Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency)

by Samanthe Beck

  Lady Antebellum drowned out his reply, but he slung the towel over his shoulder and braced his hands on the paint-slicked drop cloth. Then he flexed his long legs and helped her guide him to his feet. She barely reached his chin, which made the prospect of steering him to her bed somewhat daunting, but she backed him up a step, then another, and then, with her target in sight, she got overly ambitious and took the next step too quickly. She stumbled into him and unbalanced them both. His hands came out to catch her as they fell.

  The music stopped.

  They landed in a tangle of limbs on her bed, her fingers hooked into the waistband of his jeans, her breast cupped in one big, wide palm, and another hand that most definitely didn’t belong to her splayed across her ass.

  “Hello, sweetie. We’re early!” an all-too-familiar voice chirped from the hallway.

  Savannah looked over to see her mother’s smiling face appear at the bedroom door.

  “Happy Thanks”—the smile faltered—“giving?”

  “Mom!”

  Savannah scrambled off her neighbor, inadvertently elbowing his unyielding abdomen in the process. Her mom inched into the room, followed by her sister, Sinclair, and her father. Three sets of eyes took in the Sun Shower wreck of her bedroom, the man sprawled across her bed, and then, strangely, the front of her shirt.

  A weirdly fatalistic calm settled over her as she followed their gazes. Yep, a large, starkly yellow handprint decorated her left breast, and she had a sneaking suspicion the seat of her pants bore a similar mark. The voice of one of her more strident art school professors echoed in her head. I don’t care if you work with oils, charcoal, or garbage. Medium is irrelevant. You can create profound art with finger paint, as long as the result sends a message to the viewer.

  This certainly sent a message. Something along the lines of, “Oops. My family just interrupted my X-rated paint job.” She switched her attention to the artist in question, still stretched across her mattress in bare-chested glory, propped on one elbow as if he spent all his free time languishing in her bed. Her gaze continued down his body and she swallowed a groan. Smaller but equally vivid handprints glowed against the wash-faded denim of his jeans, on the thigh, and…oh, nice aim, Savannah…the fly.

  Her father cleared his throat—a sure sign he was preparing to speak—but she cut him off. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

  Sinclair’s midnight-blue eyes sparkled. “I don’t think there’s a name for what this looks like, but I take it last night’s dinner went well. If you’d responded to any of the texts I sent, we would have driven slower.” Her eyes slid to the bed, and she winked. “Much slower.”

  Crap. Sinclair assumed the half-naked man in her bed was Mitch. That’s what you get for jumping the gun yesterday afternoon and telling her you thought your six-month anniversary dinner with “M” might end with a ring.

  Old habit. Growing up, she and her sister had always been each other’s closest confidants. When she’d secretly crushed on Mr. Casey, her sixth-grade art teacher. After she’d given up her V-card on a freshman year spring break trip to Fort Lauderdale. When she’d expected the ambitious-yet-romantic lawyer she’d been seeing to pop the question. Every time, she’d told Sinclair.

  Her mother stepped toward the bed, her chin-length blonde curls swinging as she smiled and held out her hand.

  Somebody had raised him right, because he straightened and shook her outstretched hand.

  “Hello. I’m Savannah’s mother, Laurel. You must be the mysterious M we’ve heard so much about. I’m…oh my goodness, you’re bleeding.”

  God, he was. Still. Though not as copiously as before. He needed medical attention, not a round of introductions to her misguided family. “I told you this isn’t what it looks like. I—he—”

  “I surprised your daughter while she was painting.” He covered the wound with the towel. “We had a minor accident.”

  His deep, calm voice sounded reassuringly steady, despite the head injury, but she didn’t plan on taking any chances. “Not so minor. He lost consciousness for a moment. I was about to call 911 when you arrived.”

  “That’s not necessary,” he replied.

  “Absolutely not,” her father seconded, his nod of agreement sending a wing of dark hair over his brow. “We’ll drive you to the emergency room.” He dug into the pocket of his khakis for his car keys. From the corner of her eye, Savannah caught a movement by the bedroom door, but before she could say anything, her dad added, “It’s the least we can do for our future son-in-law.”

  “Future son-in-law?” The gasped question preceded an attractive and vaguely familiar brunette into the bedroom. She clung to the doorknob for support and blinked back tears. “Sweet baby Jesus, my secret prayers have been answered.”

  Chapter Two

  Shit.

  Beau actually felt himself turn as white as the towel he still held to his head. “Mom…Dad,” he added as his father stepped into the room and wrapped an arm around his mom’s shoulders. His dad looked around, gave everyone a slow smile, and said, “Howdy, strangers.”

  Savannah’s mother squealed—there was no other word for it—and ran forward to embrace his parents. Her father followed and clapped his dad on the shoulder. “Small world.”

  Either he’d taken a much harder hit than he thought, or his loud, distracting, and ridiculously sexy neighbor hid a secret portal to the twilight zone in her bedroom.

  “Cheryl and Trent Montgomery, is it really you?” Savannah’s mother asked as she hugged his mom like a long-lost sister.

  “In the flesh,” his mom answered, somewhere between laughter and tears. “Laurel Smith, I’d recognize you and Bill anywhere. You two haven’t aged a day.”

  The names rang a bell in the back of his mind. Years ago—before he’d started first grade—they’d lived next door to a family named Smith, but when his dad had accepted a work transfer, they’d moved to California. A blurry, early memory took shape. Sneaking through adjoining backyards, leaping out at a little blonde girl and brandishing his favorite, most lifelike rubber snake in her face. He remembered a satisfyingly terrified scream followed by an interminable time-out.

  He pulled his attention away from his parents and eyed the walking temptation he’d been avoiding since she moved in. Savannah Smith. Apparently they’d been neighbors before. Maybe this detail would have come to light sooner if they’d done more than nod hello to each other, but they hadn’t, which made the engagement assumption their parents had leaped to downright laughable—except setting everyone straight and watching the joy and relief drain out of his parents’ faces wouldn’t be so funny.

  “I can’t believe it,” Savannah’s mom went on. “What brings you here?”

  “We jumped on the chance to return to our roots and live closer to Beau,” his father said. “We moved back to Magnolia Grove earlier this month, but between work, the move, and”—he gave his wife a squeeze—“a couple other challenges, we’ve been inexcusably slow about looking up old friends.”

  Other challenges. His father had a gift for understatement.

  Savannah’s mom waved a hand. “Your old friends understand completely. But what are you doing here, in Savannah’s apartment?”

  “We saw the open door and thought this was Beau’s apartment,” his mom explained, and then continued in a quavering voice. “When we accepted his invitation to Thanksgiving dinner, we had no clue about the surprise in store for us. Beau and Savannah…engaged.” She blinked, sniffled, and lost the new battle with her tears. “I can’t even tell you what this news means to us. Especially just now.”

  Shit. Shit… Fuck it. In the half second it took to string three curses together, he made up his mind. It might be the stupidest decision he’d ever come to, but he owed his parents a happy, worry-free Christmas—at least free of worry about him. Their families thought they were engaged, and he intended to let them keep right on thinking it until after the holidays.

  Sinclair elbowed Savannah. “N
ow I understand why you were so freaking secretive about M. Well-played, you two, orchestrating a surprise reunion and an engagement announcement in one Thanksgiving dinner.”

  Savannah’s attention swung from her sister to him, silently asking which one of them should correct the picture.

  As discreetly as possible, he shook his head.

  Her lips thinned. Clearly, she didn’t take the hint. “We didn’t plan any of this—”

  Fuck discreet. He cleared his throat to drown her out and slumped against her pillow. “Sorry to interrupt the reunion, but unless everyone in this room has a twin standing next to them, I think the ER might be a good call after all.”

  …

  Beau’s words activated everyone. His father stepped forward to help his son to his feet. Her mother grabbed Mrs. Montgomery’s hand. “I’ll drive. Cheryl, you navigate. Savannah, ride in the back with Beau and keep an eye on him.”

  Her father took Beau’s other side. “We’ll follow in our car,” he added as the dads walked Beau to the door.

  Savannah couldn’t seem to shift herself into gear, and remained parked in the middle of her bedroom. “Wait. I have dinner in the oven. Give me a second to—”

  “I’ll stay behind and take care of it,” Sinclair said while she snagged Savannah’s paint-splotched silver evening clutch and matching heels from under the bed and handed them to her. Then she whispered, “You could have told me. I know how to keep a secret.”

  Maybe, but little sis had apparently blabbed the tidbit about her expectations for last night’s dinner, and now she had to manage not only her own disappointment, but that of her parents…and her neighbor’s parents, which would be substantial, judging by the happy tears coursing down Mrs. Montgomery’s cheeks and the ear-to-ear smile stretched across Mr. Montgomery’s face. She could understand his parents’ surprise, but why were they reacting like an engagement was some kind of miracle? What was wrong with this guy?

  Sinclair nudged her. Right. Miracle or not, he needed a doctor. She slipped the heels on, took the clutch, and immediately flashed back to giving the shoes and purse a haphazard toss in her haste to peel herself out of her perfect “pop the question” dress last night after arriving home empty-handed, with Mitch’s version of a proposal still ringing in her ears.

  Up until yesterday she’d been able to tell herself life wasn’t a total disaster. The big, sparkling career opportunity that had enticed her to Atlanta from Athens had flamed out—and burned her good in the process—but at least her personal life had looked promising. Looks, as it turned out, could be deceiving.

  “Sinclair,” Beau called over his shoulder while the dads maneuvered him out of the room. “My apartment is next door, and I’ve got stuff in the oven, too.”

  “No worries. I can handle double duty.” She tugged Savannah down the hall and whispered, “Neighbors. So cute. Is that how you two met…er…reconnected?”

  “Yes. I mean no.” She took a breath and tried again. “I mean, yes, he’s my neighbor, but I wouldn’t say we reconnected.”

  Sinclair stopped at the front door, squeezed Savannah’s arm, and released her. “Aw. Was it like you’d known each other all along? I expect to hear every detail when you get back from the hospital.”

  “Savannahhhhh,” her mother called from the stairwell. “It’s chilly outside. Could you bring Beau a shirt?”

  “Cooooming.” She shook her head at Sinclair, as if one simple gesture could magically melt the snowballing assumptions coming at her from every direction, and hurried into his apartment.

  She zipped through to the bedroom, barely pausing to tug a black flannel shirt off a hanger in a frighteningly organized closet before rushing to catch up with the rest of the group. Still, her artist’s eye translated her surroundings into thoughts. Sparse. Tidy. Impersonal. This guy took minimalism to the extreme.

  The ride to the hospital passed in a blur. She helped Beau into the shirt, ridiculously sad to watch his breathtaking array of muscles disappear behind a veil of flannel. Her hormones did a shameful little cheer when he abandoned his one-handed buttoning to basically drive from the backseat, relaying directions to her mom with remarkable clarity for a guy clutching a towel to his bleeding head. Then again, given his job, he could probably find the hospital blindfolded.

  At least someone kept his attention on the road. Her mom’s eyes continuously strayed, connecting with hers in the rearview mirror. They brimmed with questions. When she pulled into the hospital parking lot, she said, “I predicted this. Way back when Beau was barely a newborn and I found out Bill and I were having a girl, I said, ‘I’ll bet they end up married.’”

  Mrs. Montgomery smiled back at them, still wiping tears off her cheeks.

  Savannah couldn’t take it anymore. Someone had to set everyone straight, and apparently it was going to be her. But then Beau put his hand on her knee—a warm, steady, thought-derailing hand—and said, “Mom, everything’s fine. Please stop crying.”

  “I can’t help it, honey. I’m just so happy. Not about your head, of course, but about you and Savannah.”

  “Mrs. Montgomery, Mom—”

  “Can you let us off up here at the ER entrance?” The hand on her knee tightened as Beau spoke. Probably a reflex on his part to fight the pain, but the latent power inherent in the unconscious show of strength blindsided her with all kinds of inappropriate thoughts. That hand, tightening on her bare skin, parting her knees, and then slowly sliding up her thigh… Jeez, she’d kept this attraction corked for half a year, but half a day after things with Mitch imploded, the genie was out of the bottle. And the genie was horny as hell.

  Now you know what six months of mediocre sex does to a girl.

  Her mom skidded to a stop at the red curb, jostling a groan out of Beau and forcing him to move his hand from her knee to the seat back to keep from lurching forward.

  He recovered fast, because he was out of the SUV before Savannah even unlatched her seat belt. She bounded out after him, wobbling a little in the high heels, and inwardly cringing at her ensemble. Paint-splotched black thermals featuring compromising handprints, and silver peekaboo stilettos. Whatever. They’d surely seen worse at the ER.

  She slid under his right arm while his mom took the left. A black sedan pulled up to the curb behind the Navigator, and her dad stepped out.

  “Here, let me.” He switched places with Mrs. Montgomery. “Cheryl, go on ahead and get him signed in. We’ll be right behind you.” Tires squealed against asphalt as her mom pulled away. Savannah and her father walked Beau through the automatic doors leading to the nearly empty emergency room.

  The registration clerk recognized Beau, which probably accounted for why they were whisked into an exam room immediately. A moment later her mom and Mr. Montgomery joined them, and she found herself sitting on the exam table, hip-to-hip with Beau, while questions and congratulations from both sets of parents swirled around them.

  Her attention fixed on the wide, capable hand once again resting on her knee. His fingertips brushed along the waffled cotton of her leggings. Heat from the seemingly casual touch seeped through the barrier and burned her skin.

  “You two win the Jack Bauer award for covert ops.”

  Mr. Montgomery’s comment provoked laughter and some good-natured speculation from the peanut gallery. She shifted uncomfortably, and Beau’s arm brushed the side of her breast. His slow inhale made her think maybe he had gotten a gander at the girls in their black lace finery while she’d used the hem of her shirt to tend to his cut. At least somebody enjoyed the view. Despite the cynical thought, the notion sent a wave of tingles through her—all the way from the arches of her feet to the tips of her breasts. Goose bumps rose on her forearms.

  “I hope you’re not planning on a long engagement.”

  Beau answered her mom by saying they hadn’t given the matter any thought, which was true, but misleading. She raised her eyes to find his, but the yellow stamp of her handprint on the thigh of his jeans claimed
her attention, and she nearly shivered at the memory of granite muscles under supple denim.

  “What do you think about a spring wedding in Magnolia Grove?” his mom wanted to know.

  “And the reception at the country club,” her mom added. “Whitney Sloan had her reception there, remember, Bill? She had all those little paper lanterns in the trees.”

  Cheryl sighed. “Sounds magical…”

  Without permission, Savannah’s eyes searched out the other handprint, and widened at the impressive ridge forming behind the comparatively dainty impression. Her throat went dry, and her palm suddenly itched.

  Beau’s soft groan barely reached her ears. He casually widened his legs until the tail of his shirt slipped down to cover his fly.

  “How soon will I get a grandbaby?”

  The last question startled her out of her stupor. “Mom!”

  He squeezed her knee again. She looked up at him in time to see a muscle tick in his jaw, and then a new voice broke into the chaos.

  “Folks, I’m Dr. West, and I hate to break up the party, but I need two-thirds of the population of this room to relocate to the waiting area.”

  Savannah swiveled her head to find a middle-aged African-American woman in dark blue scrubs framed by the doorway. She started to jump down from the table, but the hand on her knee held her in place. Their parents moved to the door instead, and funneled out under the doctor’s watchful eye, still immersed in talk of weddings and grandchildren.

  “Montgomery, you are the last ugly white boy I expected to see in my ER today.”

  He found a smile for her. “Delilah, you know I can’t stay away from you.”

  “Hmm. Don’t be sweet-talking me when you’ve got a pretty young thing sitting beside you.” She rolled her eyes and grinned at Savannah. “Some men have absolutely no game. Honey”—she approached, wrapped a paper bracelet around Beau’s wrist, and motioned for him to move the towel—“what craziness did this fool resort to just to get your attention?”