The corner of his mouth lifted. “It means you hit correctly. If you use this part of your fist”—he touched his thumb to the base of her ring and pinky fingers—“you get what we call a brawler’s fracture.”
“I’m unbreakable. My father would be proud.”
“I’m not saying you don’t have a break. You just don’t have the most common closed-fist impact fracture. See this swelling right here?” He pointed to the sore red points at the base of her index and middle fingers. “You took a little damage.”
“Yeah, well…you should see the other guy.”
His lips curved again. “I have.” Then he pressed on the area around one puffy knuckle a little harder than she expected, and looked at her—presumably to gauge her reaction. “Hurt?”
“Not too much.”
“Sharp or dull?”
“Dull.”
“How about this?” He did the same to the other knuckle.
“Same…so Mitch will live?” Not that he deserved a second thought from her, but her conscience insisted she ask.
“He’s fine. You bruised his ego worse than his face.” He tapped her hand. “Make a fist.”
She complied. “Good to know, I guess.”
He studied her balled fingers, lifting and turning her wrist to view her fist from various angles. “Okay. Open your hand completely and part your fingers as wide as you can.” He demonstrated, and she followed his example. “You’re not feeling sorry for him, are you? Or having second thoughts?”
“No. He blew his shot. To be honest, I don’t know why I gave him one in the first place.”
Beau took her fingers, one at a time, and gently pushed each toward the knuckle. “Because on paper he checked all the boxes…clean-cut, educated, gainfully employed, and not overly demanding of your time or attention.”
“Ouch. When you sum it up like that, I sound really pathetic.”
“Or really logical. You put a lot of yourself into your art, so you steer clear of guys who won’t be happy unless your world revolves around them. Some people instinctively know where they need to draw the line—what they can offer, and what they can’t. Not everyone is willing or able to invest everything they’ve got in a relationship.”
Tidy notion, and maybe true to an extent with regard to Mitch, but it ignored one important fact. She needed her world to revolve around more than just her art, and refused to believe she wasn’t capable of giving more. She wanted a true soul mate, and children someday,andher career. Was that so selfish? Deep down, didn’t he need more, too? She wanted to ask, but her expression must have telegraphed her intention to turn the conversation to him, and apparently it wasn’t a direction hewanted to take. He kept talking.
“Why you got involved isn’t really my point. What I’m trying to pin down is how definite you feel about the breakup. Somewhere around the time your fist connected with his face, he got the hint you weren’t interested in talking, but if you call and apologize, you’re going to undermine the message. He’ll think he has a chance. You wouldn’t want to do that, would you?”
Long, competent fingers encircled her wrist, and his warm, hard palm slid against hers.
She shivered.
“No. I wouldn’t.” The words came out steady, even though her insides trembled. She couldn’t take her eyes off the sight of his fingers around her wrist. Her other wrist tingled as if caught in his grasp, too. She imagined him lifting her arms over her head, pinning them there while he slowly lowered his mouth to hers.
He drew his hand back, running his fingertips over her palm as he retreated.
“What would you want to do, Savannah?”
Chapter Ten
Savannah’s lips parted. She ran the tip of her tongue along the dip in her upper lip, and Beau strained his ears in the hopes of hearing her say, “I want you to fuck me, hard,” over the pounding of his pulse.
The pounding came again, only louder, and her lips formed the words…
“I better get that.”
Huh?
She walked past him and opened the front door.Withoutlooking through the peephole. Sinclair stood on the other side of the threshold with a wheeled carry-on bag parked beside her. She leaned in and wrapped Savannah in a big hug. A bottle of wine dangled from one hand.