Sinclair marched over to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of champagne from inside, and held it up. “We’ll be fine.”
“Okay. Great. I’ll be back in a few.” He turned to head over to his apartment, but caught his mom watching him expectantly. And Savannah’s mom. And Sinclair. What? Then he looked at Savannah, and her words from earlier came back to him.
Our families might expect an occasional display of affection.
Apparently so. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her in close, and lowered his head to give her a kiss. She tipped her face up and puckered her lips for a quick, affectionate peck. Perfect. That’s all they needed. His lips brushed hers, and…
The velvety cushion gave under the pressure of his mouth. And gave. And kept on giving. His brain shouted, Abort! but his lips disregarded the order and went back for more while the rest of his body enjoyed a surge of desire more powerful than he’d experienced in a long time. A very long time. Too long.
Those soft lips opened for his tongue, and her fingers curled into the front of his shirt. Other parts of him went rogue, and the next thing he knew, he had a handful of her sweet, round ass. Her quick intake of breath shot another hot bolt of lust through him. He tightened his grip. She grasped his shoulders and came up on her tiptoes, and he imagined the scrape of her nipples over his chest through the layers of clothes. He plunged his fingers into her hair and pulled her even closer, took the kiss deeper…
Montgomery, you are fucked.
“Don’t mind me. I’m just gonna stick my head in the freezer for a second.”
Sinclair’s comment pierced the fog of need obliterating his self-control. He pulled back, as did Savannah. They both dropped their hands and stepped away from each other, which only made the moment more awkward. Awkward for everyone, judging by the sound of his father clearing his throat. So much for a casual farewell. There was nothing quick or affectionate about the kiss, and the intensity of the attraction might well work against him, because Savannah looked downright shell-shocked. He probably looked the same.
No means of silently reassuring her they could stick to the plan sprang to mind, so he went with retreat and turned to leave. And nearly barreled into his mom. She hugged him, and he inhaled the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5.
“Even with a trip to the emergency room, this easily ranks as the best Thanksgiving ever. For the first time in too long, we feel truly thankful.”
He hugged her back and glanced over his shoulder at Savannah. She sent him a weak smile.
“I’m glad,” he murmured, broke eye contact to kiss his mom’s cheek,
and hoped for the best as he walked across the hall.
He showered in surprisingly little time—gotta love water-based paint—and changed into the one pair of black dress pants in his closet and a light gray cashmere sweater his mom had bought him somewhere along the line. A sarcastic voice in the back of his head asked him if he seriously believed pants and a sweater competed with Brooks Brothers. He told the voice to shut the fuck up.
A short call to work sorted out the schedule for tomorrow. He’d come in and do desk stuff if he felt up to it. With that loose end tied off, he made his way back to Savannah’s apartment and slipped inside to figure out if any true confessions had occurred during his absence.
Both sets of parents, and Sinclair, sat around the coffee table. Next to the bowl sat an uncorked bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket. At least one round of toasts had been made by the looks of things, and he took it as a sign he was still engaged. Sinclair and the moms sipped champagne on the sofa. The dads occupied the armchairs, their attention riveted on a bowl game, but their eyes lit up when he moved deeper into the room and they spied the sixer of SweetWater he carried. His dad rose to relieve him of two bottles.
All of this registered in the periphery, though, because Savannah walked in from the kitchen and claimed his attention. She must have put her hair up when she’d showered. It cascaded over her shoulders, with just a few damp tendrils gleaming in the light from the dining room fixture. She leaned over and placed a gravy boat on the table. The neckline of her black sweater gaped, and he caught a wisp of black lingerie before she straightened and absently adjusted the top. Was she wearing the same bra she’d had on before? Hard to say, but a picture of her pale, generous breasts encased in the black lace flashed through his memory, and now he had some adjusting to do.
He took care of it as discreetly as possible while putting the beer in her fridge. Behind him, Savannah announced, “Dinner is served.”
Everyone flowed into the dining area and took seats around the table. He sat opposite Savannah, with his mom on his left and his dad on his right. They joined hands for silent grace, said amen, and then…holy shit, he should have prayed for mercy because the conversation took a fast, dangerous turn and dragged him along like a tin can tied to a bumper.
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.”