Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency 1)

“Or I’m a master palmist. Either way, the lines don’t lie. It’s there. You’ve got two more here,” she pointed to the pair intersecting his lifeline farther along. “We know who they are.”

“Okay, and your point?”

“You don’t pick up any more guardian angels until way down here.” She ran her finger along the line, toward his wrist, circled the next line, and then folded his hand, held it in both of hers, and planted a kiss on his knuckles. “Your mom’s going to be fine. So are you.”

“The lines don’t lie, huh?”

“Never. Now that we’ve eliminated the pesky maybes from your future, what will you do? The coast is clear the next time you’re tempted to go all-in.”

“Maybe the coast is clear because I keep it clear?”

“For a man who hates ‘maybe’, you sure find your way back to the word quickly.”

“Because I don’t need any more guardian angels.” He gave her a grim smile. “And I do need to stay out of the rabbit hole.”

“Helloooo? Anybody home?”

“Showtime,” Beau said, and then called out, “Come in. We’ll be right there.”

She folded her shopping bag and shoved it into the cabinet under the sink, banking her frustration over the premature end to their conversation while she was at it. Though really, was the end premature? He’d been honest, and who was she to tell him how he should feel or what he should do? She hadn’t walked in his shoes.

Even so, the persistent voice in the back of her mind kept insisting he sold himself short.

So be it, she decided as she followed him to the living area. He hadn’t asked her to change him, or fix him. She was helping him out, and enjoying some extremely cathartic rebound sex in the process. But as she watched him kiss his mom and hug his father, the annoying voice spoke up again.

Nice try, but this goes beyond a favor or rebound sex. You’re invested. You care.

Chapter Thirteen

Beau scraped the feet of his chair against black and white octagonal tiles of the restaurant floor as he pushed back from the table. He crossed his arms and tried to emulate his father’s calm expression while his mom chatted matter-of-factly about going under a surgeon’s knife in a week to remove cancer from her body.

If he pulled off the outward calm, he deserved an Academy Award. While he waded into grisly scenes on a routine basis at work without so much as a hard swallow, the idea of his mom’s surgery made his head pound, his palms sweat, and the full rack of Memphis-rubbed ribs he’d just finished threaten a stampede. The restaurant filled with young families and retirees at this early hour suddenly seemed too loud and way

too hot. The trademark red-and-white-striped decor boasted holiday flourishes in addition to the normal overload of vintage signs and regional memorabilia, and the exuberance of color attacked his retinas.

A slim, cool hand slid over one of his. Savannah. She was a sight for sore eyes, with her blonde curls cascading down the back of her slouchy black sweater, one shoulder on display courtesy of the wide neckline. Skinny white jeans clung to her slim thighs and disappeared into the tops of high black suede boots.

The boots had launched an armada of fantasies when he’d seen her standing at his door tonight, but now he felt nothing but gratitude as she sat next to his mom, listening attentively while she casually swept her fingertips along his tense knuckles. He uncrossed his arms and took her hand, wove his fingers between hers, and held tight. She spared him a warm glance and a quick smile before turning again to his mom and saying, “I can’t believe it’s an outpatient procedure.”

His mom nodded. “The tumor is small and there’s no sign the cancer has spread, so I’m looking at simple lumpectomy and a sentinel lymph node dissection. The procedure itself will take less than an hour. Then I go to recovery, wake up, get dressed, and this handsome fellow”—she gestured to his dad—“takes me home. The next week I’ll have a follow-up appointment with my surgeon, but assuming clear margins and no cancer present in the lymph nodes, I’m done.”

Assuming. Another word he disliked. Assuming clear margins and negative lymph nodes didn’t guarantee such an outcome. Falling short of assumptions meant additional, much more invasive surgery, maybe chemotherapy, radiation, and years of maintenance medications. Again, with no guarantees. The vital, energetic woman who’d bandaged his skinned knees and nursed his every fever when he was a kid might be embarking on a long, painful battle with a killer, and there was nothing he could do about it. He hated feeling so helpless.

“The surgery happens next Tuesday?” Savannah asked, and gave his hand a squeeze. The gesture made him realize he’d been holding hers tightly. Probably too tightly. He forced his fingers to relax and attempted to draw away. She stilled his retreat without missing a beat in her conversation with his mom. “I’ll come with Beau to the hospital.”

“You have the meeting with the gallery on Tuesday,” he reminded her.

“I’ll move it.” She ran her short, unpainted fingernails along his wrist.

“No, please don’t, sweetie,” his mom interjected. “You either, Beau. I’m going to be a groggy, loopy mess after surgery. I’d just as soon have no witnesses.”

“Except me,” his father said, and kissed his mom’s cheek.

“You made the ‘for better or for worse’ pledge, so you’re exempt.”

“I happen to like you loopy,” he replied.

“Then you’ll like me a lot on Tuesday.”