Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency) Page 8

  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?”

  Savannah took a gulp of coffee and hoped the caffeine would kick-start her brain, because she needed to give Sinclair a logical reason to hold off on ring designs. “Umm…”

  Sinclair’s eyes narrowed. “Yesterday when you guys went to the ER and I stayed back to clean up and tend to dinner, I noticed a few interesting things.”

  “Interesting?”

  “Yeah. For instance, you guys didn’t seem to have coordinated the menu at all. I basted two turkeys—either of which would have been sufficient to feed all of us—warmed two different stuffing recipes, and cooked a broccoli cheese casserole and a green bean casserole.”

  “We wanted everyone to have their favorites…”

  “Conceivable,” Sinclair acknowledged, “but I also cleaned up your bedroom and spent time in both your apartments. Aside from one paint-stained shirt, I didn’t find a trace of his stuff in your place. Not a stray sock, or a bottle of beer in the fridge, or an extra toothbrush in the bathroom. And granted, I only spent time in his kitchen, but I didn’t see a single thing of yours in his unit, either. One might think you’d never set foot in each other’s homes.”

  “Or we’re tidy?”

  Sinclair simply shook her head. “You’re not tidy.”

  Okay, apparently her conscience drew fine lines when it came to fabricating. Letting people jump to conclusions was one thing, but she couldn’t look her sister in the eye and lie. “You’re right. I’m not tidy. I can explain…” And she did, as concisely as possible, covering everything from Mitch’s indecent proposal, to Beau’s impulsive one, and their prearranged breakup thanks to her fellowship.

  “Hole-E-crap,” Sinclair said as soon as Savannah stopped talking.

  “Don’t tell anyone.”

  “My lips are sealed, but you ought to know Mom practically planned your wedding during the drive back to Magnolia Grove. I think she emailed the Gazette an engagement announcement last night.”

  She bit back a groan. “Now that you know the score, can’t you rein her in?”

  “You’ve met our mom, right? Exactly how do you propose I rein her in?”

  “I don’t know. Have a crisis. Give her something else to focus on.”

  “Short of setting myself on fire, there’s no distracting her from your wedding. She and Cheryl Montgomery are going to have your venue selected and booked before you can say I don’t.”

  “That’s exactly the kind of thing I need you to put a stop to. Don’t design rings. Don’t book venues. Be busy when she suggests shopping for dresses.”

  “No amount of tap-dancing on my part will make a difference. You know as well as I our mom is a hundred-and-ten-pound steamroller. If you don’t find a way to come clean to her, it won’t matter how far across the globe you run. You and Beau are going to end up married through the sheer force of Mom’s will.”

  Chapter Nine

  The rap of knuckles on wood reached Beau from halfway down the stairs, along with an exasperated male voice calling, “Savannah, open the door. This is ridiculous. You can’t avoid me forever.”

  He reached the landing to find One-for-Three standing in front of Savannah’s door. The guy glanced at Beau, then smoothed a hand over his $200 haircut, straightened his tie, and resumed knocking. “Savannah—“

  A primitive urge to grab the smaller man by the back of his double-breasted coat and shove him into the trash chute surged through Beau, but he tamped it down. He’d sworn an oath to conserve life, alleviate suffering, and do no harm. Kicking One-for-Three’s unsuspecting ass just for being there probably did not comply with the code. Instead he shifted his grocery bag to one arm, slipped his key into his lock, and said over his shoulder, “She’s not home.”

  “Excuse me?” One-for-Three turned and stared at him.

  “Savannah’s not home.”

  The man’s baby-smooth forehead creased. “I’ve been trying to reach her for days. Where is she?”

  She was at the studio, working. They’d been fake-engaged less than a week and he already knew her schedule better than this knob who’d dated her for half a year. He shrugged and opened his door. “If she wanted you to know, you’d know, doncha think?” He pushed his door open and stepped inside.

  “Wait!”

  Beau placed his grocery bag on the small table inside the door and then faced Savannah’s ex and crossed his arms.

  “I’m Mitchell Prescott the third, Savannah’s…friend. When will she be back?”

  Could be five minutes, or five hours, depending on how her work went. “Same answer, friend. If she wanted you to know, you’d know.”

  “Thanks. You’ve been a big help.”

  Maybe the eye roll did the job, or the sarcastic tone, but one way or another this jerkoff managed to light his fuse. Quite an accomplishment, considering he generally had exceptional emotional control. When everyone in the vicinity of a medical emergency lost their shit, people counted on him to stay calm. But tonight one pissy comment had him drawing himself to full height and stepping toward the source of his irritation. “Do you need more help?”

  One-for-Three’s face turned red and his eyes darted left and right. “Relax, buddy…”

  He took a step closer and started to say, “I’m not your buddy,” but a new set of footsteps on the stairs caught his attention. They both turned to see Savannah com
e into view. First the tousled bundle of blonde waves, which she’d swept into a recklessly sexy pile on top of her head, then her gorgeous face, decorated by the off-center smile—though she smiled into her big black handbag so neither he nor One-for-Three could take credit for her mood. A dark blue peacoat protected her from the chilly air, and baggy jeans rolled at the ankles covered her legs. Scuffed Doc Martens encased her feet. A reusable shopping bag hung from the crook of her other arm. There was nothing intrinsically sexy about the outfit, but for whatever reason the androgynous clothes only emphasized her femininity. The hum of appreciation he detected from her ex brought on another uncharacteristically violent impulse. His fingers twitched with the compulsion to throttle the man, but he resisted because she looked up just then.

  “Hello, Beau.” She halted on the landing, and her eyes swung to her ex. Beau braced for her reaction, and told himself his tension stemmed from a reluctance to see her give an inch to this self-indulgent prick. To his relief, her smile disappeared. “Mitch,” she said, and dug her keys out of her purse. She placed the shopping bag by her feet. “I knew my day was going too well. To what do I owe this surprise?”

  “It should hardly come as a surprise. I left you several messages—”

  “To which I didn’t respond.” She twisted her key in the lock. “My silence should have left you a message.”

  Atta girl. He was about to say something like, “Do you get the fucking message now?” and move Mitch along, when the starched and pressed weasel started laying his heart—or more accurately, a sleazy combination of his pride and his wallet—on the line. “I’ve missed you. Savannah. I love you, and now that you’ve had some cooling off time, you must realize there’s still a place for you in my life. You’re my outlet, my escape. I want to whisk you away for romantic weekends at the Cloisters, or meet up with you at the Ritz in Paris.”

  Beau waited for her reply, more invested than he wanted to be. Over didn’t always mean over. People gave things second, third, fourth tries, and despite their temporary arrangement, he lacked standing to call bullshit on her behalf. They weren’t engaged, or even truly involved. He certainly didn’t represent her future, and if she sincerely believed this loser might, he couldn’t interfere with her poor judgment.

  “This may come as a shock to you, Mitch, but I don’t give a shit about weekends at the Cloisters or rendezvous at the Paris Ritz. I don’t want to be an outlet or escape, or some kind of diversion you pick up and put down at your convenience. The man who earns my heart? He needs to take me on, issues and all. I expect to be his everything—soul mate, partner, friend. And I expect him to be all those things to me. You’re clearly not that man. Have a nice life, and stay the hell out of mine.”

  He put his hand on her arm. “Don’t shut me out, baby. We can talk this through.”

  Savannah looked down at the manicured hand on her arm and then placed her hand over his.

  Okay, fuck standing. This situation begged for interference. She’d thank him later. Beau started to reach for lover boy, but Savannah beat him to it. She removed his hand from her arm. “We’ve said everything we need to say to each other, with the possible exception of this: if you lay a hand on me again, I will clean your clock.”

  “Baby, please. You know I love you.”

  The placating tone scraped across Beau’s nerves as effectively as nails on a chalkboard. Then the dumbass went in for a kiss. Before Beau could react, Savannah drew her arm back, made a fist, and slammed it into Mitchell Prescott III’s pedigreed nose hard enough to snap his head back.

  After reaching full extension, his head bounced forward. He leaned over, one hand braced on his knee, the other clutching his blowhole. “Jesus Christ, Savannah, I think—I think you broke my nose!”

  “Let’s be sure.” She shook out her hand and then pulled her fingers into a fist again.

  Mitch groaned and straightened. Blood flowed from one bruised nostril, and the bridge already showed hints of purple.

  Apparently the blow left Mitch’s eyesight intact. As soon as he saw her poised for round two, he ducked behind Beau. “Call 911.”

  Beau sighed. “I am 911.” He shifted his attention to Savannah, captured her hand, and eyed her abused knuckles. “Nice shot, Champ. Go ice this hand. I’ll be over as soon as I get your punching bag squared away.”

  “I’m fine, and this”—she gestured at Mitch with her uninjured hand—“is not your mess to clean up. If he wants help, he can call his fiancée.” She leaned past him to address Mitch, who leaned against Beau’s doorframe, pressing a tissue to his nose. “I’d love to see what she thinks about picking him up on some other woman’s doorstep.”

  “I don’t think his nose can take another hit tonight.” He ran his thumb over her fingers. “Flex these for me.”

  She did, slowly and fully, but he didn’t miss the slightly ragged edge to her exhale.

  “Good. Got a bag of frozen peas?”

  “Hello? I’m bleeding here…”

  Beau gave him the same look he used to intimidate uncooperative idiots he encountered on the job. One-for-Three had the good sense to shut his trap.

  “Go inside and take a seat at the table. No, don’t tilt your head back—tilt it forward and pinch your nostrils right here.” He demonstrated on himself, and then pointed at his door. Mitch followed instructions, muttering under his breath as he disappeared into the apartment.

  He turned back to Savannah. She’d curled her fingers into a half-closed position again, which he imagined felt most comfortable about now. “You have something to use as an ice pack?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He ignored the sarcasm. “Use it. Keep your hand elevated, ice on, and I’ll be over soon to take care of you.”

  “You don’t have to take care of me, Beau.”

  He aimed her toward her door, opened it for her, and used his body to more or less crowd her into her apartment. “It’s my prerogative as your fiancé.”

  “Very funny.”

  “My ironic sense of humor is just one of the things you love about me.”

  “Right up there with your stubborn streak and bossy-pants attitude.” She tried to look irritated, but he caught the way she battled to keep the corner of her mouth from tilting up.

  Suddenly he was fighting the same battle. He turned toward his place and without looking back, told her, “Put some ice on that hand, Rocky.” He suspected his back took an insult in the form of a rude face or hand gesture, but the thought only made him smile more.

  Important takeaways: Savannah knew how to throw a punch, and One-for-Three had no chance of convincing her to give them a second try. He couldn’t blame her. Not with those stats. But a tiny part of him recognized the outcome satisfied him more than it should have.

  No complications, he reminded himself.

  …

  WTF? Mitch showed up at your apartment tonight?!

  Savannah read the screen of her phone while she sat at her table with her right hand under a bag of frozen blueberries. She typed, Yep, in an attempt to keep up her end of the text exchange with Sinclair, who was stuck in traffic on her way into Atlanta.

  She tried to add, “I had to be prevented from killing him,” but only got as far as “I had to be prevent”—before she accidentally hit send. What popped up in the balloon read, I had to be pregnant.

  Shit. She sucked at left-hand texting.

  An emoji of a yellow face with hands pressed to its cheeks and mouth hanging open came back instantly.

  Savannah leaned over her phone and typed more slowly. Prevented! I had to be PREVENTED from killing him.

  Whew. Don’t get me wrong, can’t wait to be crazy Aunt Clair, but please not thanks to… The sentence ended with an emoji of what looked like a smiling pile of poop.

  Never in a million years. Savannah was on the pill, and she always, without fail, used a condom as well. She wanted no surprises in that particular area of her life.

  Did you tear his balls off and stomp on
them?

  I punched him in the face.

  I love you.

  She grinned, and added, Maybe broke his nose.

  You’re my hero.

  A soft knock at her door interrupted her search for the flexing biceps emoji.

  Gotta go. Drive safe. I’ll see you soon.

  She kicked her discarded boots out of her way, walked to the door, and opened it. Beau stood on the threshold, a big, rugged monument of testosterone in faded jeans and a gray crew neck with long sleeves pushed up lean, corded forearms. The slight throb in her knuckles took a backseat to a newer and far more distracting throb located nowhere in the vicinity of her hand. His gaze slid over her, slowly, and a muscle tensed in his jaw. She glanced down and studied herself through his eyes, taking in her bare feet, the thin strip of skin visible between the ruched-up hem of her layered tank tops and the low, hastily rolled waistband of her boyfriend jeans, the careless wisp of bubble-gum-pink lace peeking out from beneath the scooped neckline of her tanks.

  Klassy. Do you wonder why Mitch never pictured you as Mrs. Mitchell Prescott III?

  Cut it out, she silently ordered the negative voice in her head. Nobody blew glass in a Dior gown. It was a hot, sweaty, physical endeavor, and she loved it. A look at Beau told her he imagined a hot, sweaty, physical endeavor, too—the kind that put an anticipatory flush under his stubble-darkened cheeks and an untamed gleam in his eyes. The throb intensified, and every pulse point in her body got in on the action. When his attention shifted from the glimpse of pink lace to her lips, even her scalp prickled. Lost in the infinity of his wide, dark pupils, she lifted her hand to adjust her tank top, and winced.

  The pain surprised her, and her quick inhale broke the spell. He frowned. “You’re supposed to be icing that hand.”

  She let out a careful breath and backed up to let him in. “I was.” A few steps brought her to the table. She lifted the bag of blueberries. “See.”