The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(30)

“Have fun,” Tom said.

“Tom, I veel see you tomorrow,” Droog said, opening the door of his rusting, maroon-colored Dodge Omni.

“Thank you,” she said to Tom. He smiled over his shoulder as he headed for his car, and damn. That was a Mack truck of a smile. And by the way, he was not built like Ye Typical Math Teacher, no sir. Broad shoulders. Rather perfect ass.

Then he glanced back again, and Honor was abruptly aware that she was still staring after him. He cocked his eyebrow as if knowing she was ogling him. He was probably used to it, she thought as a young (and beautiful) woman cantered to his side. Why didn’t he marry that one, huh? Why meet Honor if women were throwing themselves at him?

The man was not particularly likable. Droog, on the other hand, thought she was luffly. It didn’t make sense to let Down Under start getting all tingly and warm when the man causing those feelings had been such a boor.

* * *

“DO YOU LIKE bowling?” Droog asked a half hour later as they sat in the little restaurant. “I luff eet. Dee crash of dee pins, dee joy on the dee faces of dee cheeldren.” He smiled. “Perhaps we may try it sometime.”

There would be no bowling.

Honor had definitely ruled out marriage and children with Droog Dragul. In addition to the faint fear that he was going to throw his head back and start howling, or start counting things. (One...one pointy knife! Two! Two major blood vessels in dee neck!) Droog had wiped down everything at their table with antibacterial wipes he produced from his purse, including their chairs and the floor around them. “Now I heff created clean space,” he said, smiling.

Dexter the serial killer leaped to mind.

Then Droog ordered water and took a sandwich from his purse. Baloney on white bread.

It was a long eighty-three minutes.

To his credit, when he asked her for a second date, Droog took her rejection well. “Ah, yes, I understand,” he said. “Vee don’t have the cleek.”

“The cleek?” she asked.

He snapped his fingers. “The cleek.”

“Oh. Right. The click.” Honor forced a smile. “But it was very nice meeting you, Droog.”

“And you, as vell, Honor. Good night.”

So. No potential husband. Maybe she’d call Jeremy and ask about sperm banks.

It’s just that she wanted a husband. A nice man would be enough. He didn’t have to be Brogan—all that and turquoise eyes, too—he just had to be...decent. And normal. Not someone who brought his own food to a restaurant.

Too bad Tom Barlow had been such a twit.





CHAPTER SIX

“OH, TOM. IT’S you. Hello. Take off your shoes, don’t forget.”

He obeyed. “Janice. How are you?”

“Fine, fine. Come on in.” She held the door open, and Tom entered, ignoring the sinking feeling he always had when he was in the home of Charlie’s grandparents. The living room was a pinkish color, making him feel as if he were sitting inside a salmon. His feet sank into the plush pink carpet as dozens of sightless eyes stared at him. Creepy, those dolls. Janice collected them—hundreds of them, all the same size, dressed in everything from a frilly bikini to a wedding dress, sat in specially made glass cupboards like a tiny, evil army, ready to break out of their bondage and attack anything male.

Poor Charlie, having to live with all these dolls. Tom could only imagine what the boy would say to his friends. Not that he had friends who came over. Or any friends, for all Tom could tell.

“And where’s Walter today?” Tom asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “Is he about?”

“No, he’s down at the barber shop. Hiding, and I can’t blame him.” Janice eyed his crotch, as was her habit. Uncomfortable, to say the least. He was always a bit afraid to turn his back on her. “You’re good to come, Tom,” she said. “You don’t have to do this, you know. You’re not obligated.”

“No, no, I love spending time with him.” Janice raised her eyes from his groin long enough to give him a dubious look. Right, so that might be pushing it a bit. “And he can always visit me any time, stay over.”

“You’re a saint,” she said. “Sit.”

Tom obeyed, the plastic furniture cover squeaking as he sat.

“He’s so sullen. He barely speaks to us, and why, I have no idea, after all we’ve done for him.”

“Yes, you’ve been wonderful,” Tom lied.

She gave a martyred smile. “It’s what Jesus would do. Well, you must want to be on your way. Charlie!” Tom jumped at the abrupt shift in volume. “Tom’s here!”

There was no answer.

“I’ll get him.” Janice sighed. “He’s locked in that room of his and never answers.” With that, she tromped up the stairs, leaving Tom alone with the doll army.

It was impossible not to look at them. Today, the doll dressed in the flamenco outfit seemed especially hostile. “Piss off,” Tom whispered. No wonder Charlie was in a bad mood all the time.

And speaking of, here was the boy himself. “Hallo, mate!” Tom said, standing up. “How are you?”

It was almost a shock to the eyes, the black of Charlie—clothing, hair, nails and mood. At some point last year during what seemed to be a particularly horrifying puberty, Charlie had turned punk, or Goth, or whatever they were calling it these days. Baggy black clothes, black eyeliner, black fingernail polish. There were a few of that type at Wickham, shuffling around campus, their chains rattling, but they seemed like happy enough kids.