Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency 1)

“What were you thinking?” He stepped back, away from her touch.

Now she straightened, and her mouth firmed. “I didn’t plan this.”

“Right. You didn’t plan to buy a wedding dress either, but surprise. You’ve got one. How long have you known?”

“I took the test before we left for the inn.”

“Then why am I finding out from Claudia fucking Pinkerton?” He raked his hands through his hair and tugged on the too-long strands. “I can’t believe you would try to manipulate me like this.”

“Beauregard Montgomery!” His father’s voice barely registered. Hands landed on his shoulders, but he shook them off.

“Manipulate you? Like this?” Savannah flung her arms out and then let them drop to her sides. “Are you serious? Yeah, Montgomery, you fell into my trap. I lured you over to my apartment, bashed you in the head hard enough to plant this genius engagement-of-convenience scheme in your mind, and then got pregnant so, boom, you’d be stuck following through.” She punched him in the chest with a closed fist. “Because of all the men in Atlanta, I set my diabolical sights on the emotionally unavailable paramedic who can barely gather up the courage to admit he ‘cares’ for me. I thought, ‘Hell, yes, that’s the man I want to be the father of my child—’”

“What do you mean, engagement-of-convenience?” Laurel’s voice broke in.

“Mom, not now.” Sinclair stepped between them. “Time-out. You”—she pointed to Beau—“you need to back off. Right now.”

Somebody tried to pull him away from the table, but the temper he usually kept on a leash jerked hard in the opposite direction, even though every other instinct urged him to close his mouth and walk away—keep walking until he had himself under control or his legs broke, whichever came first.

Temper won the tug-of-war, but by the time he stood toe-to-toe with Savannah, the temper had solidified into bleak defeat that sat on his chest like a corpse. “I told you I couldn’t.” His voice creaked. “I told you I don’t have it in me, and I told you why. It’s a permanent condition, Savannah. Blind people can’t see. Deaf people can’t hear, and I can’t…” The pressure on his chest threatened to crush him. “I can’t. I have obligations, and I’ll meet them, but I cannot go down this rabbit hole. Not even for you.”

She shoved him, hard enough to back him up a step. “I am nobody’s obligation.” Another shove, but this time he held his ground. “This baby is nothing but a blessing, and if you can’t see that”—she came at him one more time—“stay the hell away from us.”

She wanted him gone? Fine. Gone was where he should have been weeks ago.

He remembered nothing about crossing the banquet room except people stepping out of his way, but somehow he arrived at the door. He paused there and turned back. Savannah stood in the middle of the room, a small oasis of red with her arm wrapped protectively across her stomach and unspeakable sadness in her eyes. He pushed through the doors and welcomed the sting of cold night air.

His phone started vibrating before he even climbed into the Yukon. He ignored it and put the truck in drive, following the one imperative screaming through his mind.

Escape.

Scenery zipped by as he drove along Broad Street—past the turn to his parents’ house—all the way to the on-ramp and straight out of town.

When the hum of his phone became incessant, he turned it off. Savannah wouldn’t call. He’d officially moved himself to the ex list, like good old One-for-Three, and she’d demonstrated clearly enough that once she was done with somebody, she was done.

They never should have gotten started.

He didn’t need to hear his dad tell him he was a disgrace or listen to his mom go on about how he’d broken everyone’s hearts to know he’d fucked up. He had all of that coming, and more, but right now he had to get the hell away or he was going to explode.

He spent the

next two hours realizing escape wasn’t as simple as getting in a vehicle and hauling ass. In the course of the last month Savannah had infiltrated every area of his life, including his car. Each time he breathed, he inhaled faint traces of her perfume. A trio of ponytail holders sat stacked on the gearshift knob. A nail file peeked out from the passenger door pocket. Some change rattled in the center console cupholder, crowned by a yellow tube of lip balm with a bee on the side. The clear concoction inside had touched her lips a hundred times…something he’d never do again. A sense of loss he didn’t want, and wasn’t entitled to, swamped him.

By the time he trudged up the stairs to his apartment, he craved only one thing—complete and total oblivion. A shadow by his door moved. His adrenaline surged and then subsided as a figure pushed off the wall and the light from the overhead fixture landed on Hunter.

The blond man checked his watch and then looked at Beau and raised a brown paper bag clearly containing a bottle of liquor. “Merry fucking Christmas.”

“Merry fucking Christmas to you. What are you doing here?” He motioned Hunter aside and unlocked his door.

“I’m Santa’s little helper. I got a call informing me your Christmas Eve didn’t go as planned, and asking me to do a welfare check.” Hunter followed him inside and went directly to the kitchen to get two glasses from the cabinet.

“My mom called you?”

“No. Not your mom.”

Hunt poured two double shots of whiskey, and Beau flashed back to the afternoon he’d gone shot-for-shot with Savannah. And lost. Or won, depending on how one looked at it.

“My dad, then.”