The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(13)

Honor shoved her. Not hard, but still. She wasn’t proud of it, didn’t plan it, but there wasn’t really much time to think, because Dana shoved back, much harder, and Honor staggered a little, bumping into her chair, and then Dana shoved her again, and she could smell the wine and “Sweet Home Alabama” was playing on the jukebox, and then they were falling, and there was some grappling, and Honor’s head jerked and a sudden pain lanced through her scalp—for the love of God, Dana was pulling her hair and it hurt, and she grabbed some of Dana’s adorable, silky hair (which smelled like coconut, very nice) and gave that a tug, and a chair fell on top of them, and time was weird, it was so slow and so fast at the same time, and then Brogan was hauling Dana off her. “Honor, what are you doing?” Brogan asked, and Honor scrabbled up, too (hopefully not flashing anyone), then there was a crack and Honor’s face stung.

Her best friend had just slapped her.

Honor’s breath came in short gasps. A cocktail napkin was stuck to her left breast. She pulled it off and set it on the table.

Oh, God.

The bar was silent.

“Honor.” Jack, her big brother, and who said they were never around when you needed them? “Are you okay?” he asked.

She swallowed. “Peachy.” Her face hurt. The spot Dana slapped throbbed.

Brogan looked absolutely bewildered. “Honor,” he said. “I—I thought...I didn’t realize...”

“No? Well, then, you’re stupider than I thought.” Her voice was cool, despite the fact that she was shaking violently.

“Let’s get out of here,” her brother said, and she loved him so much right then.

“I can’t believe it!” someone barked from the bar, breaking the silence. Lorena Creech, the biggest mouth in town. “Honor Holland in a catfight! Wowzers!”

“Come on,” Jack muttered. “I’ll drive you home.”

But Honor just stood there another minute, unable to take her eyes off of Dana. Her friend. The one who watched movies with her on Saturday nights when neither of them had a date, who confided in her, laughed with her, didn’t seem to mind that she was maybe a little quiet, a little predictable. The one who’d told her to go for it, propose to Brogan...the one who’d handed her tissues after he said no.

The one who’d had a strange look on her face when she answered the door that night, and now Honor recognized what that expression had been: triumph.

The one who was wearing the same engagement ring Honor had admired.

In Dana’s eyes was a dark gleam of satisfaction.

“I’ll drive myself,” Honor said, finally looking at her brother. “Thanks, anyway, Jack.” She straightened her sweater, took her purse from the back of the chair.

Over the back of Dana’s chair, she noted, was a Burberry raincoat. Honor’s raincoat.

She turned and headed through the still-silent bar. It was an awfully long way.

A man she didn’t know slid off a bar stool and went to the door ahead of her, weaving a bit, she noted distantly. “Thanks for that,” he said, the origin of the British accent she’d heard earlier. “You don’t get to see enough girl fights these days.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, not looking him in the eye.

He toasted her with his glass and held the door open, and the cool, damp air soothed her burning face.

* * *

TWO HOURS LATER, with Spike curled under her chin and snoring slightly, Honor made a resolution (and a list).





No more catfights in bars.

No more letting the old imagination fly away like a rabid bat, inventing scenarios that clearly weren’t going to play out.

Work less and play more (find ways to play ASAP; maybe hire someone?).

A relationship, and pronto.

A baby. Soon.





Time to get a life, in other words.

Time to take action.





CHAPTER THREE

THERE WAS LITTLE Honor dreaded more than Family Meetings. In the past, subjects covered      included Jack’s divorce, the care and feeding of Goggy and Pops, Faith’s      wedding(s) and Dad’s terrifying girlfriend of last year.

Tonight, for the first time ever, the Family Meeting was about      her.

In the three days since the catfight, Honor had done a lot of      thinking. She’d always been the good one, not that her siblings were bad people.      No, they were just more colorful. She was like that other kid in the story of      the Prodigal Son. The one who never screwed up, who did his job.

And look where that had gotten her. Thirty-five, aging eggs, no      man in her life, totally gobsmacked by her best friend, not to mention      completely idiotic where Brogan was concerned. She lived with her father in her      childhood home and worked a bazillion hours a week. For fun, she watched shows      about tumor removal or the guy who had a foot growing out of his rib cage,      courtesy of a malformed twin.

Her entire family had heard about the fight. She’d told her dad      and Mrs. Johnson the morning after, not wanting them to hear it from anywhere      else, and Dad had looked like someone had just eaten a live kitten while Mrs. J.      muttered darkly and slammed the fridge. Faith came over and had been quite      sympathetic, reminding Honor of her own public scene a few years ago, and      leaving two cartons of Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer.