The Perfect Match (13 page)

Strong, safe, stay together.

Meow.

Flirt with him. Do it!
the eggs demanded.

It was now impossible to flirt. She racked her brain for flirtiness. Tried to channel Colleen. Nope. Nothing. She shifted, her leg bumping his.
We can work with that,
said the eggs.
Almost there.

Shut up,
Honor said.
We’re not getting pregnant tonight, okay? Just go back to
Dancing with the Stars.

“I saw you at the college that day,” she said. “You seem to have a lot of female students.”

“The Barbarian Horde, I call them, most of whom will flunk out before midterms. Speaking of that, how was your date with Droog?”

“Oh, he seems very nice.”

“Did he swab down the table before sitting?”

She smiled. “Yes.”

“He does that everywhere. Good chap, though.” He paused. “Will you see him again?”

All of a sudden, Honor could hear her heart beating. “No.”

They didn’t say anything else for a minute. The fire hissed and snapped, and the snow was piling up, a lot more than the dusting the forecasters had predicted. It would be smart to head home, as conditions on the Hill tended to be worse than here in the Village, thanks to the difference in elevation.

She didn’t move.

“So you and Prince Charming are still chums?” Tom asked. “Even though he chose your friend?”

She felt the start of a slow burn in her cheeks.

“Sorry,” Tom said. “None of my business.”

“No, it’s fine,” she said. “Brogan and I have known each other since elementary school. Slept together on and off for years.” Probably more than Tom Barlow wanted to know. “He wanted to tell me that he’s going to be a father.”

“Are you joking?” She shook her head. “Bloody hell.” Tom rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “And what does Brogan Cain do for a living?”

“He’s a sports photographer. Baseball, football, basketball.”

“I know what sports are, darling.” He took a sip of his drink. “Brogan Cain,” he said thoughtfully. “I hope they pick out a really shitty name for the kid. Candy Cain. Sugar Cain. Rain. Wayne. Jane. Hickory.”

Honor smiled faintly. It was still almost too great a shock to process—Dana and Brogan, and now Baby Cain on the way. She’d like to laugh about it. It just didn’t seem probable.

“I hope your friend gets really fat,” Tom continued. “No glow for her. Heartburn. Acne. Swollen feet. A full-blown, Jessica Simpson Pop-Tarts and ice cream kind of fat.”

It seemed like she was laughing, after all. “That’s cute. Jessicker Simpson.”

“I did not say that.” He raised an eyebrow, the one with the scar running through it.

“You did. It was cute. You have a nice accent.”

“I haven’t any accent all, darling. It’s the English language, remember? And I’m English. You’re the one mucking things up, you ungrateful Yank.”

Tom Barlow was growing on her.

And that had been
quite
a kiss.

“How’s your green card situation?” she asked.

“It’s fine. All set.” He looked out the window. “Sorry again for my behavior that night, by the way. It was a very odd meeting.”

“Don’t worry about it.” His mood seemed to have changed. “So you just moved to Manningsport, but you’ve lived in America for a while?”

“Yes.”

“Why’d you move?” she asked.

He paused. “A job,” he said, and she sensed there was more to the story. Something tragic, Goggy had said.

“It’s a nice town,” she said. “You won’t be lonely for long.” And where had that come from?

Tom frowned. “Why do you think I’m lonely?”

She hesitated. Why had she said that, really? Somewhere in his eyes, behind the easy flirting he seemed so good at, she sensed a little bit of...sadness.

“You were here alone until I forced you to talk to me.”

“Doesn’t that make you lonely as well, then?”

“Nope. I’m just being nice. It’s good for tourism.”

“A shame. Think of the things two lonely people could get up to.”

Good thing she was sitting, because her knees went hot and loose all of a sudden.
Why are you not unbuckling his belt at this very moment?
the eggs demanded, scowling over their bifocals.

“I’m not really the type,” she said, her voice a little unsteady.

“Pity.”

Her internal organs seemed to be melting.

Come on!
said the eggs.
We’re dying here! Literally!

But doing something different did not mean picking up near-strangers in a bar. Honor wanted to get married, not just sleep with someone. She’d been sleeping with someone for fifteen years, and that had gotten her exactly nowhere. She wanted a courtship, not sex. Well, sex during courtship, that was, once a relationship had been established. Hey. She’d read all the books. Control the pace. Don’t be slutty. Sex too early = abject disaster. Tom Barlow had the sexiest mouth ever.

He just looked at her, his gray eyes unreadable.

At that moment, Jessica came over. “Hey, guys. We’re closing, sorry to say. It’s really piling up out there.”

“Right,” Honor said, grabbing her purse. “I’ll get this, Tom. Since you were so nice to cover for me.”

He looked at Jessica. “I am rather nice,” he said with a wink.

“That’s not what it says on the bathroom wall,” Jessica returned, deadpan.

Yes. Jessica was flipping beautiful. And Tom was
ridiculously
appealing, not to mention that accent. He’d flirted with Honor because she was there. Because he was nice, it seemed, and because it was a distraction. He’d probably flirted with Jessica and he flirted with Monica O’Rourke the night they’d met, and no doubt he flirted with Colleen. He was a flirt. Nothing wrong with that; she just shouldn’t read into it.

Crap,
said the eggs.

“Okay,” she said, putting a twenty on the table. She’d call Pru from the car, see if she could crash there. “Thanks again, Tom. See you Monday, Jess.”

“Have a great weekend,” Jessica said.

“Thank you,” she said to Tom, meaning it.

“A pleasure,” he said. He stayed seated.

Outside, the wind gusted off the Crooked Lake, slapping wet snow against her face. She stopped for a minute, her car roughly fifty feet away. She wore suede shoes with a very modest heel because yes, she had dressed up for Brogan. Sort of. A little. She had her pride, after all. No treads, however. Hopefully she wouldn’t fall.

“Honor.” It was Tom, coming out of the restaurant as he pulled on his coat. “Are you wearing ridiculous shoes? You are. So impractical.”

With that, he picked her up, eliciting a squeak of surprise. “You don’t have to— Put me down.”

“Oh, stop. You women love this sort of thing.”

“Tom, really, I—”

“Stop flopping around, you’re making it harder. Which car is yours? The Prius? How did I know?”

She slid her arm tentatively around his shoulders. He certainly was...solid. “It’s the only car left.”

“And here I was going to claim a relation to Arthur Conan Doyle.”

Being carried...not quite as romantic as it seems, especially when one is not prepared. She felt a bit idiotic. His shoulders, on the other hand, were wide and solid and...and...rational thought was a little hard to summon at the moment.

He set her down next to her car. Honor’s face was hot. “Well, thank you,” she said. “It was nice talking to you.”

He ran a hand through his hair, which was wet from the snow. “Same here.”

Different.

With that, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, there in the soft light of the streetlamps and under the pink-hued sky. His mouth was soft and warm and utterly lovely, and he kissed her back, gently, slowly. A floating sensation filled Honor, deepening as his hand slipped to cup the back of her head.

Then he pulled back a little and tucked a bit of hair behind her ear. His eyes were soft and kind.

“Tom?” she whispered. “I think I’m that type, after all.”

A corner of his mouth pulled in a smile. “The type who’ll come home with me, then?”

Her hand, she noted, was resting over his heart, and she could feel it thudding solidly against her palm. “Yes,” she heard herself say. “Hop in.”

* * *

T
HIRTY
-
NINE
SECONDS
later, they were at Tom’s house, which had once been the Eustaces’ place, Honor remembered, a plain little house with a front porch and small yard. She opened the car door, but Tom was already out and around. He offered his hand, and she took it. That was a big hand. That was a
paw,
practically, swallowing hers.

“Change your mind?” he asked.

“Nope.” Nevertheless, her heart was stuttering and racing, and a slight tremor shook her hands.

She was inside now, and Tom turned on a light that did little to brighten the gloom. She could make out an ordinary living room, ordinary furniture. A couch. Coffee table. Then he was unbuttoning her coat, and Honor swallowed. Slid her hands up his torso, feeling the hard muscles there, the contour of his ribs and shoulders under his shirt. His eyes met hers, and he gave her a small smile.

God, his mouth was...delicious. Aside from that feature, there was nothing particularly special about his face. Normal eyelashes. Normal nose. Normal everything, except put it all together, and he was incredibly delicious, and she was
pulsating
for him.

Then he led her to the couch. She’d never done it on a couch. Or anywhere but a bed, come to think of it. Was she actually going to have sex in a living room? What about the floor? The floor would be...well, she didn’t know. Sex on the floor? Her? Honor Holland, the boring sister? Oh, Lordy, how did that even work? Would she get rug burn? Would he? What about—

“Sit. Your feet must be freezing.”

She sat. He slid off her shoe and rubbed her foot in those mammoth hands. He was right. They were freezing, which she might not have noticed if his hands weren’t so warm. He switched to her other foot, rubbing it briskly, then looked up and smiled, that lovely smile that changed his face from solemn to incredibly adorable.

She didn’t realize she’d launched herself at him until she was kissing him, and hell, it’d been what, almost two minutes, possibly more, since he’d last kissed her, and she
missed
it. He landed on his back with an
ooph,
but she didn’t really care.

“Hallo, what have we here?” he murmured, and she kissed him again, sliding her tongue against his, dying to kiss him, taste him, feel him. Her hands were in his hair, and he smelled like cold air and soap and tasted a little like whiskey, and my God, it was amazing, and look at her, practically straddling him, her legs tangled with his, kissing and kissing and kissing that generous, wonderful mouth, feeling a throb right down into her bone marrow.

Tom rolled over, pressing against her, cradling her face in his hands. “You sure you want to do this, love?” he whispered, and even though it was just a Britishism, the word went straight into her.

She nodded.

“Enough said, then.” He grinned again, and he lowered his mouth to hers, and suddenly, you know what, being that type was
fantastic
. The whole night was strange and surreal—Brogan and the baby and then Tom, the quiet bar, the snow, the kiss, this house where she’d never been, and good God, the kissing! Those full, soft lips, so unlike any other kiss she’d ever had, giving and tempting, making her want to do sweet, dirty things.

She wasn’t the type, but hells yeah, she was doing a good impression. Her skirt slid up around her thighs as she wrapped her legs around him, bringing him closer, and Lordy, he felt so good, so solid and hard and male, completely unfamiliar, definitely a landscape worth exploring.

His hand slipped between them to unbutton her shirt, kissing the skin he exposed bit by bit, his mouth hot and gentle. Honor’s vision flashed, her breath shuddering out of her. She tugged his shirt from his waistband and slid her hands up his back, feeling thick muscle and hot skin, and pulled his shirt over his head. Something metal brushed against her—a medallion, dangling from a silver chain around his neck.

He pulled back a bit, looking down at her. His own breath was ragged, and though his face had been gentle earlier, he now looked somewhat...fearsome. Down Under clenched at the word.

“You’re lovely, you know,” he said, smoothing the hair off her forehead, and damned if she didn’t fall a little in love right then and there. Then he kissed her again, hot and deep and fierce, heavy on top of her, and she kissed him right back, her hands exploring the warm, hard expanse of his back, his heavy, corded arms.

“You’re not built like a math teacher,” she said raggedly.

“I’m not a math teacher,” he muttered, and she felt him smile against her mouth. Then she licked his full bottom lip like she was some kind of sex goddess, like she knew exactly what she was doing and didn’t have to think at all. Like she was the most beautiful woman in the world with his hands sliding into her hair, his mouth on her throat, lower now. His clever fingers unhooked her bra, and his mouth followed the path of his hands.

And Honor discovered she was most definitely that type, after all.

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
OM
WOKE
UP
in small pieces, little flashes of an unusually happy feeling bringing a smile to his face before his eyes were open.

Then his hand brushed something soft, and his eyes did open then.

Honor Holland was sleeping on her stomach, her face turned away from him. She was naked.

Right.

Last night had been...unexpected. Pretending to be her man in front of that wanker who’d broken her heart, hell, that was easy. He owed her for the night they’d met, when he’d made damn sure she wouldn’t like him.

The problem had been...well, she was quite decent, Honor was. Seeing her sitting there, throbbing in pain once again because of Brolin or whatever his name was, Tom had wanted to make her feel better. Flirted with her a bit, because a talent was a talent, let’s be honest.

And then something changed. When she said that thing about him being lonely, he felt like he’d been punched in the chest by Iron Mike Tyson. Funny, how a person could ignore something so effectively until someone pointed it out. Next thing he knew, he was carrying her to her car.

When she kissed him, he hadn’t expected that electric current to slam through him like a thousand volts. Hadn’t really planned on asking her home. But she’d been right. He was lonely. And maybe, despite her big family, maybe she was, too.

Which was all fine and lovely, but now he had a naked woman in his bed, and aside from the obvious, he wasn’t sure what to do about that. Or what to say when she woke.

Taking care not to disturb her, he got out of bed, grabbed some jeans and a pullover and closed the bedroom door behind him.

The kitchen was still a bit of a mess. Tom made coffee, then surveyed the contents of the fridge. Good. He could offer Miss Holland breakfast if she was so inclined. He’d have to clear off the table, though, because he’d set out the airplane model last night. The PT-17 Stearman, one of the great planes of World War II. Three years ago, he and Charlie had gone to an air show and seen one fly, and Tom had ordered the model the next day. Finished, it would’ve been the sixth model they’d done. He wondered what happened to the others.

At any rate, the Stearman was in pieces, the fuselage waiting for sides, the many pieces of balsa laying out in optimistic order. Charlie was supposed to have come around for dinner last night, and Tom thought that maybe if the airplane was right there on the table, it might garner the kid’s interest. Granted, the odds of that were the same as being eaten by a giant squid, but he had nothing left in terms of new ideas on how to reach Charlie. And hope sprang eternal, or some such rubbish.

As it was, Janice called, saying Charlie had a stomachache (a lie, no doubt) and didn’t want to come; hence Tom’s foray to Hugo’s, as the boisterous atmosphere of O’Rourke’s had seemed a bit much.

Hence the hookup with Honor Holland. Probably ill-advised.

Still, a surprisingly fantastic shag was nothing to regret.

And speaking of, he heard footsteps on the stairs. She peeked into the kitchen, and he felt attraction slam into him. Hard.

“Morning,” he said.

She blushed. Her clothes were rumpled, her hair disheveled. The classic walk of shame if ever he’d seen it. “Hi,” she murmured.

“Coffee?”

“Sure. Thank you.” He poured her a cup, and she took a sip. Her hands were shaking slightly. “How did you sleep?” she asked, and her cheeks grew pinker.

“Very well. And you?”

“Fine.” She set the cup on the counter. “Listen, Tom, last night was...not my typical, um, modus operandi.”

Latin, so early in the morning? “Yet you seemed quite the expert.” He grinned.

The blush spread to her neck. “I’m not usually so, er, slutty. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”

“Nothing wrong with slutty. From my perspective, anyway.”

“It’s not that I— See, I don’t generally...”

He patted her on the shoulder. “It was just a shag, Honor. You picked me up in a bar. Own it. Be proud.”

She ran a hand through her hair and looked at the floor, and he felt a dart of regret sing through him. She wasn’t the teasing type, was she?

“I had a nice time,” he said more seriously. “I hope you did, as well.”

Her cheeks practically gave off heat, they were so red. “Mmm-hmm.”

“Have a seat. I can make you breakfast if you like.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine.” She did sit at the table, however. “Model airplanes, huh?”

He sat across from her and picked up a piece of the PT-17. “I work on the real thing as well, if you’re trying to impugn my masculinity. Bit of a side business. One of the many things a mechanical engineer can do, for your cocktail party brain to store away. Customize airplanes for the very rich.”

She appeared to be hiding behind the coffee cup. “So this is your hobby?”

He paused. “I used to make these with my unofficial stepson,” he heard himself say. “We started this one a few years ago.”

“What’s an unofficial stepson?”

He filed a piece of aluminum tongue, as the fit was a bit snug. “It’s a surly teenager whose mother and I were once engaged.” The cabane struts came next. He’d have to go slowly. Wouldn’t want to finish it on his own, just in case hell froze over and Charlie decided he wanted to work on it.

“You were engaged?” Honor asked.

“Yes. She died.”

He heard her quick intake of breath. “Oh, Tom, I’m so sorry.”

He gathered up the rest of the wing pieces to put back in the box. “Don’t worry about it.” He glanced at her face. “It’s been three years.”

Honor nodded, still holding her coffee cup like a shield. “How old is this unofficial stepson?”

“Fourteen.”

“Are you close?”

Tom rubbed the back of his neck. “We used to be, when I lived with them. Not so much anymore.”

“Does he live with his dad?”

“No.” As ever, the thought of Mitchell DeLuca made Tom’s eye throb. “He lives with his grandparents. Janice and Walter Kellogg? Perhaps you know them. They moved here a few months ago, and I followed.”

She shook her head. Took a sip of her coffee. Didn’t say anything, and blessed be, because a woman who thought before speaking...that was a nice change. “How long have you lived in America?”

“Four years. I met Melissa when I was here on holiday and ended up staying. We got engaged a few months later, and she died a few months after that.”

“How did it happen?” Honor’s voice was soft.

“She was hit by a car crossing the street.” An utterly stupid and completely preventable incident. With great care, he put the Stearman back in the box.

“I’m so sorry,” Honor said again. “My mom died in a car accident, too. It’s an awful way to lose someone. Not that there’s a good way.”

“True enough.” He stood up. “I’ve got eggs and toast, and I’d be more than happy to make you breakfast.”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

“More coffee, then?”

“That’d be great. Thanks.”

He got up and poured her a cup.

“So why aren’t you close, you and Charlie?” she asked as he handed her the coffee, and some coffee sloshed over the rim, onto her skirt.

“Shit. Sorry,” Tom said, grabbing a dish towel and blotting at the stain.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” She looked at him, straight in the eye, as he was kneeling at her side.

Brown eyes. Lovely, really, dark and quiet. And at the moment, she was giving him a no-nonsense look, a tolerates-no-shit look combined with something else.

Kindness.

He looked back at her skirt and blotted some more.

“He blames me for her dying. She was...away when it happened. With Charlie’s dad, who apparently liked to pop in and out just enough to fuck with everyone’s head. So off they went for a weekend, and I was watching Charlie like an absolute wanker, really, taking care of my fiancée’s kid while she was screwing around. Then she decided to text me while crossing the street against the light, and that was that.”

“Oh, God.”

“Right. When the dust settled, Charlie’s dad didn’t want to take custody.” The familiar red haze flared, then faded. “I wanted to adopt Charlie, but I didn’t have any claim on him.”

The clock over the door ticked. Honor was still looking at him. “So this whole green card is so you can be around Charlie.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t get one, did you?”

He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “No, I didn’t.” He stood up and took his coffee cup to the sink, dumped it. Outside, the snow fell from the branches in clots, the temperature having jumped overnight.

The chair scraped as she stood up. She came over to the counter and leaned against it, folding her arms over her chest. “What other options do you have?”

“Not many. I’ve been looking for another job in the area, but I haven’t had much luck. The truth is, I imagine Charlie’ll be relieved to be rid of me. He barely speaks to me.”

Honor nodded. Took a slow breath and released it. “So let’s get married.”

He glanced at her sharply. “Oh, no. That plan is off the table. Thank you, but it’s not...necessary.”

“Of course it is,” she said briskly. “You love this boy, you need to be around for him. I’ll marry you and you can stay. You should’ve said this up front and not been such an ass.”

He gave her a quick smile. “Right. Sorry about that. But you’re not going to marry me. Marrying a stranger isn’t going to cure your own issues with Brighton—”

“Brogan.”

“Whatever. And you want rug rats, sure, but you barely know me. You strike me more as the sperm donor type. That way you can get the whole list of assets—blond hair, green eyes, Harvard education—and boom. A happy single mum with an adorable tot. Possibly twins, given that you’re getting up there in age. Am I right? You’re more likely to pop out a duo when you’re past forty?”

“I’m thirty-five. And don’t pull that idiot act again.”

Busted. “Sorry.”

“The grandparents...is he close with them?”

“They do their best.”

“I’ll take that as a no.” She pursed her lips. “Look. I’m not going to let some poor kid who’s already riddled with abandonment issues watch his unofficial stepfather get deported. You need a green card. I’m offering.”

The image of Charlie’s bloody ear flashed. The sound of the boy trying desperately not to cry in the car. “You’re right. I want to stay near him. But there are other ways.”

“Which you’ve already tried.”

He took a slow breath. “Honor, you’re being a real champ here, and I appreciate it. But oddly enough, I like you, and I don’t want you to marry me because you feel bad for some kid you’ve never met. I mean, what do you get in the bargain? It’s a bit drastic, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes drastic measures are called for.” She looked at him steadily for a moment. “You want to get married or not?”