The door swung open. “Oh my God, you two. Get a room.” Sinclair fanned her face.
Beau nudged her inside, and the sarcastic retort on the tip of her tongue evaporated as she took in the dining table, complete with seven settings and two extra chairs she suspected Sinclair had lugged over from Beau’s apartment. The handblown champagne flutes she’d made years ago sparkled against theIrish lace tablecloth Grandma Smith had given her when she left home for college. She’d used it precisely once, and couldn’t even guess which drawer or cabinet Sinclair had dug it out of. The drop cloth from her bedroom had been folded into a rectangular banner and now hung across the kitchen archway, with bold yellow letters painted across the front, reading “Congratulations!”
“Wow. The place looks amazing. I can’t believe you went to all this trouble.”
She shrugged. “I had time to kill, and I wanted today to be special, despite not going as planned.”
Salt stung the backs of her eyes. She laid the blame for her hyperemotional state on a sleepless night, her not-gone-as-planned life, and plain, old-fashioned guilt. Sinclair had invested considerable effort on account of a lie.
What if there is no such thing as a harmless deception?
Oh God. She couldn’t do this.
Chapter Six
Savannah wore her emotions the same way she wore her clingy black thermals—as if she had nothing to hide. Fine and dandy, when it came to the shirt and leggings, not so fine when it came to the panic Beau read clear as day in her eyes.
“Thanks, Sinclair. Today is special, no matter what happens.” He dropped a hand to the nape of Savannah’s neck and gently squeezed the muscles knotted there. They relaxed infinitesimally under his touch, and she exhaled slowly.
He understood her second thoughts. Honestly, he did. The conversation during the drive home, the celebratory homecoming Sinclair arranged, all took their deception out of the hypothetical. Shit had gotten real, and now they both realized pulling this off involved a big lie supported by a hundred little ones. While the end, for him, justified the means, it might not for her. They were his parents, after all, not hers, and she would have a harder time reconciling her desire to ease their minds with her discomfort over deceiving her loved ones.
As much as he wanted to pull her aside and give her a pep talk, she deserved some time alone to run the reconciliation for herself. Normally, an apartment full of family precluded significant alone time, but he could buy her twenty minutes or so, depending on how fast she scrubbed.
“Will anyone starve if I grab a shower before dinner?”
“Goodness no,” Mrs. Smith said. “I’m sure both of you would like to clean up.”
Sinclair marched over to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of champagne from inside, and held it up. “We’ll be fine.”
“Okay. Great. I’ll be back in a few.” He turned to head over to his apartment, but caught his mom watching him expectantly. And Savannah’s mom. And Sinclair.What?Then he looked at Savannah, and her words from earlier came back to him.
Our families might expect an occasional display of affection.
Apparently so. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her in close, and lowered his head to give her a kiss. She tipped her face up and puckered her lips for a quick, affectionate peck. Perfect. That’s all they needed. His lips brushed hers, and…
The velvety cushion gave under the pressure of his mouth. And gave. And kept on giving. His brain shouted,Abort!but his lips disregarded the order and went back for more while the rest of his body enjoyed a surge of desire more powerful than he’d experienced in a long time. A very long time. Too long.
Those soft lips opened for his tongue, and her fingers curled into the front of his shirt. Other parts of him went rogue, and the next thing he knew, he had a handful of her sweet, round ass. Her quick intake of breath shot another hot bolt of lust through him. He tightened his grip. She grasped his shoulders and came up on her tiptoes, and he imagined the scrape of her nipples over his chest through the layers of clothes. He plunged his fingers into her hair and pulled her even closer, took the kiss deeper…
Montgomery, you are fucked.
“Don’t mind me. I’m just gonna stick my head in the freezer for a second.”
Sinclair’s comment pierced the fog of need obliterating his self-control. He pulled back, as did Savannah. They both dropped their hands and stepped away from each other, which only made the moment more awkward. Awkward for everyone, judging by the sound of his father clearing his throat. So much for a casual farewell. There was nothing quick or affectionate about the kiss,and the intensity of the attraction might well work against him, because Savannah looked downright shell-shocked. He probably looked the same.
No means of silently reassuring her they could stick to the plan sprang to mind, so he went with retreat and turned to leave. And nearly barreled into his mom. She hugged him, and he inhaled the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5.
“Even with a trip to the emergency room, this easily ranks as the best Thanksgiving ever. For the first time in too long, we feel truly thankful.”
He hugged her back and glanced over his shoulder at Savannah. She sent him a weak smile.
“I’m glad,” he murmured, broke eye contact to kiss his mom’s cheek, and hoped for the best as he walked across the hall.
He showered in surprisingly little time—gotta love water-based paint—and changed into the one pair of black dress pants in his closet and a light gray cashmere sweater his mom had bought him somewhere along the line. A sarcastic voice in the back of his head asked him if he seriously believed pants and a sweater competed with Brooks Brothers. He told the voice to shut the fuck up.
A short call to work sorted out the schedule for tomorrow. He’d come in and do desk stuff if he felt up to it. With that loose end tied off, he made his way back to Savannah’s apartment and slipped inside to figure out if any true confessions had occurred during his absence.
Both sets of parents, and Sinclair, sat around the coffee table. Next to the bowl sat an uncorked bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket. At least one round of toasts had been made by the looks of things, and he took it as a sign he was still engaged. Sinclair and the moms sipped champagne on the sofa. The dads occupied the armchairs, their attention riveted on a bowl game, but their eyes lit up when he moved deeper into the room andthey spied the sixer of SweetWater he carried. His dad rose to relieve him of two bottles.