“How about this?” He did the same to the other knuckle.
“Same…so Mitch will live?” Not that he deserved a second thought from her, but her conscience insisted she ask.
“He’s fine. You bruised his ego worse than his face.” He tapped her hand. “Make a fist.”
She complied. “Good to know, I guess.”
He studied her balled fingers, lifting and turning her wrist to view her fist from various angles. “Okay. Open your hand completely and part your fingers as wide as you can.” He demonstrated, and she followed his example. “You’re not feeling sorry for him, are you? Or having second thoughts?”
“No. He blew his shot. To be honest, I don’t know why I gave him one in the first place.”
Beau took her fingers, one at a time, and gently pushed each toward the knuckle. “Because on paper he checked all the boxes…clean-cut, educated, gainfully employed, and not overly demanding of your time or attention.”
“Ouch. When you sum it up like that, I sound really pathetic.”
“Or really logical. You put a lot of yourself into your art, so you steer clear of guys who won’t be happy unless your world revolves around them. Some people instinctively know where they need to draw the line—what they can offer, and what they can’t. Not everyone is willing or able to invest everything they’ve got in a relationship.”
Tidy notion, and maybe true to an extent with regard to Mitch, but it ignored one important fact. She needed her world to revolve around more than just her art, and refused to believe she wasn’t capable of giving more. She wanted a true soul mate, and children someday, and her career. Was that so selfish? Deep down, didn’t he need more, too? She wanted to ask, but her expression must have telegraphed her intention to turn the conversation to him, and apparently it wasn’t a direction he wanted to take. He kept talking.
“Why you got involved isn’t really my point. What I’m trying to pin down is how definite you feel about the breakup. Somewhere around the time your fist connected with his face, he got the hint you weren’t interested in talking, but if you call and apologize, you’re going to undermine the message. He’ll think he has a chance. You wouldn’t want to do that, would you?”
Long, competent fingers encircled her wrist, and his warm, hard palm slid against hers.
She shivered.
“No. I wouldn’t.” The words came out steady, even though her insides trembled. She couldn’t take her eyes off the sight of his fingers around her wrist. Her other wrist tingled as if caught in his grasp, too. She imagined him lifting her arms over her head, pinning them there while he slowly lowered his mouth to hers.
He drew his hand back, running his fingertips over her palm as he retreated.
“What would you want to do, Savannah?”
Chapter Ten
Savannah’s lips parted. She ran the tip of her tongue along the dip in her upper lip, and Beau strained his ears in the hopes of hearing her say, “I want you to fuck me, hard,” over the pounding of his pulse.
The pounding came again, only louder, and her lips formed the words…
“I better get that.”
Huh?
She walked past him and opened the front door. Without looking through the peephole. Sinclair stood on the other side of the threshold with a wheeled carry-on bag parked beside her. She leaned in and wrapped Savannah in a big hug. A bottle of wine dangled from one hand.
What the hell?
“Hey, sis. Since I didn’t get your good news until after I-85 stole the better part of my evening, I stopped by the Circle K on my way here and splurged on a bottle of their finest”—she paused as her gaze landed on Beau—“which we can split three ways.” Deep blue eyes looked him up and down. “Oooor I could leave the wine and go get a bite to eat. The Waffle House on the corner stays open all night, right?”
“Shut up and get in here.” Savannah made a move to grab the handle of Sinclair’s bag with her good hand, but he crossed the room and shooed her away.
“I’ve got it.” He hefted the luggage and placed it inside the door. “You moving in, Sinclair?”
“For one night. I’ve got an early flight out of Hartsfield-Jackson tomorrow morning. Savannah offered up half her Serta so I didn’t have to wake up at the crack of dawn and make the drive.”
So much for his prurient fantasies involving Savannah and her Serta. A brick of disappointment settled in his gut—or thereabouts—even though it was for the best. The “no complications” pledge remained in full force and effect. Getting physically involved with a woman who planned to dump him come the first of the year invited unnecessary tension into an already-tricky situation. The comparatively straightforward situation in his jeans persisted, but he had plenty of experience resolving that on his own. He eyed the bottle of wine in Sinclair’s hand. “What are we celebrating?”
“Some fiancé you are. You don’t even know your future wife got an offer to participate in a special exhibit at the Mercer Gallery?”
No, he didn’t, and that probably seemed kind of odd. He glanced at Savannah. “Congratulations.”