“Yeah. We sold it so well she got roped into going wedding dress shopping the week after my mom’s surgery.”
“Hmm.” Hunter leaned back in his seat and smiled. “I picture her in something ivory and form-fitting.”
“Stop picturing her in anything, dumbass. We’re not getting married, remember?”
But it was all too easy to envision Savannah wrapped in curve-hugging satin. Just like it had been all too easy to ask her to spend the night after dinner with his parents, all too easy to fall into a habit of listening for her footsteps on the stairs, opening his door in invitation, and watching her accept with a slow, sexy smile. The easiest thing of all? Sinking into her warm, giving body, hearing her uncensored cries, and feeling her tremble as her eyes went blind and his name fell from her lips.
“The better question is do you remember? And does she remember?”
“We remember.” True, he was batting a thousand every night with Savannah and they were both enjoying the hot streak, but this season would come to an end. Neither of them had lost sight of the fact.
A woman with a little girl about three or four years old walked down the sidewalk past the rig. The girl had long white-blonde curls just like Savannah’s when she’d been that age. What was she doing right now?
“If you two are hitting it off so well, why not let things ride and see where this goes? I know your families expect a wedding, but tell them you decided on a long engagement to…I don’t know…save up for your dream wedding.”
Hitting it off with Savannah had turned out to be easier than he’d imagined. He’d pegged her as loud and distracting when she’d first moved in—and he really hadn’t known what to make of her being an artist except it sounded flighty and impractical—but she was also vibrant, funny, passionate, and incredibly compassionate. Whether critiquing their first kiss, punching her ex in the nose, or reading palms, she never failed to captivate, and as much as he’d balked about having her clutter spill over into his life, he was getting used to seeing her earrings sitting on
his nightstand or her sweater tossed over the back of his sofa.
“She’s leaving for nine months in Italy come the first of the year.”
“So? I hear absence makes the heart grow fonder. Nine months of long-distance calls and Skype sex, then you’re back to doing whatever you’re doing now.”
Sounded great, except that other than pretending to be engaged for the sake of his parents, he couldn’t explain what they were doing now, and he sure as hell couldn’t say where it led, other than far short of a place fair for Savannah. She wanted the whole deal—marriage, kids, happily ever after. She deserved a man who could give her all that and more. He was not that guy, and it was only a matter of time before she found some lucky bastard to step up and deliver.
“What we’re doing works for now, but I don’t have any more to offer. I’m played out when it comes to gambling on the future.”
Hunter stared out the windshield for a moment, then turned, and Beau found himself on the receiving end of an uncharacteristically serious look from his partner. “You might want to reevaluate your hand before the first of the year. I don’t know what the future holds, either, but I do know these last few days you’ve been happy. Happier than I’ve seen you in three long years.”
…
Savannah hurried off the elevator and down the corridor to the surgi-center waiting area. She scanned the small, sparsely occupied lounge for Beau’s dad, and almost started for the reception desk to ask if Cheryl Montgomery had come out of surgery when she spotted Beau sitting in the corner of the room. He wore jeans and a brown crew-neck sweater the same shade as his eyes, and looked big and restless with an arm slung across the back of the empty seat beside him and his right ankle resting on his bouncing left knee. He stared blankly at the television mounted on the wall beside the reception desk. A daytime soap played with the sound down.
Dark eyes moved her way when she approached. “Hey,” she whispered and took the seat beside him. “Any news?”
His expression remained unreadable. He shifted, drawing himself in, resting his forearms on his thighs and linking his hands. The move effectively turned him into an island. As if he believed nobody would detect his anxiety so long as he maintained a perimeter.
“I thought we agreed you’d go to the meeting with the gallery today.”
“I did go, but we wrapped up quickly. The showcase is on track so I popped over to see if your dad needed anything.” She rubbed his tense shoulders, and then let her hand stray down his arm. Available if he wanted it. “What’s your excuse?”
“I always come here on my days off, and”—he looked up at the TV—“watch my stories.”
“Right. Because you don’t have a TV at home.”
“I don’t like to watch the show alone. It’s too intense.” He unclenched his hands and took hold of hers. “The redhead there is a sociopathic man-eater.”
She wove her fingers between his, gratified when he squeezed them. “You diagnosed all that with the sound down?”
“The acting stands on its own.”
“I’ll take your word. How’s your mom?”
He leaned in and rested his forehead on her shoulder. His breath released in a long, shaky exhale. “She’s good. The surgeon said the procedure went textbook, and lab results should be available by the end of the week. Mom’s in recovery and Dad just went back to be the first thing she sees when she wakes up.”
“That’s sweet.” She reached for his other hand and held it in hers. “I’m glad the surgery is over and everything went well.”
“Me, too.” He lifted their linked hands, ran his lips over her knuckles, and then raised his head and looked her square in the eyes. “Thanks for coming, Savannah.”