The Best Man (Blue Heron #1)(4)

Oh, melt! Another kiss. “The odds are getting better,” she breathed.

“I really like you, Faith,” he whispered, nuzzling her ear, causing her entire side to electrify.

“I like you, too,” she said and looked into his pretty brown eyes. His finger slid lower, and she could feel her skin heating up, getting blotchy, no doubt, the curse of the redhead. What the heck. She turned her face and kissed him on the lips, a soft, sweet, lingering kiss.

“Sorry to interrupt, lovebirds,” said the waiter. “Don’t mind me.” He set the dessert on the table with a knowing smile.

“This!”

The bark made all three of them jump. Clint’s elbow hit her glass, the wine spilling onto the tablecloth.

“Oh, shit,” Clint said, shoving away from her.

“Don’t worry about it,” Faith said. “I do stuff like that all the time.”

Clint wasn’t looking at the wine.

A woman stood in front of their booth, a beautiful little boy dangling from her hands as she held him out in front of her. “This is what he’s ignoring because of you, whore!”

Faith looked behind her to see the whore, but the only thing there was the wall. She looked back at the woman, who was about her age and very pretty—blond hair and fury-flushed cheeks. “Are you...are you talking to me?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m talking to you, whore! This is what he’s missing when he’s wining and dining you. Our son! Our baby!” She jiggled the toddler to demonstrate.

“Hey, no shaking the kid,” Faith said.

“Don’t speak to me, whore!”

“Mommy, put down!” the toddler commanded. The woman obeyed, jamming her hands on her (thin) hips. The waiter caught Faith’s eye and grimaced. He was probably g*y, and thus her ally.

Faith closed her mouth. “But I didn’t... Clint, you’re not married, are you?”

Clint was holding up his hands, surrender-style. “Baby, don’t be mad,” he said to the woman. “She’s just someone I work with—”

“Oh, my God, you are married!” Faith blurted. “Where are you from? Are you from Nebraska?”

“Yes, we are, whore!”

“Clint!” Faith yelped. “You bas—” She remembered the kid, who looked at her solemnly, then scooped up a fingerful of crème brûlée and stuck it in his mouth.

“I’m so sorry,” Faith said to Mrs. Clint Bundt (well, at least Faith wouldn’t be saddled with that name). The kid spit out the dessert and reached for the sugar packets. “I didn’t know—”

“Oh, shut up, whore. How dare you seduce my husband! How dare you!”

“I’m not sedu—doing anything to anyone, okay?” Faith said, more than a little horrified that this conversation was taking place in front of a toddler (who looked like a baby Hobbit, he was so dang cute, licking sugar from the packet).

“You’re a slut, whore.”

“Actually,” Faith said tightly, “your husband was the one who...” Again, the kid. “Ask the waiter. Right?” Yes, yes, get some confirmation from the friendly waiter.

“Um...who’s paying tonight?” he asked. So much for the love she inspired in the g*ys.

“It was a business dinner,” Clint interrupted. “She came onto me, and I didn’t expect it, I didn’t know what to do. Come on, let’s go home, babe.”

“And by home, I’m guessing you don’t mean your bachelor pad in Noe Valley, right?” Faith bit out.

Clint ignored her. “Hi, Finn, how’s it going, bud?” He tousled his child’s hair, then stood up and gave her a sorrowful, dignified look. “I’m sorry, Faith,” he said somberly. “I’m a happily married man, and I have a beautiful family. I’m afraid we won’t be able to work together anymore.”

“Not a problem,” she said tightly.

“Take that, whore,” said Clint’s wife. “That’s what you get, trying to break up my family!” She put her hands on her h*ps and twisted out her leg, the Angelina Jolie Hip Displacement look.

“Hi, whore,” the little boy said, ripping open another sugar packet.

“Hi,” she said. He really was cute.

“Don’t speak to my child!” Mrs. Bundt said. “I don’t want your filthy whore mouth speaking to my son.”

“Hypocrite,” she muttered.

Clint scooped up the boy, who’d managed to snag a few more sugar packets.

“If I ever see you near my husband, whore, you’ll be sorry,” Mrs. Bundt hissed.

“I’m not a whore, okay?” Faith snapped.

“Yes, you are,” said his wife, giving her the finger. Then the Bundts turned their backs to her and walked away from the table.

“I’m not!” Faith called. “I haven’t slept with anyone in three years, okay? I’m not a whore!” The little boy waved cheerily from over his father’s shoulder, and Faith gave a small wave in return.

The Bundts were gone. Faith grabbed her water glass and chugged, then rested the glass against her hot cheek. Her heart was pounding so hard she felt sick.

“Three years?” said one of the diners.