"We should..." she starts, but the words dissolve into a soft moan as I apply gentle pressure exactly where she needs it, feeling the way she responds to my touch even through the layers of fabric.
"Should what?" I ask, my lips brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck, tasting the salt of her skin. "Go home and pretend this didn't happen? Pretend we don't want each other?"
"Someone could see," she manages, but she's not pushing me away. If anything, she's pressing closer, her hips moving slightly against my hand in a rhythm that makes my control slip dangerously.
"Let them," I say, and I mean it. For the first time in my carefully ordered life, I don't care about propriety or appearances or what anyone else might think. All I care about is the woman in my arms and the way she's responding to my touch.
But even as I say it, I know we can't stay here much longer. This is just the beginning of something that needs to be finished somewhere private, somewhere I can take my time showing her exactly how far I'm willing to bend those rules when it comes to her.
I withdraw my hand slowly, savoring the disappointed sound she makes, the way her body follows my touch as if reluctant to let me go. She's flushed, breathing hard, her hair mussed from my fingers and her lips swollen from our kiss.
"We should call that taxi," I say, but I don't step back immediately. Instead, I cup her face in my hands, thumbs stroking across her cheekbones as I memorize the way she looks in this moment - disheveled and wanting and beautiful.
"Home?" she asks, and there's no question in her voice about what will happen when we get there.
"Home," I confirm, pulling out my phone with one hand while keeping the other on her waist, unwilling to break contact completely.
As I dial the taxi company, Savannah straightens my tie with shaking fingers, smoothing down my shirt where she'd wrinkled it. The simple, domestic gesture sends another wave of want through me, and I have to concentrate to give the dispatcher our location.
"Five minutes," I tell her when I hang up, sliding my phone back into my pocket.
"Good," she breathes, rising up on her toes to press another kiss to my lips, softer this time but no less heated. "Because I don't think I can wait much longer to see just how many rules you're willing to break."
And as we wait in the dim alley for our ride home, I know that the careful, safe distance I've maintained between us is about to become a thing of the past. Tonight, I'm going to show her exactly what happens when the good doctor decides to stop playing it safe.
27
SAVANNAH
I'm perched on Emma's kitchen stool like some kind of wedding planning general surveying her battlefield, armed with three different colored pens and a timeline that could rival NASA's launch schedules, when Emma bursts through the front door carrying enough shopping bags to stock a small boutique.
Sweet Jesus, what now?
"Please tell me those aren't more wedding decorations," I say, not bothering to look up from my meticulously organized checklist because if I see one more piece of tulle, I might actually lose what's left of my mind. "Because we literally have enough tulle in your spare room to clothe half of Pine Hollow, and possibly a small circus."
Emma drops her shopping haul onto the kitchen table with the kind of theatrical flair that makes me think she's been practicing in front of mirrors. "Not decorations! Survival supplies!" She starts yanking items out of bags like she's conducting some kind of magical grocery intervention. "Wine, those fancy crackers you pretend not to love but absolutely demolish when you think no one's looking, overpriced chocolate, and..."
She produces a bottle of champagne with a flourish that would make game show hosts jealous.
"The good stuff for our pre-wedding toast!"
I glance at my phone. Forty-seven hours and sixteen minutes until Emma’s a married woman. My brain immediately starts calculating all the things that could still go catastrophically wrong in that time frame. It's like a twisted mental habit I can't break.
"Pre-wedding toast? Em, it's Thursday.
Your wedding is Saturday.
Shouldn't we be panicking about something by now?" I look around frantically.
"Like, I don't know, did you forget to confirm the flowers? The cake? The existence of your groom? Your pack?”
Emma freezes mid-unpack and fixes me with a look that could melt steel beams. "Savannah Marie Hale. Are you seriously trying to jinx my perfect wedding timeline just because you're addicted to crisis management like it's some kind of drug?"
Crisis management is a survival skill! There's a difference!
She gestures around her kitchen, which honestly looks like Martha Stewart exploded in the most organized way humanly possible. Wedding favors stand in perfect little armies across the counter, programs tied with ribbons that probably cost far too much, centerpiece supplies arranged with military precision that would make generals weep with pride.
"Look at this!" Emma spins in a slow circle, arms spread wide like she's presenting evidence in court. "Two days before my wedding, and we're not crying into takeout containers while emergency-ordering flowers online at three in the morning! Do you understand how completely unprecedented this is?"
