He had no idea what she was talking about, but he had a strong and unwise desire to trace every curve of her teasing grin with his tongue. See if she tasted as sweet as she smelled. “I think you’re confusing me with someone else, Smith. We’ve never kissed before.”
“My mom’s got a photo that tells a different story.”
Another small step on her part brought her body flush against his. The move produced a swift inhale from her, and then her eyes rounded at the evidence of what he’dmusteredup pressing against her stomach. He found both reactions extraordinarily gratifying. She rested her palms on his chest. Having her hands on him also didn’t suck. “Exactly how old was I in this alleged kissing photo?”
Her gaze traveled over his face and came to rest at his mouth. “Fairly young…and fairly naked. We both were. To be honest, if not for the nudity, I’d have a hard time telling us apart.” She licked her lips.
“Well, brace yourself, Savannah. I’m all grown up, and you’ll know which one is me, even with our clothes on.”
Eyes locked on hers, he lowered his head. Her eyelids drifted down, her body melted into his…
“Hold up there, Romeo. This here’s an ER, not a kissing booth.”
Chapter Five
Dammit. His better judgment needed to get a leash on his libido, or these next few weeks would be torture. Beau reluctantly dropped his arm from Savannah’s waist and stepped away as Delilah West walked into the exam room.
“That’s right. Back away from the blonde. You keep your lips to yourself for the next little while and let your brain have the oxygen.”
That drew his attention away from the mouth he’d been a hairbreadth from sharing oxygen with. He turned to the doc. “Seriously?”
She nodded. “’Fraid so. CT shows a little swelling. Are you scheduled to work tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations, you’ve got the day off, or go in and do administrative stuff if you’re like me and always have a stack of paperwork on your desk. After tomorrow, if you feel fine, you can go back in the bus.”
“Shit.” So much for downplaying the incident with the rest of the crew. By this time tomorrow everyone he worked with would know he’d gotten a concussion and a headful of stitches for Thanksgiving. He could already hear them talking trash and calling him Frankenstein. Heartless motherfuckers. All of them. He might as well save himself some trouble and get a middle finger tattooed on his forehead.
Delilah motioned him to the exam table and began assemblinga tray of supplies to stitch up his cut. “Can someone check on you tonight? Wake you up a couple of times and make sure you know your name, date of birth, and how many fingers they’re holding up?”
His parents would stay if he asked them, but his one-bedroom apartment offered no comfortable space for guests. His partner, Hunter, could crash on his couch. He’d bitch like the princess with the pea about spending a night on the sofa, but he’d do it. “Yeah, I’ll get—”
“I can,” Savannah said.
He glanced over at her. She wore a guilty I-gave-him-brain-damage look.
“Perfect.” Delilah ran down the symptom list with Savannah while she prepped him for stiches, concluding with, “Do you want to stay while I close this up, or would you like to step out to the waiting area?”
“She’ll stay.” High-handed of him, yes, but he wanted to present a united front to their parents. They didn’t have their story tight, and if they got out of sync, the charade would be over before they made it out of the ER.
…
Watching Dr. West suture a neat line of stitches along the top of Beau’s forehead didn’t tie a knot in Savannah’s stomach. The older woman worked with the speed and efficiency of someone who knew what she was doing. Receiving the list of instructions and symptoms to keep an eye out for didn’t raise her stress level much. But tendrils of tension unfurled in her stomach when Beau linked his fingers through hers and led them to the waiting room—and their parents—all of whom stood as they approached.
The moms clucked over the bandage on his forehead and the stitch count. Seven. Beau downplayed the concussion to alingering headache, and gave her hand a thankful squeeze when she refrained from blurting out the actual diagnosis, which probably made her the world’s best fake fiancée.
And a crappy fake daughter-in-law, a little voice in her head tacked on as they made their way out to the cars. Whatever. None of this was likely to earn her any honesty points, but going along with the omission seemed like the kind of thing a real fiancée might do to spare her future in-laws a sleepless night.
They re-formed their rush-to-the-hospital groups for the trip home, and Savannah spent the ride in the back of the Navigator again, buckled next to Beau. This time the moms didn’t have a medical emergency to distract them, and they jumped right into information-gathering mode.
“So,” Beau’s mom prompted, “tell us how he popped the question.”
Following his advice to stick to the truth, she responded, “Um. Very unexpectedly,” and glanced sideways at him.
“Really?” Her mom’s eyebrows lifted. “No need to play coy, Savannah. Sinclair told us you suspected last night’s dinner would include a proposal.”
Shoot. She straight up sucked at this. Less than a minute into the official spinning of the web of lies and already caught in an inconsistency of her own making.