The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(42)

When she kissed him, he hadn’t expected that electric current to slam through him like a thousand volts. Hadn’t really planned on asking her home. But she’d been right. He was lonely. And maybe, despite her big family, maybe she was, too.

Which was all fine and lovely, but now he had a na**d woman in his bed, and aside from the obvious, he wasn’t sure what to do about that. Or what to say when she woke.

Taking care not to disturb her, he got out of bed, grabbed some jeans and a pullover and closed the bedroom door behind him.

The kitchen was still a bit of a mess. Tom made coffee, then surveyed the contents of the fridge. Good. He could offer Miss Holland breakfast if she was so inclined. He’d have to clear off the table, though, because he’d set out the airplane model last night. The PT-17 Stearman, one of the great planes of World War II. Three years ago, he and Charlie had gone to an air show and seen one fly, and Tom had ordered the model the next day. Finished, it would’ve been the sixth model they’d done. He wondered what happened to the others.

At any rate, the Stearman was in pieces, the fuselage waiting for sides, the many pieces of balsa laying out in optimistic order. Charlie was supposed to have come around for dinner last night, and Tom thought that maybe if the airplane was right there on the table, it might garner the kid’s interest. Granted, the odds of that were the same as being eaten by a giant squid, but he had nothing left in terms of new ideas on how to reach Charlie. And hope sprang eternal, or some such rubbish.

As it was, Janice called, saying Charlie had a stomachache (a lie, no doubt) and didn’t want to come; hence Tom’s foray to Hugo’s, as the boisterous atmosphere of O’Rourke’s had seemed a bit much.

Hence the hookup with Honor Holland. Probably ill-advised.

Still, a surprisingly fantastic shag was nothing to regret.

And speaking of, he heard footsteps on the stairs. She peeked into the kitchen, and he felt attraction slam into him. Hard.

“Morning,” he said.

She blushed. Her clothes were rumpled, her hair disheveled. The classic walk of shame if ever he’d seen it. “Hi,” she murmured.

“Coffee?”

“Sure. Thank you.” He poured her a cup, and she took a sip. Her hands were shaking slightly. “How did you sleep?” she asked, and her cheeks grew pinker.

“Very well. And you?”

“Fine.” She set the cup on the counter. “Listen, Tom, last night was...not my typical, um, modus operandi.”

Latin, so early in the morning? “Yet you seemed quite the expert.” He grinned.

The blush spread to her neck. “I’m not usually so, er, slutty. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”

“Nothing wrong with slutty. From my perspective, anyway.”

“It’s not that I— See, I don’t generally...”

He patted her on the shoulder. “It was just a shag, Honor. You picked me up in a bar. Own it. Be proud.”

She ran a hand through her hair and looked at the floor, and he felt a dart of regret sing through him. She wasn’t the teasing type, was she?

“I had a nice time,” he said more seriously. “I hope you did, as well.”

Her cheeks practically gave off heat, they were so red. “Mmm-hmm.”

“Have a seat. I can make you breakfast if you like.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine.” She did sit at the table, however. “Model airplanes, huh?”

He sat across from her and picked up a piece of the PT-17. “I work on the real thing as well, if you’re trying to impugn my masculinity. Bit of a side business. One of the many things a mechanical engineer can do, for your cocktail party brain to store away. Customize airplanes for the very rich.”

She appeared to be hiding behind the coffee cup. “So this is your hobby?”

He paused. “I used to make these with my unofficial stepson,” he heard himself say. “We started this one a few years ago.”

“What’s an unofficial stepson?”

He filed a piece of aluminum tongue, as the fit was a bit snug. “It’s a surly teenager whose mother and I were once engaged.” The cabane struts came next. He’d have to go slowly. Wouldn’t want to finish it on his own, just in case hell froze over and Charlie decided he wanted to work on it.

“You were engaged?” Honor asked.

“Yes. She died.”

He heard her quick intake of breath. “Oh, Tom, I’m so sorry.”

He gathered up the rest of the wing pieces to put back in the box. “Don’t worry about it.” He glanced at her face. “It’s been three years.”

Honor nodded, still holding her coffee cup like a shield. “How old is this unofficial stepson?”

“Fourteen.”

“Are you close?”

Tom rubbed the back of his neck. “We used to be, when I lived with them. Not so much anymore.”

“Does he live with his dad?”

“No.” As ever, the thought of Mitchell DeLuca made Tom’s eye throb. “He lives with his grandparents. Janice and Walter Kellogg? Perhaps you know them. They moved here a few months ago, and I followed.”

She shook her head. Took a sip of her coffee. Didn’t say anything, and blessed be, because a woman who thought before speaking...that was a nice change. “How long have you lived in America?”