He put his hand on her arm. “Don’t shut me out, baby. We can talk this through.”
Savannah looked down at the manicured hand on her arm and then placed her hand over his.
Okay, fuck standing. This situation begged for interference. She’d thank him later. Beau started to reach for lover boy, but Savannah beat him to it. She removed his hand from her arm. “We’ve said everything we need to say to each other, with the possible exception of this: if you lay a hand on me again, I will clean your clock.”
“Baby, please. You know I love you.”
The placating tone scraped across Beau’s nerves as effectively as nails on a chalkboard. Then the dumbass went in for a kiss. Before Beau could react, Savannah drew her arm back, made a fist, and slammed it into Mitchell Prescott III’s pedigreed nose hard enough to snap his head back.
After reaching full extension, his head bounced forward. He leaned over, one hand braced on his knee, the other clutching his blowhole. “Jesus Christ, Savannah, I think—I think you broke my nose!”
“Let’s be sure.” She shook out her hand and then pulled her fingers into a fist again.
Mitch groaned and straightened. Blood flowed from one bruised nostril, and the bridge already showed hints of purple.
Apparently the blow left Mitch’s eyesight intact. As soon as he saw her poised for round two, he ducked behind Beau. “Call 911.”
Beau sighed. “I am 911.” He shifted his attention to Savannah, captured her hand, and eyed her abused knuckles. “Nice shot, Champ. Go ice this hand. I’ll be over as soon as I get your punching bag squared away.”
“I’m fine, and this”—she gestured at Mitch with her uninjured hand—“is not your mess to clean up. If he wants help, he can call his fiancée.” She leaned past him to address Mitch, who leaned against Beau’s doorframe, pressing a tissue to his nose. “I’d love to see what she thinks about picking him up on some other woman’s doorstep.”
“I don’t think his nose can take another hit tonight.” He ran his thumb over her fingers. “Flex these for me.”
She did, slowly and fully, but he didn’t miss the slightly ragged edge to her exhale.
“Good. Got a bag of frozen peas?”
“Hello? I’m bleeding here…”
Beau gave him the same look he used to intimidate uncooperative idiots he encountered on the job. One-for-Three had the good sense to shut his trap.
“Go inside and take a seat at the table. No, don’t tilt your head back—tilt it forward and pinch your nostrils right here.” He demonstrated on himself, and then pointed at his door. Mitch followed instructions, muttering under his breath as he disappeared into the apartment.
He turned back to Savannah. She’d curled her fingers into a half-closed position again, which he imagined felt most comfortable about now. “You have something to use as an ice pack?”
“Yes, sir.”
He ignored the sarcasm. “Use it. Keep your hand elevated, ice on, and I’ll be over soon to take care of you.”
“You don’t have to take care of me, Beau.”
He aimed her toward her door, opened it for her, and used his body to more or less crowd her into her apartment. “It’s my prerogative as your fiancé.”
“Very funny.”
“My ironic sense of humor is just one of the things you love about me.”
“Right up there with your stubborn streak and bossy-pants attitude.” She tried to look irritated, but he caught the way she battled to keep the corner of her mouth from tilting up.
Suddenly he was fighting the same battle. He turned toward his place and without looking back, told her, “Put some ice on that hand, Rocky.” He suspected his back took an insult in the form of a rude face or hand gesture, but the thought only made him smile more.
Important takeaways: Savannah knew how to throw a punch, and One-for-Three had no chance of convincing her to give them a second try. He couldn’t blame her. Not with those stats. But a tiny part of him recognized the outcome satisfied him more than it should have.
No complications, he reminded himself.
…
WTF? Mitch showed up at your apartment tonight?!