Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency 1)

“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.”