The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(29)

“Mom?” she said as she drove out of town. “I could use a little help finding a man. Okay? Be my wingman.”

Please God, Droog Dragul would be nice.

* * *

“HONOR?”

Honor’s head snapped around. Oh. Oh, dear. “Droog?”

“Yes. How luffly you look,” he said. He grabbed her by the shoulders and leaned in to kiss her (eep!). She leaned back as far as possible, which caused his lips fall on her chin, where they stayed for a horribly long moment before she wrenched away.

“Um, hi. Hi, Droog. Nice to meet you.”

Don’t judge on first impressions had been the advice from Faith and Colleen. Droog was lucky, in other words.

They were in the middle of the student center at Wickham College, where Droog headed up the Science and Engineering department. The Droog in front of her bore little resemblance to the Droog in the eCommitment photo (she should really stop thinking his name, which was not improving with repetition). No, his photo had apparently involved Glamour Shots, a spray tan and many dedicated hours with Photoshop. The actual live Droog (there it was again) looked ten years older and was considerably whiter. Also, he carried a purse. Not a cool, battered leather satchel, but a purse that Honor had been eyeing last week at Macy’s.

“Come. Vee vill go in my car. I heff Dodge Omni. It is old, but very good gas mileage.”

“You know, I think I’ll drive myself,” she said, wiping sweat from her forehead. “It’s, uh...it’ll be easier for me to get home.”

“As you vish.”

It was possible, Honor thought as she followed him outside, that Droog Dragul’s accent would grow on her. After all, hadn’t she loved the Count on Sesame Street? Perhaps his narrow face would be more attractive in a softer light. And she herself was no supermodel.

She wondered if he could see himself in a mirror. If he sparkled. Stop judging, she told herself. He couldn’t help being Transylvanian or Romanian or Hungarian or whatever it was.

She smiled firmly (though hopefully not like a wolverine) as he led the way to the parking lot. If nothing else, this date would be practice. It had been several years since she’d been on a first date. Years.

The sound of feminine laughter, and lots of it, made her turn her head. A gaggle of girls clustered around a man. He turned her way.

Oh, fungus. It was Tom Barlow.

Without thinking, she ducked, pretending she dropped her keys. Hey, why not actually drop them for authenticity purposes? She did. Kicked them under the car a little so she could have more time. Hopefully, Tom and the gaggle would move on.

“Heff you lost something?” Droog asked, bending to help. He was very tall.

“Um, no, no. I just dropped my keys.” Right. So she should pick them up and not just stand here, hunched over like Quasimodo. She squatted down and reached under the car, feeling only gritty pavement. Took a peek. Great. She’d effectively kicked them out of reach.

“I vould help you, but dee cartilage in my knees has torn and shredded, and I can no longer kneel. Eh heh heh heh.”

One! One beeg mistake! Two! Two bad knees!

“Hallo, Droog. Hallo, woman on the pavement.”

She sighed. Busted.

“Tom, Tom, how are you, my friend?” Droog asked. “I vould like you to meet my date, Mees Honor Holland.”

She looked up. Tom raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing around that mouth. “Oh,” she said flatly. “Hi.”

“Lovely to see you again,” he said.

“Heff you met before?” Droog’s eyebrows rose way, way up on his giant forehead.

Tom just kept looking down at her. “We both live in Manningsport,” he said after a beat, and his accent was so much more appealing than the Count’s. “Met at the pub one night, had a bit of a chat. Small town and all. Have you dropped something, Honor?”

“Um, my car keys,” she said.

He knelt down next to her, and she caught a whiff of his soap. He hadn’t shaved recently, and his jaw was bristly with stubble. Or maybe it wasn’t bristly. Maybe it was soft. Those lips would be soft, that was for sure.

Give us five minutes and we can be ready, the eggs said.

Tom leaned over, and something surged inside her. For one nanosecond, she thought he was going to kiss her, and yes! That would fine! Her eyes fluttered; the left one got stuck, thanks to the clumpy mascara. But no. Of course he wasn’t going to kiss her here on the pavement (or ever). He was reaching for her keys.

Which put his head very close to her, um, special places. Her uterus wobbled, and she pictured the eggs taking up a battering ram.

“Everything all right with your eye?” Tom asked with a knowing grin.

“Everything’s fine.”

She could probably hate this guy, if they spent much more time together. With superhuman eyelid effort, Honor managed to unstick her lashes as Tom groped under the car, then straightened up and handed her the keys. “There you are,” he said, his eyes filled with laughter. Gray eyes.

Kind of a gorgeous color, really. The lake in November, dark and deep.

“So you’re on a date with Droog, are you?” he asked. “Great guy.”

“Yes,” she said briskly. She’d almost forgotten about the Count. “Droog, sorry about that. Let’s get going, shall we?”