re not prepared to give.” Her soft lips brushed over his, calming him, dammit, when he ought to be throwing himself at her feet. “Consider it a gift.”

  “Best gift I’ve received all week,” he assured her, striving to lighten the mood. The corner of her mouth lifted. Then, before he could censor his inner asshole, he added, “Does that mean you’ll stay?”

  Her smile wobbled. “I think we both ambushed each other just now, Beau. Why don’t we give ourselves some time to recover, and see how we feel once we’re not camped out in your parents’ basement?”

  “I know how I feel, Savannah. I know what I want.”

  “Well, you’re a step ahead of me, Beauregard. I know how I feel, but I don’t know what I want.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “So we agreed to hold off on any decisions until after this visit. As if a few more days will suddenly give me clarity,” Savannah added under her breath. She dumped another scoop of red, white, and green candies into a cut-glass bowl serving as a centerpiece. Was this the third or fourth scoop? She couldn’t remember.

  “Could ‘I care about you, let’s live together’ be enough for you?” Sinclair added a toss of holiday glitter over the tablecloth, and they moved on to the next table. The Daughters of Magnolia Grove Christmas Eve Dinner Decoration Committee expected a certain level of productivity from its volunteers, and the stink-eye the committee chairwoman sent them suggested they needed to pick up the pace.

  When the chairwoman’s gaze wandered to the ladies draping boughs of greenery along the tops of the large windows gracing the banquet room at the historic Oglethorpe Inn, Savannah dropped her scoop into her candy bag and plopped down in a chair. Her stomach had been trying to turn itself inside out all morning, her energy level hovered around zero, and Sinclair had asked her the question she’d been asking herself nonstop since yesterday afternoon. She still didn’t have an answer.

  “I don’t know. All I know right now is, fate’s got a sick sense of humor. I wanted to find Mr. Right so badly I talked myself into believing that Mitch’s easy I-love-yous meant something. But when I finally stumble into the real thing, I fall for a man who’s afraid to love. He’s convinced he’s got limits, and frankly, he wants limits. ‘I care for you, let’s live together’ may be as far out on the emotional limb as he’s ever willing to go.”

  “Beau may not be able to say the words, but he makes you happy. And you make him happy. I see it, and I’m looking with very clear eyes. Since I’ve known you all my life, I know you wouldn’t be happy in an emotionally vacant relationship.”

  “It’s true. Despite all the walls he’s erected, he’s not emotionally vacant. He cares all over the place—about his parents, his coworkers…a hurt little boy in a restaurant.”

  “And you. Not just because he said so. A guy doesn’t rush to the bathroom to hold your hair back when you’re puking unless he’s in deep.”

  “Yeah.” She ran her hands through her hair, tugging hard on her scalp. “He cares about me.”

  “Some people don’t put a lot of stock in words. They’re cautious about emotions. Life’s taught them to protect themselves. It doesn’t mean they don’t have feelings, even if they fight embracing them. Spending your time with a smart, sexy-as-sin, fundamentally decent man who cares for you sounds pretty ideal.” She popped a candy in her mouth. “Who needs all the trappings?”

  Trappings. Interesting term. “Trappings like marriage? Kids?”

  Sinclair shrugged. “You could slip those in the ‘never say never’ file for now, right? People change. Wants evolve. You both might feel different in six months or a year.”

  And that, she realized, was exactly what she’d hoped to hear. What she wanted to believe. But it felt wrong. Mostly because she knew exactly how she’d feel in six months or a year. She knew her heart. “Wouldn’t that be like accepting what he’s offering under false pretenses? He’s not making any promises about the future.”

  “What false pretense? Beau doesn’t own a crystal ball. He can’t say for certain what changes the future will bring, or how he’ll feel later. Neither can you, for that matter. If you were older, the situation would be different, but you’ve got years before Father Time takes certain trappings off your table. I don’t see it as false pretenses to approach this with the mind-set that you’re both taking time to figure out if ‘I care about you, let’s live together’ is enough. I know you’re a sucker for a sweeping romantic gesture, but given your circumstances, his request is logical and responsible.”

  “What do you mean my circumstances?” Was her sister implying that because she’d misread a relationship in the past, her judgment sucked?

  Sinclair took the chair next to her and leaned in. “Because despite your so-called engagement, you two haven’t actually known each other very long. Yeah, you knew each other as kids, but that doesn’t count. Basically you both got thrust into a situation of instant intima
cy. Then the whole thing ignited, and now you need to figure out how deep the feelings go. He’s asked you to stay and move in with him. Pretty major gesture, if you ask me, out of a man you’ve been…I’ll call it seeing…for barely a month.”

  Well, when you put it like that… A complicated mess of uncertainty and confusion lifted from her shoulders. She felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. “So what you’re saying is, I should slow down, enjoy the trip, and worry less about the ultimate destination?”

  Her sister grinned and popped another candy in her mouth. “What’s your hurry? It’s not like you’re pregnant or something.”

  “Right.” She laughed. “It’s not like I’m—” Nauseous, tired, sensitive…

  Late.

  Holy shit.

  “Sinclair, I need a ride to the drugstore.”

  Savannah held the plastic wand in one shaking hand, closed her eyes, and let out a long, slow breath. Don’t panic. Give it a moment and then look again. Just open your eyes and…

  The twin pink lines stared back at her, bold and unmistakable. The darn thing might as well have been a blinking neon sign. You. Are. Pregnant.

  Her phone vibrated on the bathroom counter, and an incoming text from Sinclair appeared on the screen. + or – ???

  She reached over and turned off her phone, then rested her forehead against the cool, hard mirror. How? Denial screamed in her mind. She hadn’t missed a pill.

  A soft knock at the locked bathroom door had her straightening.

  “Everything okay?”

  Beau’s voice sent the building wave of panic crashing over her. The test slipped from her numb fingers and clattered onto the granite countertop. She quickly turned off the sink taps, which she’d turned on full blast before reading the test, in some paranoid fit. “Fine!” she called, and winced at the volume of her reply. “I’ll be out in a second.”

  Moving in fast-forward, she dropped the wand into the small wastebasket under the sink where she’d already discarded the crumpled box it came in, and tossed a few concealing wads of tissue on top. Then she washed her hands, smoothed her hair, and waited for her pulse to stop hammering. Of their own accord, her hands dropped to the narrow waist of her red off-the-shoulder pencil dress that channeled 1950s glamour bunny in every figure-hugging inch.

  A baby. A fragile combination of Beau and her sat nestled in her womb like a seed, deserving of a chance to grow and thrive. Some higher power than progestin minipills had handed them a miracle, and sneaking into the bathroom to take a test, treating the results like a dirty secret to be hidden in the depths of the wastebasket, suddenly struck her as shameful. Questions like how no longer mattered. The answers had no impact on the present reality. Her palms flattened protectively against her belly, and her panic subsided a little as determination took root. Ready or not, this tiny life existed. It needed care, and joy, and love. It needed them. And she wouldn’t let it down.

  She stared at her reflection for a minute and accepted another reality. Dropping a life-changer like this on Beau minutes before they were expected at a holiday party wasn’t fair. She needed to pick the moment for this disclosure carefully, when they had time and privacy. A cold, clammy fist squeezed her stomach when she thought about the discussion. The best course of action would be to wait until after Christmas, confirm the pregnancy with her physician, and then have the conversation with Beau.

  The fist loosened. She let out a breath and opened the door.

  Beau stood in front of a mirrored closet door, knotting his tie, but his gaze roamed over her when she stepped into his line of sight. He gave up on the tie, turned, and faced her. His inscrutable expression put a wobble in her knees. Was he already regretting asking her to stay?

  “How do I look?”

  “Late.”

  Shock caused her steps to falter, and the heel of her black pump snagged in the Berber rug. Two strong arms and a rock-solid chest kept her from face-planting. “W-what do you mean, I look late?”

  He stroked a hand down the hair she’d tamed into long, smooth waves to complement the dress. Clear brown eyes homed in on her mouth. “You look like you’re going to be about ten minutes late to the party.” Then he lowered his head and kissed every bit of gloss off her lips. “Make it fifteen,” he corrected when he raised his head.

  Relief fizzled through her, along with a hard, fast bolt of lust, but she slapped a hand to the center of his chest until he stopped closing in, and then she got to work on his tie. “Your parents are upstairs, no doubt ready to go. What are the chances they’ll wait patiently for ten to fifteen minutes?”

  His hold on her loosened. “Good point. Pencil me in for later.”

  She adjusted the knot in his tie to the right position, and then wiped the hints of her Scarlet Santa Gloss from his lips. He used the opportunity to take a quick, hard bite from the pad of her thumb. The move surprised a laugh out of her, along with another ridiculously powerful surge of need.

  “Ow.” She rubbed the red skin. “That’s going to leave a mark.”

  “Gives you something to think about, doesn’t it?”

  She had plenty to think about, and spent the short drive to the Oglethorpe Inn sitting next to Cheryl in the back seat of the Yukon, only half listening to her discuss the plan for a shared Christmas Day celebration between the Smith and Montgomery families.

  When they arrived, Beau ushered her into the Oglethorpe, and she wondered if tonight represented the unwitting start of a family tradition. Would their little one grow up with fond memories of holidays spent in Magnolia Grove, surrounded by the grandparents, Aunt Sinclair…Mommy and Daddy?

  Her mom found them just outside the banquet room and swept her into a quick hug. “There you are. I like that dress, though not quite as much as the last one I saw you in.”

  She shot a glance at Beau. To her, the dress was still a sore point.

  “Can’t wait to see it,” he said, and loosened his tie with a restless tug. “Is that Bill at the bar?”

  Her mom turned and squinted at the bar set up across the room. “Yes. I took one for the team and asked him to fetch me a glass of wine after Mrs. Pinkerton corned us to get the latest gossip on the wedding.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

  “White wine?” Beau asked.

  Without thinking, she pressed a hand to her stomach. “Nothing for me.”

  He frowned and skimmed his fingertips down her cheek. “Still not feeling well?”

  His show of concern warmed her heart, but then again, the man was a paramedic. “I’m fine. I just don’t want to tempt fate.”

  The frown didn’t entirely disappear, but he nodded. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

  Savannah watched him thread his way through the clusters of people and tables and wondered when she’d become such a resourceful liar. A month ago, the only secret she’d harbored was Mitch’s name. Now she carried the weight of too many secrets, born of one massive lie. She wasn’t engaged. She had no need for a $3,000 wedding dress, and she didn’t feel fine.

  “Sinclair wants to speak to you.” Her mother’s voice intruded on her guilty thoughts.

  Yeah. I’ll bet she does. “Where is she?”

  Two perfectly groomed blonde brows drew together as her mom scanned the crowd. “Try the cloakroom. She headed over there a few minutes ago. I’m guessing she ran into someone she knows. Otherwise, I can’t fathom what takes so long about hanging three coats. Oh, there’s Doreen Hightower. Doooreeen…”

  Savannah edged away and then headed in the direction of the coat closet—a rack-lined room situated between the men’s and ladies’ lounges. As she stepped through the door, Sinclair appeared, snagged Savannah’s wrist, and tugged her into the ladies’ room.

  “I’ve been texting you for hours. What the actual fuck, Savannah?”

  “Why were you lurking in the coat closet?”

  Sinclair strode to the farthest end of the counter and tossed her purse. “I ducked in there to avoid Mrs. Pinkerton. I wa
sn’t in the mood to be pumped for information.”

  “She’s harmless.”

  “I beg to differ.” Sinclair pinned her with a sharp stare. “But we have more important things to discuss, don’t you think?”

  Savannah looked over her shoulder to make sure the lounge remained empty, then turned back to Sinclair. “You’re going to be an aunt.” There. She’d said it out loud.

  For a long moment her sister just stared at her, and she feared the reaction foreshadowed a near future full of strained silences and stunned looks, but then the dimple appeared in her cheek. She pulled Savannah into her arms and in an unsteady voice, said, “Congratulations. I’m so happy for you.”

  Savannah closed her eyes and clung for a moment, eternally grateful for the sincerely happy reaction. Sinclair, of all people, could have called her out on every less-than-ideal aspect of the situation, every uncertainty concerning her and Beau’s relationship. And given all the challenges and uncertainties, she could have validly questioned the one decision Savannah had already made. But she didn’t. She smiled, and hugged, and…sniffled?

  “Oh, no. Don’t you dare cry, Sinclair.” She pulled away and handed her sister a bunch of tissues from the box on the counter. “If you cry, I’ll cry, and then—”

  The flush of a toilet cut her off. The last door in the line of stalls opened, and Mrs. Pinkerton waddled out and approached the sinks. Savannah nearly groaned out loud. “Hello, Mrs. Pinkerton.”

  “Hello. My, don’t the Smith girls look pretty tonight.”

  “So do you,” Sinclair said.

  “Nonsense,” she dismissed as she washed her hands. “I aim for comfort, at my age. Not like you youngsters. Sinclair, that dress certainly catches the eye.” She dried her hands. “And you, Savannah”—she stood back and took stock—“why, you’re positively glowing. Don’t hide out in here all night, ladies.”

  When she ambled out, Savannah looked at Sinclair. “Do you think she heard?”

  “She hears a lot. And she repeats every word. Have you told Beau yet?”