Maybe the eye roll did the job, or the sarcastic tone, but one way or another this jerkoff managed to light his fuse. Quite an accomplishment, considering he generally had exceptional emotional control. When everyone in the vicinity of a medical emergency lost their shit, people counted on him to stay calm. But tonight one pissy comment had him drawing himself to full height and stepping toward the source of his irritation. “Do you needmorehelp?”
One-for-Three’s face turned red and his eyes darted left and right. “Relax, buddy…”
He took a step closer and started to say, “I’m not your buddy,” but a new set of footsteps on the stairs caught his attention. They both turned to see Savannah come into view. First the tousled bundle of blonde waves, which she’d swept into a recklessly sexy pile on top of her head, then her gorgeous face, decorated by the off-center smile—though she smiled into her big black handbag so neither he nor One-for-Three could take credit for her mood. A dark blue peacoat protected her from the chilly air, and baggy jeans rolled at the ankles covered her legs. Scuffed Doc Martens encased her feet. A reusable shopping bag hung from the crook of her other arm. There was nothing intrinsically sexy about the outfit, but for whatever reason the androgynous clothes only emphasized her femininity. The hum of appreciation he detected from her ex brought on another uncharacteristically violentimpulse. His fingers twitched with the compulsion to throttle the man, but he resisted because she looked up just then.
“Hello, Beau.” She halted on the landing, and her eyes swung to her ex. Beau braced for her reaction, and told himself his tension stemmed from a reluctance to see her give an inch to this self-indulgent prick. To his relief, her smile disappeared. “Mitch,” she said, and dug her keys out of her purse. She placed the shopping bag by her feet. “I knew my day was going too well. To what do I owe this surprise?”
“It should hardly come as a surprise. I left you several messages—”
“To which I didn’t respond.” She twisted her key in the lock. “My silence should have leftyoua message.”
Atta girl.He was about to say something like, “Do you get the fucking message now?” and move Mitch along, when the starched and pressed weasel started laying his heart—or more accurately, a sleazy combination of his pride and his wallet—on the line. “I’ve missed you. Savannah. I love you, and now that you’ve had some cooling off time, you must realize there’s still a place for you in my life. You’re my outlet, my escape. I want to whisk you away for romantic weekends at the Cloisters, or meet up with you at the Ritz in Paris.”
Beau waited for her reply, more invested than he wanted to be. Over didn’t always mean over. People gave things second, third, fourth tries, and despite their temporary arrangement, he lacked standing to call bullshit on her behalf. They weren’t engaged, or even truly involved. He certainly didn’t represent her future, and if she sincerely believed this loser might, he couldn’t interfere with her poor judgment.
“This may come as a shock to you, Mitch, but I don’t give a shit about weekends at the Cloisters or rendezvous at the Paris Ritz. I don’t want to be an outlet or escape, or some kind of diversion you pick up and put down at your convenience. The man whoearns my heart? He needs to take me on, issues and all. I expect to be his everything—soul mate, partner, friend. And I expect him to be all those things to me. You’re clearly not that man. Have a nice life, and stay the hell out of mine.”
He put his hand on her arm. “Don’t shut me out, baby. We can talk this through.”
Savannah looked down at the manicured hand on her arm and then placed her hand over his.
Okay, fuck standing. This situation begged for interference. She’d thank him later. Beau started to reach for lover boy, but Savannah beat him to it. She removed his hand from her arm. “We’ve said everything we need to say to each other, with the possible exception of this: if you lay a hand on me again, I will clean your clock.”
“Baby, please. You know I love you.”
The placating tone scraped across Beau’s nerves as effectively as nails on a chalkboard. Then the dumbass went in for a kiss. Before Beau could react, Savannah drew her arm back, made a fist, and slammed it into Mitchell Prescott III’s pedigreed nose hard enough to snap his head back.
After reaching full extension, his head bounced forward. He leaned over, one hand braced on his knee, the other clutching his blowhole. “Jesus Christ, Savannah, I think—I think you broke my nose!”
“Let’s be sure.” She shook out her hand and then pulled her fingers into a fist again.
Mitch groaned and straightened. Blood flowed from one bruised nostril, and the bridge already showed hints of purple.
Apparently the blow left Mitch’s eyesight intact. As soon as he saw her poised for round two, he ducked behind Beau. “Call 911.”
Beau sighed. “I am 911.” He shifted his attention to Savannah, captured her hand, and eyed her abused knuckles. “Nice shot, Champ. Go ice this hand. I’ll be over as soon as I get yourpunching bag squared away.”
“I’m fine, and this”—she gestured at Mitch with her uninjured hand—“is not your mess to clean up. If he wants help, he can call his fiancée.” She leaned past him to address Mitch, who leaned against Beau’s doorframe, pressing a tissue to his nose. “I’d love to see what she thinks about picking him up on some other woman’s doorstep.”
“I don’t think his nose can take another hit tonight.” He ran his thumb over her fingers. “Flex these for me.”
She did, slowly and fully, but he didn’t miss the slightly ragged edge to her exhale.
“Good. Got a bag of frozen peas?”
“Hello? I’m bleeding here…”
Beau gave him the same look he used to intimidate uncooperative idiots he encountered on the job. One-for-Three had the good sense to shut his trap.
“Go inside and take a seat at the table. No, don’t tilt your head back—tilt it forward and pinch your nostrils right here.” He demonstrated on himself, and then pointed at his door. Mitch followed instructions, muttering under his breath as he disappeared into the apartment.
He turned back to Savannah. She’d curled her fingers into a half-closed position again, which he imagined felt most comfortable about now. “You have something to use as an ice pack?”
“Yes, sir.”
He ignored the sarcasm. “Use it. Keep your hand elevated, ice on, and I’ll be over soon to take care of you.”
“You don’t have to take care of me, Beau.”