Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency) (13 page)

“Or I’m a master palmist. Either way, the lines don’t lie. It’s there. You’ve got two more here,” she pointed to the pair intersecting his lifeline farther along. “We know who they are.”

“Okay, and your point?”

“You don’t pick up any more guardian angels until way down here.” She ran her finger along the line, toward his wrist, circled the next line, and then folded his hand, held it in both of hers, and planted a kiss on his knuckles. “Your mom’s going to be fine. So are you.”

“The lines don’t lie, huh?”

“Never. Now that we’ve eliminated the pesky maybes from your future, what will you do? The coast is clear the next time you’re tempted to go all-in.”

“Maybe the coast is clear because I keep it clear?”

“For a man who hates ‘maybe’, you sure find your way back to the word quickly.”

“Because I don’t need any more guardian angels.” He gave her a grim smile. “And I do need to stay out of the rabbit hole.”

“Helloooo? Anybody home?”

“Showtime,” Beau said, and then called out, “Come in. We’ll be right there.”

She folded her shopping bag and shoved it into the cabinet under the sink, banking her frustration over the premature end to their conversation while she was at it. Though really, was the end premature? He’d been honest, and who was she to tell him how he should feel or what he should do? She hadn’t walked in his shoes.

Even so, the persistent voice in the back of her mind kept insisting he sold himself short.

So be it, she decided as she followed him to the living area. He hadn’t asked her to change him, or fix him. She was helping him out, and enjoying some extremely cathartic rebound sex in the process. But as she watched him kiss his mom and hug his father, the annoying voice spoke up again.

Nice try, but this goes beyond a favor or rebound sex. You’re invested. You care
.

Chapter Thirteen

Beau scraped the feet of his chair against black and white octagonal tiles of the restaurant floor as he pushed back from the table. He crossed his arms and tried to emulate his father’s calm expression while his mom chatted matter-of-factly about going under a surgeon’s knife in a week to remove cancer from her body.

If he pulled off the outward calm, he deserved an Academy Award. While he waded into grisly scenes on a routine basis at work without so much as a hard swallow, the idea of his mom’s surgery made his head pound, his palms sweat, and the full rack of Memphis-rubbed ribs he’d just finished threaten a stampede. The restaurant filled with young families and retirees at this early hour suddenly seemed too loud and way too hot. The trademark red-and-white-striped decor boasted holiday flourishes in addition to the normal overload of vintage signs and regional memorabilia, and the exuberance of color attacked his retinas.

A slim, cool hand slid over one of his. Savannah. She was a sight for sore eyes, with her blonde curls cascading down the back of her slouchy black sweater, one shoulder on display courtesy of the wide neckline. Skinny white jeans clung to her slim thighs and disappeared into the tops of high black suede boots.

The boots had launched an armada of fantasies when he’d seen her standing at his door tonight, but now he felt nothing but gratitude as she sat next to his mom, listening attentively while she casually swept her fingertips along his tense knuckles. He uncrossed his arms and took her hand, wove his fingers between hers, and held tight. She spared him a warm glance and a quick smile before turning again to his mom and saying, “I can’t believe it’s an outpatient procedure.”

His mom nodded. “The tumor is small and there’s no sign the cancer has spread, so I’m looking at simple lumpectomy and a sentinel lymph node dissection. The procedure itself will take less than an hour. Then I go to recovery, wake up, get dressed, and this handsome fellow”—she gestured to his dad—“takes me home. The next week I’ll have a follow-up appointment with my surgeon, but assuming clear margins and no cancer present in the lymph nodes, I’m done.”

Assuming. Another word he disliked. Assuming clear margins and negative lymph nodes didn’t guarantee such an outcome. Falling short of assumptions meant additional, much more invasive surgery, maybe chemotherapy, radiation, and years of maintenance medications. Again, with no guarantees. The vital, energetic woman who’d bandaged his skinned knees and nursed his every fever when he was a kid might be embarking on a long, painful battle with a killer, and there was nothing he could do about it. He
hated
feeling so helpless.

“The surgery happens next Tuesday?” Savannah asked, and gave his hand a squeeze. The gesture made him realize he’d been holding hers tightly. Probably too tightly. He forced his fingers to relax and attempted to draw away. She stilled his retreat without missing a beat in her conversation with his mom. “I’ll come with Beau to the hospital.”

“You have the meeting with the gallery on Tuesday,” he reminded her.

“I’ll move it.” She ran her short, unpainted fingernails along his wrist.

“No, please don’t, sweetie,” his mom interjected. “You either, Beau. I’m going to be a groggy, loopy mess after surgery. I’d just as soon have no witnesses.”

“Except me,” his father said, and kissed his mom’s cheek.

“You made the ‘for better or for worse’ pledge, so you’re exempt.”

“I happen to like you loopy,” he replied.

“Then you’ll like me a lot on Tuesday.”

“You’ll call and let me know how it goes?” Beau asked, well aware his parents’ decision had less to do with his mom’s vanity and more to do with their desire to spare him memories of sitting in another hospital, waiting to learn the fate of his loved ones. He appreciated the intent, but couldn’t help feeling somewhat shut out.

Had he made them feel shut out during the past three years? Probably, and he owed them an apology for keeping them at a distance, but now wasn’t the time to dredge up their sad past. Instead he concentrated on Savannah’s touch, even more so when those nimble fingers absently brushed over his cords, and then wandered back for another stroke. The conversation flowed around him while she smoothed the ridged cotton he’d deliberately chosen on a hunch she couldn’t resist the soft fabric. The hunch paid off, and now the restaurant felt too hot for entirely different reasons. Out of self-defense he moved their hands to her lap, and enjoyed the feel of her slim thigh through her jeans. She stuttered on whatever she was saying to his mom, and her cheeks turned pink.

Oblivious to the game going on under the table, his mom kept talking. “Trent’s going to be in California the week following my surgery—”

“Cheryl, I told you I’d send Wagner to see the client.”

“Don’t be silly. Wagner’s wife is going to pop out a baby any second. He can’t go to California.”

“I don’t want you making the drive alone.”

His mom had made the drive to Atlanta on her own plenty of times, but Beau understood his dad’s sudden overprotectiveness. He pulled up his work schedule in his mind, and figured the feasibility of driving his mom to and from her appointment.

“Laurel volunteered to come with me. She had a really great idea, actually.” His mom’s eyes slid back to Savannah, and they twinkled with excitement. “She suggested we meet up with you after my appointment and spend the afternoon shopping for your wedding dress.”

Savannah’s cheeks went from pink to what he recognized as a guilty red, but to anyone else she looked like a blushing bride-to-be. “Oh. Well…I—”

“Mom, she’s kind of slammed right now preparing for an important exhibit at the end of the month.”

He meant to provide Savannah with a graceful out, but felt like an ass when his mom’s face fell. Before he could offer to treat her and Mrs. Smith to lunch that day, Savannah patted his hand and spoke up. “I’d love to, actually. I’ve made good progress with my exhibit. I can afford an afternoon off.”

“Wonderful!” His mom bounced in her chair like an excited teenager, and a wave of gratitude toward his “fiancée” rushed through him. Mom needed something fun to look forward to, and apparently spending an afternoon traipsing through the bridal salons of Atlanta qualified.

She leaned toward Savannah. “What style of dress are you partial to?”

He didn’t hear her reply—and probably wouldn’t have understood it anyway—because his dad grinned at him and said, “Gee, Beau, what style of suit are you partial to?”

“Whatever style she tells me to get.”

“Smart man. Bill and I refuse to shirk on our fatherly duties, though. Do we need to take you suit shopping at some point? And by ‘suit shopping,’ I mean eighteen holes at Stone Mountain.”

He returned his dad’s grin. “Sounds like a plan.” Especially since he had no need for a suit.

“We’ll put something together after the holidays.” His dad’s attention drifted to the flat-screen over the bar.

Across the restaurant a little blond boy no older than five sat at a table with his mom, another woman, and a little girl in a high chair. While the boy stared at the TV, he gripped the edge of the table, and rocked his chair onto its rear legs. Back, then forward. Back again. Beau stared, trying to catch the mom’s attention, but the two women were deep in conversation. As the kid rocked forward, the back legs slipped on the tile floor. The chair skidded out from under him. The little guy flew forward and smacked his head against the table on the way to the ground.

The mom was on her knees cradling her son against her chest before the first wail went up. As soon as it did, waitresses hurried over. A few nearby diners offered napkins to the other woman at the table, who tried to mop up their spilled drinks before her friend got completely drenched. Then the mom drew back to check the damage, and cried out as well. Blood stained her light blue sweater and streamed down the boy’s face.

Beau got up.

…

Savannah tailed Beau across the room toward the screaming boy and distraught mom, almost barreling into him when he paused at a wait station to snag a handful of the restaurant’s signature red napkins. He reached the table before her, his long strides eating up the distance without seeming to hurry. She skidded to a stop behind him as he knelt across from mom and son.

“Hi. My name’s Beau, and I’m a paramedic. Mind if I take a look?”

“Please.” The mom glanced up at him, her face a mask of panic. “Please help.”

He moved closer to the boy, who clung to his mother, his little hand blocking the wound. “Hey, buddy, what’s your name?”

“Liam,” his mom replied. “His name is Liam. Oh my God. So much blood. Should I call an ambulance?”

“Let’s have a look first.”

Liam whimpered at that suggestion and aimed wide, wary eyes at Beau.

“William.” His mom took hold of his little arm and tried to pull his hand away from his head. “Let the man see—”

Beau shook his head at the mom to stop her tug-of-war with her son. “Liam, how old are you?”

“He’s five.”

“Five an’ a half,” Liam corrected with a sniffle.

“So you’re a pretty big boy.” He slid his phone out of his pocket and hit a couple keys. “Do you play
Minecraft
?”

“Uh-huh, b-but I loosed my pri-pribleges ’cause I gave Kitty a haircut.”

Beau’s lips curved at the confession, and Savannah felt some of her worry drain away. He wouldn’t smile and talk video games with the kid in the midst of a true medical crisis. Would he?

“Well, that’ll definitely do it,” Beau sympathized. “But this is a special circumstance. Think Mom will grant a temporary reprieve?”

“Of course,” she said.

“Awesome.” He held his phone out to the boy. “We’re in creative mode and this looks like a really good world. I see trees, and water, and…hey…are those cows or pigs?”

Liam reached for the phone with both hands. “Pigs! See? They’re pink.”

Beau adjusted the screen higher, so Liam was forced to raise his head. “You gotta hold it up here. How many pigs do you see?” He asked the question while he gently moved Liam’s blood-matted bangs away from his forehead.

“Tons.” He tapped the screen repeatedly. “I’m building a fence ’round them.”

“Good thinking. While you do that, I’m going to check your head, okay?”

“’Kay,” he said, still tapping the screen. “I got an owie.”

“I know. I’ll be careful.”

While Beau used a napkin to clean around the wound, he spoke to the mom, who’d turned pale to the lips as soon as he’d started mopping up the blood. “Mrs.?”

“Beth. I’m Beth.”

“Hi, Beth. Do you have a compact or mirror in your purse?”

“A mirror? Um…yes. I do.” She grabbed her purse from the back of her chair and dug through it. “Here,” she held it out to him.

“Great. You hold on to that. Savannah?”

She was so lost in watching him work it took her a moment to realize he’d said her name. “Yes?”

“Meet Beth. Beth, this is my fr—my fiancée, Savannah. You’ve got some blood on your face and neck. Would you mind if Savannah scared up a glass of water and some more napkins to help you wash up?”

“Oh. Gosh. No.” She glanced at Savannah. “I’d appreciate it.”

“No worries. I’ll be right back.” She’d barely taken a step when a waitress appeared and handed her a glass of water and several napkins. She crouched beside Beth, put the glass of water on the floor, and traded the napkins for Beth’s small silver compact. She held the mirror and the other woman scrubbed off what she could. Beau kept up a low running commentary. “I see the cut. It’s a little less than an inch long and about a quarter-inch deep.”

“Goodness, it’s much smaller than I imagined.” Relief put a quaver in Beth’s voice. “With all the blood, I thought laceration, skull fracture…I don’t even know what I thought.”

“Kids’ heads have extra padding, but as a result they bleed a lot even from a relatively shallow cut. I can wrap him up well enough to hold him over while you drive to the ER. They can close the wound there.”

“Thank you. Honestly, I’m so grateful.” She accepted her compact back from Savannah with a weak smile.

“We’re happy to help.” Beau folded a fresh napkin into a strip. “Hey, Liam, do you like pirates?”

“Arrr!”

“Who’s your favorite?”

“Jake. He always wins the treasure over Captain Hook.”

“He’s my favorite, too. And what does Jake wear around his head?”

“A red thing.” He scrunched up his face. “I forget the word.”

“Bandanna. Exactly. I’m going wrap this napkin around your head so you look just like Jake, okay? When I’m done you can check yourself out in your mom’s mirror and tell me what you think.”

Savannah bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling. This man tried so hard to remain detached, but he was the first to respond to a cry for help, and did so much more than simply evaluate and treat. He empathized. He cared. Her stupid heart wandered closer to a cliff she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge lay ahead. A steep one that likely ended with a hard landing.

Liam sat still while Beau secured a clean napkin around his head, then handed the phone back to Beau and took the mirror from his mom. He turned his head right and left, checking himself out from every angle.

“Cool?” Beau asked.

“Cool.”

“I think so, too. Now I need to ask you for a couple promises. Your mom is going to drive you to a place where people go to get their owies fixed and I need you to promise to leave the bandanna alone until a doctor or nurse takes it off. Got it?”

“I promise.”

“Thanks. And when the doctor or nurse takes the bandanna off, they’re going to do things to close up your owie and help it heal correctly. I want you to promise me you’ll be brave like Jake, and let them do what they have to do.”

“Uh-uh. I don’t want them to touch it! That will hurt me a lot!”

Beau dipped his head and looked the upset boy in the eye. “I promise it won’t hurt a lot.” He lifted his hair away from his forehead and pointed to the thin row of black stitches visible at his hairline. “See this?”

Liam nodded.

“I got a bad owie on my head last week. I went to the doctor, too, and she used stitches to close the cut, so I know what I’m talking about when I say it doesn’t hurt a lot.”