Beau waved at his partner’s back and tried hard not to laugh. Then he prayed for Atlanta, because Hunter and Ashley wouldn’t survive twelve hours together in the rig.
…
Savannah inhaled sheets that smelled like Tide, and the scent immediately transported her to her formative years. Were it not for the underlying notes of aftershave and testosterone, she might have believed she lolled in her childhood bed. But the havoc those additional scents wreaked on her system was anything but childish.
She cracked an eye open and stared around an unfamiliar bedroom. Well, not totally unfamiliar. It featured the same basic shape, size, and layout as hers, and served the same basic purpose, but otherwise, this stark, clutter-free blank canvas couldn’t have been more different.
Beau’s bedroom. Whoops, she’d fallen asleep here after all. But where was the man of the house? She looked around the empty room. Her meandering gaze landed on the folded note propped against a coffee mug. She levered herself up on her arms, and—yikes. Her robe was tangled around her waist. When had that happened? Hopefully after Beau had left the room. A couple tugs righted the situation, and then she crawled over to the nightstand. The smell of coffee beckoned. Black, just like she preferred. She picked up the mug, took a taste, and paused to savor the brew. Not bad. Only after she swallowed did she notice the printing on the mug.
Feel safe at night. Sleep with an EMT.
She laughed. Mission accomplished, and she did feel safe. But alone. Something about the quiet apartment told her she had the place to herself. The note sat on the nightstand like a tiny paper tent. She opened it and found a few lines of strong, spare scriptwritten across the page.
Thanks for checking on me last night.
Later,
Beau
P.S. Nice pjs.
Whoops, again. The only pjs she wore were the ones God had given her, and apparently she’d modeled them for Beau this morning. Falling asleep in nothing but a bathrobe certainly courted the risk, but she hadn’t counted on spending the night when she’d tossed the thing on to run across the hall and give him a vision test and memory quiz. Lord knew he’d handled more than his fair share of Savannah Smith T&A in the last twenty-four hours, but the thought of him looking his fill at some of the package while she slept left her a teensy bit embarrassed—and a lot turned on. She fanned her face with the note, and then, for some reason she couldn’t explain, brought the paper to her face and sniffed, mildly disappointed to find it didn’t smell like him. It didn’t smell like anything.
The bedside clock read half past seven. She needed to get a move on. Her bedroom wasn’t going to finish painting itself, and she’d spent some of her rapidly dwindling savings on discounted studio time at Glassworks this evening, in hopes of completing new pieces by the end of the month—on the nonexistent chance one of the galleries she’d queried decided to add her to their stable of artists on exhibit in time for Christmas. Now she could add Beau’s birthday present to her project list.
Another sip of coffee fortified her enough to get out of bed. The next sip got her moving toward the front door, and convinced her the coffee was too good to leave behind. She’d get the mug back to him later. Besides, if a girl couldn’t borrow a mug from her fiancé, the relationship needed work.
The sound of her phone greeted her as soon as she stepped intoher apartment. It sat charging on her kitchen counter, and she picked it up to see Sinclair trying to FaceTime her. She hit accept and braced for anything.
Her sister’s smiling face filled the little screen—always an enviable sight. Whereas Savannah looked in a mirror and saw her mom’s untamable blonde hair, soft features, and curvy but diminutive frame staring back at her, Sinclair appeared to have cherry-picked the best of both parents. She had their dad’s thick black hair and tall, lean physique. They shared their mom’s eye color, but Sinclair’s inky hair intensified ordinary blue into something exotic.
Sinclair also got their dad’s dark, arching brows, and she raised one now for full, sardonic effect. “How’s one half of the happiest couple south of the Mason-Dixon line this fine morning?”
“I don’t know. Which half are you referring to? Mom or Mrs. Montgomery?”
Sinclair laughed, and the same mischievous dimple Savannah remembered sticking her finger in as a kid appeared in her sister’s cheek. “Might as well start calling Mrs. Montgomery Mom now, too, don’t you think?”
“I’m not calling her Mom unless I can blame her for all my shortcomings.”
“Bite your tongue. The beautiful and talented Savannah Smith has no shortcomings.”
“It’s too early in the morning to mock me.”
“I suppose you can be a tad moody.”
“That’s Mom’s fault.” She dropped into one of the chairs around her small dining room table—one of Beau’s chairs—and sipped Beau’s coffee from Beau’s mug. Definitely a theme going this morning.
“And vague—a trait you share with your soon-to-be spouse.”
A small knot of guilt twisted tighter in her stomach. “How so?”
“You asked me to design your rings, but neither of you gave memuch to go on. I need details. What type of metal? Gemstones or no gemstones? A time frame would be helpful.” She held up a sketch pad filled with half a dozen small, intricately wrought designs. “I worked on some preliminary drawings when I got home last night, but I have no idea if I’m on the right track…”
The guilt knot turned into guilt macramé. “You’re not. No, that came out wrong. Your sketches are beautiful, but, Sinclair, put your pencil down.”
Her sister’s frown filled the screen. “What’s going on?”
Savannah took a gulp of coffee and hoped the caffeine would kick-start her brain, because she needed to give Sinclair a logical reason to hold off on ring designs. “Umm…”