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.”