Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency 1)

God save her from this self-contained man. She’d have driven over with him if he’d asked her to, but he hadn’t. Still, his appreciation eased the sting of his blatant reluctance to rely on her. “I couldn’t stay away. You understand.”

“Yeah, I do.” He brought her hand to his lips again and kissed it. “Want to get out of here?”

“Whenever you’re ready. If you prefer to stick around and see your mom?”

“No. She’s in good hands, and I don’t want to make her uncomfortable.” He stood, pulled her to her feet, and started toward the elevator. “My dad’s going to take her home. I’ll call tonight and check in.”

They rode the elevator in silence. He walked her to her car and paused by her door. “Feel like a late lunch?”

She shook her head. Not so much. And if she was reading him right, neither did he.

“See you at home?”

She nodded and tried to ignore the reckless pirouette her heart executed at his use of the word “home.”

On the drive home she attempted to talk sense into herself. By home, he probably meant Camden Gardens, but in truth she was starting to feel at home in his bed. They’d spent every night together since the evening at her studio, and each time she’d drifted off to sleep as breathless, boneless, and thoroughly satisfied as the first time. The inferno between them showed no sign of burning out. Her hormones insisted any sane, healthy woman would find herself addicted to rebound sex of this magnitude, but her better judgment kept harping on the danger of the addiction. It insisted getting hooked on devastating orgasms was problem enough, but getting accustomed to falling asleep with her head on his chest and his heartbeat thumping like a steady lullaby in her ear only invited heartache. She was already in deeper than she ought to be, and she’d begun to look at the first of the year with a weird combination of dread and relief.

The exact same combination of emotions churned in her stomach when she climbed out of her Explorer and saw Beau leaning against the wall by the stairwell, waiting for her. He straightened as she approached, took her hand, and said, “Can I buy you a drink?”

A peek at her watch told her it was barely two in the afternoon, but she suspected mentioning the time wouldn’t dissuade him. Not that she blamed him for wanting to take the edge off. His mom’s surgery had gone well, but now the stress of awaiting the lab results became all the more acute. This strong, independent, don’t-rely-on-anyone man needed comfort and company. She could offer both. And love, a fatalistic inner voice acknowledged. You’ve in love with this strong, independent, don’t-rely-on-anyone man. She couldn’t pinpoint the moment when she’d lost the battle to keep her emotions on a safe path, but she had. She’d fallen, and there wasn’t a thing in the world she could do to reverse course, even knowing he’d sooner cut out his heart than risk loving again. Hopefully her heart was more resilient. Hopefully she could be here for him while he needed her, and then find the strength to get on a plane and move on with her life. “Where did you have in mind for this drink?”

“I know just the place.” He led her upstairs and into his apartment. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll find the bartender,” he said and stepped into the kitchen.

While he dug around in the cabinet above the fridge, she pulled the ponytail holder out of her hair and tossed it on an end table. Next came the stack of silver “bamboo” bangles Sinclair had given her a few birthdays ago. Then she settled herself on the arm of the sofa and kicked off the Prada zipper-back black stilettos she’d treated herself to when she’d sold her first piece in Atlanta—shoes she should have waited to purchase until she’d collected her commissions. Her slightly punished toes forgave the fashionable torture as she massaged them through her black tights. After a moment she straightened, peeled out of her cropped leather motorcycle jacket, and tossed it across the back of the sofa.

The rustling in the kitchen ceased. She looked up to find Beau staring at her.

“What?” She got to her feet, and her hands automatically drifted over her long black knit dress, checking the turtleneck collar, straightening seams, smoothing the line of the skirt.

He shook his head and smiled. “Nothing. Just admiring how you come into a room.”

The little trail of cast-offs around her drew her attention. In the course of three minutes she’d strewn more personal items into his living space than he kept there on a permanent basis. “Sorry. I’m not neat.” She made her way into the kitchen. “But I have other qualities.”

His smiled tightened into a cocky grin. “I’m intimately familiar with your qualities.”

She patted his cheek and gave him her own cocky grin. “You’ve only scratched the surface of my qualities.” She’d never witnessed him drink anything stronger than beer, so she was a little surprised to see he’d lined up a nearly full bottle of tequila, a still-sealed bottle of vodka, and three-quarters of a bottle of whiskey. “You were serious about that drink.”

“Any preference?”

“I prefer simple.” She reached up and opened the long, narrow cabinet to the right of the sink, pulled out two short tumblers and placed them on the counter. Then she unscrewed the top from the bottle of Jack and poured two fingers in each glass.

After handing him one, she lifted the other and tapped it to his. “To your brave, strong, totally kick-ass mom.”

“To Mom,” he echoed, and downed his drink.

She did the same and refilled their glasses. “To your dad, who keeps her path smooth, in that laid-back, quiet way of his.”

“To Dad.” He knocked back the second shot. She followed suit.

The throat of the bottle tinkled against the rim of the glass as she refilled their tumblers. After putting the bottle aside she lifted her shot. “To you, for being there, even though it’s scary. Even though she gave you an out because she’s trying to protect you.”

He downed the third shot without toasting, lowered his chin to his chest, and exhaled through his nose before replying. “I don’t need protecting.”

Those normally sharp brown eyes didn’t quite lock on his glass, or her, or anything he looked at. “Of course you don’t.” She poured more Jack into their tumblers. “You’re a big, strong, invincible guy. You can handle anything.” She tipped her head toward the living room. “Want to sit down?”

“Sure.” The word came out a little soft around the edges. Three shots in as many minutes had a noticeable effect on Mr. Invincible. She carried the bottle and her glass over to the coffee table and sank down on

the sofa. He followed, and she noticed the little stumble and the way his lax body took an extra bounce when he plunked down beside her. He faced her and wound a stand of her hair around his finger while his eyes roamed her face. “You’re beautiful.”