Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency)

by Samanthe Beck

  She lowered her hands to her lap and offered him an apologetic smile. “If it’s any interest to you, my side of the wall will be much quieter from here on out.”

  “I got the feeling based on today’s music choices. You and One-for-Three call it quits?”

  “One-for-Three?”

  He shrugged. “By my count. Like I said, sound travels.”

  “Oh my God. You heard how often I—”

  “I mostly heard how often you didn’t.” Something in his tone suggested he could do better. Much better.

  She ought to have been mortified, but the statement, combined with his matter-of-fact expression, coaxed a laugh out of her. She reached out and patted his cheek. “Maybe I’m just a quiet storm kind of girl?”

  He crossed his arms and stretched his legs so they extended beyond the footrests of the wheelchair. His dark brow lifted again. “You sing in the shower. You crank your music to eleven.” Slowly, purposefully, he traced the yellow handprint stamped across the thigh of his jeans. “You even like your walls loud. You’re not the quiet storm type.”

  Since when was she so easy to peg? Following some defensive instinct to throw him off balance, she lined her hand up with the imprint on his thigh. “You don’t like loud?” Backfire. Of their own accord, her fingers sank into the taut muscles beneath the soft denim.

  His eyes darkened, and almost reluctantly, he moved the pad of his thumb along the peaks and valleys of her knuckles, his slow, circling touch light but thorough. Mesmerizingly thorough. She imagined the same gentle massage along other, more personal peaks and valleys. The muscles in her legs dissolved, and she tightened her grip on his thigh in a useless attempt to anchor herself against a sudden wave of longing.

  His touch traveled to the crevices between her splayed fingers. “I didn’t say that.” He slipped his thumb between her fingers and raked the edge of his nail lightly across the center of her palm. The faint scrape woke nerve endings there, and in every other area of her body where nerve cells concentrated—her scalp, the soles of her feet, and some frustratingly neglected territory south of her belly button. When his nail grazed her palm again, the tingling between her legs intensified, turning into something sharp and demanding. If her erogenous zones could speak, they’d be saying…

  “Mr. Montgomery, we’re ready for you.”

  A nurse stood at the door between the waiting area and the imaging suites.

  Beau jerked his head around, and then practically sprang to his feet.

  She leaped up as well and went after the chair. “Hey. Hold on. They put you in this for a reason.”

  He simply kept walking. The nurse stepped forward and waved Savannah back to her seat. “The ones who should know better are always the most stubborn.”

  “Says Miss Lettie, the queen of stubborn,” he shot back, but allowed the heavyset woman to take his arm. To Savannah, he said, “Don’t go anywhere,” and disappeared through the door.

  Go anywhere? As if her limbs would support her. She dropped back into her chair, crossed her right knee over her left, and rubbed her overstimulated palm along her leg. Note to self. Do not pet the paramedic.

  What she needed right now was a distraction, so she opened her clutch and pulled out the letter. Her heart quickened as she spied “The Solomon Foundation for Art” in gold calligraphy in the upper left corner.

  Holy shit. Was she about to catch an actual break? She tore open the envelope and unfolded the sheet of crisp ivory stationery.

  Dear Ms. Smith,

  Thank you for your interest in The Solomon Foundation’s patronage program. After a careful review of your application, your body of work, and your project proposal, we are pleased to offer you a nine-month fellowship at our facility in Venice, Italy, commencing this January.

  Her hands shook, making it hard to read the rest of the page. Compensation—yes, they’d pay her to create her most ambitious pieces to date. An apartment in the historic Solomon Palazzo adjacent to their state-of-the-art glassblowing studio. A collective of skilled hands to assist her. In short, the opportunity of a lifetime, and she could desperately use one at the moment.

  She refolded the letter and returned it to her purse for safekeeping. As she did, her phone vibrated. A text from Sinclair lit the screen.

  How’s Beau? Everything’s under control here. I cleaned up your room best I could in between basting two turkeys. How much bird do you think we eat?! Also put champagne in the fridge, because I know Mom & Dad will want to celebrate. Any ETA on when we get this party started?

  Was her little sister psychic? How in God’s name did she already know about the fellowship? Wait. Realization sank in as she reread the text. The celebration Sinclair referred to was for her “engagement” to Beau. She texted a thanks and told Sinclair to sit tight.

  Her sister was right. Their parents did want to celebrate. A ruthlessly honest voice in her head admitted that an engagement to Mitchell Prescott III, Esq., wouldn’t have generated the same unbridled enthusiasm. Magnolia Grove wasn’t Mayberry, and she didn’t hail from a family of bumpkins, but something about him had always struck her as a little overly ambitious for their tastes.

  For hers, too, as it turned out. She’d honestly had no clue he’d been dating anyone on the side. Apparently marrying into the firm offered more upside potential than marrying a glass artist grappling with a serious career downturn.

  He loved her work. That much she believed. They’d met the evening of her very first Atlanta showing when he’d purchased one of her pieces.

  She’d loved him for loving it. How could she not? She literally breathed her life into her creations. They represented her in an intimate, elemental way. His respect for her artistic process, and his genuine appreciation for the result, had captured her heart. Even after her career went off the rails, his steadfast belief she’d be selected for the fellowship had bolstered her sagging confidence and made her think they understood each other on a fundamental level.

  A mistake, obviously, and as a result, she’d projected other admirable qualities where none actually existed. Important qualities like integrity and fidelity.

  Last night proved he possessed neither. Those deficits would have come to light eventually, but the twenty-twenty hindsight did little to ease the sting of unwittingly wasting half a year auditioning for the role of “other woman.” Her blood still boiled, thinking of him sitting across the table from her in the fancy French restaurant with a smug smile on his face while calmly explaining how an attorney on the fast track to partner needed the kind of spouse who stuck close and projected the firm’s proper, conservative image. Not an “unconventional artist, living in a commune in Europe.”

  In this case “unconventional” really meant “unsuccessful.” A humbling realization for a girl who hit town wearing the crown and sash of the next big thing in the Atlanta art world, and quickly fell from grace due to circumstances beyond her control. Stupid her, thinking the potential of her receiving a fellowship half a world away had inspired him to propose, so they could spend the time apart with the security of a strong commitment in place. Instead, the manipulative weasel had twisted things around, implying that her unfortunate choice in gallery representation made it untenable for them to be together. As if her career setback sabotaged their relationship by reflecting badly on him. The man had no heart. No soul. No balls.

  The mediocre sex should have told you something.

  True. But she’d put his less-than-impressive…ahem…follow-through down to a teensy lack of imagination in the bedroom, and instead let his endless supply of romantic gestures dazzle her.

  She’d mistaken the late candlelight dinners, flowers for no reason, and surprise getaways as indicators of his passion for her, and ignored how the sex itself had fallen short of passionate. One-for-Three—Beau’s nickname for Mitch pretty much nailed it. He tended to come first, come fast, and fall asleep as soon as the deed was done. Where the hell was the passion in that?

  A practical part of
her had assumed they’d reached the comfortable phase of their relationship, when in fact they’d reached the nonexclusive phase. What a prick.

  So be it. She shook her hair out of her face and straightened her spine, while one of her mom’s favorite sayings rang in her ears. No point crying with open eyes. Her eyes were now wide open when it came to Mitch, and she wouldn’t waste her tears on him, but she didn’t look forward to disclosing the whole pathetic mess to her family.

  They’d sympathize. They’d console. They’d tell her she deserved better. Then her mother would take it upon herself to find better, and dedicate the holidays to setting Savannah up with every unattached man Mom and the other Daughters of Magnolia Grove could shame into dating her.

  Unless she thought you were already engaged…which she does.

  Would it be so wrong to let the mistake ride until after the New Year? Her parents had raised her to tell the truth, except where doing so would needlessly injure someone’s feelings. Horizontal stripes never made a friend look fat, a baked-from-scratch dinner always tasted wonderful, and no matter who soloed at Sunday service, the performance always sounded heavenly. Pretending to be engaged to Beau Montgomery for a few short weeks amounted to the same kind of little white lie, didn’t it? A harmless deception. Possibly even a helpful one if it eased his parents’ minds?

  You’re considering lying to your family, but at least stay honest with yourself. She wasn’t blind or stupid. She knew hard-core lust when she felt it. Her battered ego basked in the heat of Beau’s stare, and the rest of her wasn’t immune, either. The simple sweep of his thumb over her palm shot her straight into a pre-orgasmic danger zone. Her pent-up body craved more than mere release. It craved complete and total salvation from the lackluster routine of the last several months. But acting on the attraction amounted to skipping through a minefield. Drunk. At midnight.

  He lived next door. Their parents called the same town home. They were already waist-deep in a scheme that required they remain on friendly terms for the rest of the year, if not the rest of their lives. Then again, come January she’d board a plane to Italy, which offered a pretty decent eject button.

  The door to the waiting area closed with a soft thud. She looked up to find Beau standing before her, his expression unreadable.

  “Ready?”

  The single word provoked a far-from-harmless flutter in her belly. Was she ready to leave radiology? Sure. Ready to skip through a minefield, drunk, at midnight? She didn’t know.

  …

  He stayed silent while an orderly wheeled him back to the ER. The wheelchair irked, but Beau understood hospital policy, and frankly, he figured it advanced his cause to look as harmless as possible. Especially after a simple touch in the radiology waiting room had charged the air around them with unstable chemistry.

  He needed to review that whole conversation he’d had with himself about acknowledging lust versus acting on it. Acknowledging said, “It’s there. I see it,” much like a driver acknowledging a hazard in the road ahead. Acting on it amounted to steering straight for the hazard. Unfortunately, without meaning to, that’s exactly what he’d done. Touching her had definitely been a mistake. A potentially fatal one, now that she’d had a few minutes to think about the dangers. He hoped not, but the moment called for patience, not pressure.

  His patience paid off. As soon as the exam room door whooshed closed behind the departing orderly, she propped herself against the table and stared down at him. “Okay, Montgomery, exactly how do you envision us executing this brilliant scheme of yours?”

  “We keep things simple. Stick to the truth as much as possible.”

  “With the notable exception of the whole ‘we’re in love and getting married’ bit.”

  He dipped his head in concession. “Except for that.”

  She folded her arms and gripped her elbows as if holding herself together. “How’d we meet?”

  He stood and approached her, slow and casual to counterbalance the tension coming off her. “You moved in next door.” He braced a hand on the table by her hip. “And immediately caught my eye.”

  “Did I?” She scanned his face, and he noticed the thin black striations in her horizon-blue irises.

  “Hell, yes. We got to talking, and quickly realized we knew each other from back in the day.” He leaned in a little closer, drawn to the faint freckles on the bridge of her nose. He remembered those freckles. “Maybe that explains why we felt such an instant—”

  “Connection?” The tip of her tongue swept over the small vee notched into the center of her upper lip.

  “Attraction.”

  The tongue detoured to her plush lower lip, and then retreated. “Attraction’s easy. Happens all the time. How did we get from attraction to love?”

  “For me, it was the little things. The way you sing in the shower. The way you bite your lip when you’re trying to make an important decision. The home-baked apple pie might have been a factor.”

  Those naked lips quirked into her tilted smile, and he silently added that to his list.

  “You’re good at this. But you should fall in love with my talent, too. I’m an artist. My professional name is S.E. Smith, and without her in the mix, I’m just another pretty face.”

  Untrue, but now wasn’t a wise moment to point out all the other talents he’d noticed every time she’d gone up or down the stairs at Camden Gardens. Never would be the better time for that conversation. He straightened. “I have to confess I don’t know shit about art. Give me a couple catchphrases so I don’t sound like an asshat talking about how your work captures the complex, shifting essence of what it means to be human.”

  Her laugh eased some of the tension in the room. “Lucky for you, I went through my ‘complex, shifting essence’ phase years ago. I’m a glass artist.”

  “Right. Glass artist. I’m not sure what that means.”

  “I blow glass. You should come down to Glassworks Studios—that’s where I rent furnace time—and see for yourself. But in the meantime, just use words like ‘colorful,’ ‘vibrant,’ and ‘extremely breakable.’ If you really want to impress my family, you can say my work looks like Dale Chihuly had a tempestuous affair with Queen Elsa from Frozen.”

  “You’re way better than Dale Chihuahua.”

  His ignorance earned him another throaty laugh. “And that’s why I fell for you.”

  “Because of my art appreciation?”

  “Because you make me laugh.” She fiddled with the collar of his shirt, and her smile turned sly. “Plus I like how you fill out your paramedic’s uniform.”

  The comment surprised him. Not the flirtatiousness—he’d never mistaken her for shy—but based on her boyfriend choice, he’d pegged her for the suit-and-tie type. “I didn’t realize you’d noticed.”

  “Are you kidding? We all noticed.”

  “We all?”

  “Mrs. Washington in one-twenty-two—”

  “Shut up. She’s ninety years old.”

  “Nothing wrong with her eyesight. She fans her face and says, ‘Oooh mercy, dat ass,’ every time you walk by. And Steven in one-oh-two says next time the temperature hits triple digits, he’s going to fake a swoon and hope for mouth-to-mouth.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and added, “Don’t tell him I divulged his plan.”

  As a rule, people in medical professions didn’t embarrass easily, but the thought of his neighbors discussing his…assets…did the trick. “His plan contains a fundamental flaw. He has to do more than pass out to get the kiss of life.”

  The corners of her mouth tightened, pushing her lips into a sexy little pout, and his lip-biting fantasy returned in full force.

  “I had no idea paramedics were so stingy with the mouth-to-mouth.”

  “We like to play hard-to-get.”

  Amusement danced in her eyes. “In that case, I guess I should be flattered by your offer.” She smoothed her fingers over his shoulder and down the front of his shirt, frowning slightly as her hand cam
e to rest in the center of his chest. “There’s a lot of chemistry here, but for both our sakes, we probably shouldn’t act on it.”

  She’d read his mind. Why the relief her words should have brought felt more like irritation, he couldn’t say. She’d just come out of a relationship, and if he interpreted the theme of this morning’s music medley correctly, she wasn’t looking to get involved again soon. His default setting was “not looking to get involved.” Even if they were looking, getting involved with each other put a lot at risk. “We’re on the same page,” he said, and told the renegade in his jeans to calm down. “No complications.”

  She nodded. “Agreed. No complications.” But her frown deepened. “Our families might expect an occasional display of affection.”

  His right palm tingled with the phantom weight of her breast, and his left hand twitched at the memory of cupping her tight, round ass. “I’m sure we can muster up something convincing.”

  “I don’t know. You’re blushing pretty hard right now just thinking about it.”

  “I’m blushing thinking about my pervy neighbors speculating on my mouth-to-mouth skills.”

  “If you say so.”

  The allegedly logical part of his mind insisted she had a point. “You want a demonstration?”

  She tipped her face up, shook her hair back, and he caught a flowery hint of shampoo or perfume, or maybe just her drifting under the antiseptic hospital smell.

  “A dress rehearsal might be in order. I don’t mean to criticize, but the last time you kissed me, your technique needed work.”

  He had no idea what she was talking about, but he had a strong and unwise desire to trace every curve of her teasing grin with his tongue. See if she tasted as sweet as she smelled. “I think you’re confusing me with someone else, Smith. We’ve never kissed before.”