The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(40)

“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.”

* * *

THIRTY-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.