Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency) Page 6

  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.

/>   “Before He Cheats.” Yeah, this is where he’d come in.

  When she got to the “pretty little souped-up four-wheel drive” part she broke off. A moment later her bedsprings squeaked and a light knock came from the wall behind his head, followed by a muffled, “Night, Beau.”

  “Night, Savannah,” he replied, and tried to concentrate on the TV rather than every little squeak and groan of her mattress as she shifted around for a comfy position. His imagination offered up a graphic slide show of possible positions for her to assume.

  He focused on the scores scrolling across the crawl at the bottom of the screen. North Carolina beat Duke. Good. Penn State beat Wisconsin. The Bruins beat the Trojans and covered the spread. Miracle. The network cut to a commercial and he rested his eyes for a second…

  Savannah’s scent surrounded him. Her breath fanned his cheek as she whispered his name. One busy hand drifted over his shoulder and down his chest. His subconscious mind hadn’t treated him to a dream this vivid in a long time, but his body rushed to enjoy it. “Lower,” he murmured. She shifted and said his name again, a little louder this time.

  She liked loud. He wanted her loud. The creak of his mattress reminded him she also wanted a comfortable position. No problem. He could scratch that itch. He rolled, pulling her onto the bed, not stopping until he had her sprawled all over him, anticipating the slide of skin on skin.

  Inexplicable layers of clothes and sheets thwarted the skin-on-skin goal, but the warm weight of her breasts rested against his chest. Her slender thighs straddled his waist, and incredibly soft, incredibly hot flesh kissed his abdomen. She wiggled backward—he couldn’t fathom why—but the move brought the yielding curves of her ass into contact with the straining head of his cock. He groaned his approval, and centered them up a bit.

  “Beau.” Even louder now, and slightly breathless.

  He tightened his abs, flattened his hand against the small of her back, and pressed her closer.

  “Oh, jeez. Beau.”

  Toes curled into calves. He slid his free hand up the back of her thigh, raising fabric as he went.

  “Beau!”

  Chapter Seven

  Thanks to the glow of the hall light and the flicker of the TV, Savannah knew the minute Beau woke up. She saw his eyes open, focus on her, and then watched awareness creep into his sleep-dazed face as he took stock of their situation. He had her draped over him with her fleece robe tangled around her legs, one hand splayed across her hips, and the other clamped to her lower back, his rugged abs providing a perfect saddle for a long, hard, and very dirty ride.

  A not-so-subtle nudge around back announced at least one part of him was wide awake. Fully. Awake.

  He stared at her mouth for what seemed like forever, not moving a muscle, and she stared right back, remembering the power of his kiss—the explosive heat unleashed by the simple contact of lips to lips. Their “no complications” rule was already bent all to hell. If he kissed her right now, it would be completely and irreparably broken. Even knowing this, she couldn’t say whether she hoped he’d pull her closer or ease her away.

  The white gauze taped to his forehead caught her attention and made up her mind for her. His injury. The whole reason she was here in the first place. She propped her forearm on his chest and made the peace sign. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  He lowered his chin a degree and looked down at her hand. “I’m usually the one asking that question.”

  “Let’s hope you can also answer.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  Two fingertips traced a meandering pattern down her back all the way to the base of her spine. She shivered, but stayed strong. “I’m afraid I have to insist on a verbal response.”

  “Two,” he said, and shifted his hips, managing to dislodge his personal parts from hers in the process. “Do I owe you an apology?”

  He couldn’t have looked or sounded less apologetic, with his shadowed jaw, growly voice, and general air of tense, dissatisfied male. She held back a grin.

  “No need. After all, we’re engaged.” She crawled off him and settled onto her back on the bed, then double-checked her robe to make sure all the essentials remained covered. They both stared at the ceiling and took a moment to settle.

  “Ready to play doctor?”

  She felt rather than saw him turn his head to look at her. “Only if I get to be the doctor.”

  The grin threatened again, but she shook her head. “Maybe next time. What’s your name?”

  “This seems like something my fiancée would know.”

  “I’m not asking for me, I’m asking for you.”

  “I already know my name.”

  She thumped him on the leg with the back of her hand. “Don’t make me beat it out of you. Dr. West told me to have you recite your name and date of birth.”

  “Ow. I liked your earlier bedside manner better. My name is Beauregard Miller Montgomery.”

  “Beauregard?” Now she turned to look at him. He had his arm propped behind his head and stared at the ceiling again. Nice profile. “How did I not know Beau was short for Beauregard?”

  “It’s my paternal grandmother’s maiden name. There’s a way-back connection to General P.T.G. Beauregard.”

  “Impressive. And Miller?”

  “My mom’s maiden name. Now you know as much as I do.”

  Strangely, she did feel a bit more intimately acquainted, though the conversation might not be the sole cause. “I’m prepared for the fiancée quiz.”

  “If there’s going to be a quiz, we better exchange this information, don’t you think?”

  “Wait. I’m not done with my questions yet. I need your date of birth.”

  “August sixth.”

  “Hmm. That’s a problem.”

  “You got something against Leos?”

  “Not at all. But assuming we started dating shortly after I moved into Camden Gardens, and now we’re engaged, I surely gave you a birthday gift reflective of my deep and abiding love. A keepsake.”

  “You did?”

  “Of course I did. I’m a romantic soul. I gave you something thoughtful, and fun. Something you’d treasure forever.”

  “You gave me a Ducati?”

  “You really are suffering a brain injury if you think I can afford a Duc. I’m a starving artist. No. I gave you”—she tried to imagine a personal gift she could actually afford—“an original glass sculpture of my own design. You keep it on your coffee table, so you can show it off when people visit.”

  He looked worried. “A small, unobtrusive sculpture?”

  Okay, she wouldn’t take the comment personally. The man kept no mementos of any kind in his apartment, and her “gift” threatened to disrupt the sterile, uncluttered surfaces of his home. “Very small,” she assured him. “I know my man. But we need to make a few changes, because right now, this place doesn’t bear the stamp of guy in a serious relationship. No pictures of us at a Braves game, no seashells picked from the surf during a long weekend in Pismo Beach. Nada.”

  The rasp of a hard palm across whiskers filled the silence, and every delicate expanse of skin on her body clamored to be on the receiving end of the subtle abrasion. Not wise. He was, though, and she read him well enough to know he saw her point.

  “Don’t go to a lot of trouble. My parents don’t come to my place.”

  “They’re coming next week, and we want to make this look real. It’s no trouble. It’s not like I’m under the gun creating new works for a big exhibit anywhere.”

  As soon as the words left her lips, she wanted to bite them back. He already knows the pathetic state of your personal life, and now you want to parade your professional failure in front of him? Maybe he hadn’t noticed the self-directed sarcasm in her voice.

  “Did the glass art market take a downturn?”

  Nope. He heard. She pressed the heel of her hand to the place above her eye where a headache tried to take root. “It did for me.”

  “I hav
e no idea how the art world works. Did you get a bad review or a lousy write-up or something?”

  “No, nothing like that.” Though taste was subjective, and negative opinions came with the territory. Those she could handle. “I climbed into bed with the wrong people. And despite how that sounds, it’s a boring story. Forget I said anything.”

  The mattress gave as he rolled onto his side to face her. “It’s on your mind. Seems like the kind of thing your fiancé would know about. Maybe I can help?” He found the ache over her eyebrow, and ironed the sore spot with his thumb.

  Paramedic by trade, rescuer by nature. She’d best remember that. “You’re sweet, but there’s nothing you can do. Oh, hey, look at the time. I should go. I’m supposed to wake you up, not keep you up.”

  A warm hand curled around her forearm when she started to move.

  “How am I supposed to pass the fiancé quiz if I don’t know about your career? C’mon, Smith. Spill.”

  Shoot. Trapped by her own argument. And yeah, a real fiancé probably would know her first effort to make a name for herself in a regional market had failed miserably. lf not for the fellowship, she’d been at serious risk of celebrating her twenty-eighth birthday by moving back in with her parents.

  “Okay. Fine.” She flopped onto her side, facing him. “Here’s the deal. Earlier this year a hot new gallery in Atlanta offered to represent me.”

  He folded an arm behind his head and turned to look at her. “Congratulations. Is that what brought you here?”

  “Yep. The gallery owners suggested I move closer so I could support their marketing investment by attending showings, doing client meet-and-greets, and generally circulating in the local art scene.”

  “Sounds logical, I guess.”

  “I thought so. I’d done well in Athens, but the scene there is only so big, and mostly supported by my school. After undergrad and my MFA, I felt like I’d wrung all I could out of Lamar Dodd.”