Savannah read the screen of her phone while she sat at her table with her right hand under a bag of frozen blueberries. She typed, Yep, in an attempt to keep up her end of the text exchange with Sinclair, who was stuck in traffic on her way into Atlanta.
She tried to add, “I had to be prevented from killing him,” but only got as far as “I had to be prevent”—before she accidentally hit send. What popped up in the balloon read, I had to be pregnant.
Shit. She sucked at left-hand texting.
An emoji of a yellow face with hands pressed to its cheeks and mouth hanging open came back instantly.
Savannah leaned over her phone and typed more slowly. Prevented! I had to be PREVENTED from killing him.
Whew. Don’t get me wrong, can’t wait to be crazy Aunt Clair, but please not thanks to… The sentence ended with an emoji of what looked like a smiling pile of poop.
Never in a million years. Savannah was on the pill, and she always, without fail, used a condom as well. She wanted no surprises in that particular area of her life.
Did you tear his balls off and stomp on
them?
I punched him in the face.
I love you.
She grinned, and added, Maybe broke his nose.
You’re my hero.
A soft knock at her door interrupted her search for the flexing biceps emoji.
Gotta go. Drive safe. I’ll see you soon.
She kicked her discarded boots out of her way, walked to the door, and opened it. Beau stood on the threshold, a big, rugged monument of testosterone in faded jeans and a gray crew neck with long sleeves pushed up lean, corded forearms. The slight throb in her knuckles took a backseat to a newer and far more distracting throb located nowhere in the vicinity of her hand. His gaze slid over her, slowly, and a muscle tensed in his jaw. She glanced down and studied herself through his eyes, taking in her bare feet, the thin strip of skin visible between the ruched-up hem of her layered tank tops and the low, hastily rolled waistband of her boyfriend jeans, the careless wisp of bubble-gum-pink lace peeking out from beneath the scooped neckline of her tanks.
Klassy. Do you wonder why Mitch never pictured you as Mrs. Mitchell Prescott III?
Cut it out, she silently ordered the negative voice in her head. Nobody blew glass in a Dior gown. It was a hot, sweaty, physical endeavor, and she loved it. A look at Beau told her he imagined a hot, sweaty, physical endeavor, too—the kind that put an anticipatory flush under his stubble-darkened cheeks and an untamed gleam in his eyes. The throb intensified, and every pulse point in her body got in on the action. When his attention shifted from the glimpse of pink lace to her lips, even her scalp prickled. Lost in the infinity of his wide, dark pupils, she lifted her hand to adjust her tank top, and winced.
The pain surprised her, and her quick inhale broke the spell. He frowned. “You’re supposed to be icing that hand.”
She let out a careful breath and backed up to let him in. “I was.” A few steps brought her to the table. She lifted the bag of blueberries. “See.”
He crossed the room slowly, closing in like a predator certain of its prey. His attention never wavered. When they stood almost toe-to-toe, he took her hand, cradled it in his larger, stronger one, and moved his thumb over her skin. “No cuts. That’s good. Also next to no swelling around the fourth and fifth CMC joints.” He lightly touched the landmarks at the base of her ring and little fingers.
“What’s that mean?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “It means you hit correctly. If you use this part of your fist”—he touched his thumb to the base of her ring and pinky fingers—“you get what we call a brawler’s fracture.”
“I’m unbreakable. My father would be proud.”
“I’m not saying you don’t have a break. You just don’t have the most common closed-fist impact fracture. See this swelling right here?” He pointed to the sore red points at the base of her index and middle fingers. “You took a little damage.”
“Yeah, well…you should see the other guy.”
His lips curved again. “I have.” Then he pressed on the area around one puffy knuckle a little harder than she expected, and looked at her—presumably to gauge her reaction. “Hurt?”
“Not too much.”
“Sharp or dull?”
“Dull.”