Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency) Page 5

  “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 uni
son, 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.

  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.