The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(54)

“Oh, he’s wonderful.”

“Well, everyone in there is freaking out.”

“Right.”

“Tom,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper, “you have to take this more seriously. We have to be convincing, or we’re going to get caught. Levi’s the chief of police. If he gets a sense that we’re not really a couple—”

He grabbed her and kissed her hard, not trying to be gentle, a fierce, primal kiss that had nothing to do with seduction or tenderness, and everything to do with frustration.

Then her mouth opened, and her hands went to his chest, and he pushed her against the door, pressing against her softness, gentling the kiss, cradling her head in his hands, her short hair soft and silky, the taste of her making him forget everything else, and there was only the softness of her mouth, the sweetness of her.

Then he released her abruptly and took a step back. “How’s that? Good enough?”

Her eyes were wide.

“Sorry.” With that, and his frustration far from spent, he went back into the din of the mob.





CHAPTER TWELVE

TOM HAD FORGOTTEN about the little rat-dog.

Spike. That was it. The little rodent had already bitten him today. Twice. Granted, its teeth were the size of staples, but it was the principle of the thing.

Honor sure had a lot of stuff. Boxes and boxes of things. Books. A bloody giant computer. Pictures to hang on the wall. Two enormous suitcases.

She was serious about this thing.

“Okay,” she said when he’d brought in the last thing in her car. “I guess I’ll unpack.”

He couldn’t seem to drag his eyes off all those boxes. “Right.”

“Which bedroom should I take?”

“Oh, right. Whichever one you like.”

Her cheeks grew pink. “If Immigration does a house check, our stuff should be together. In the same bedroom, I mean.”

He looked up. “Oh. Sure, then. Mine’s on the right.”

“Okay. I’ll put my things in there and, um, sleep in the other room?”

“Great.”

“We should also take some pictures of the two of us, looking happy. Different settings. Courtship photos.”

“Sure. Whenever you want.”

She gave a nod. “Then I’ll go settle in.”

“Need any help?”

“Nope! I’m fine. I’m good. It’s all good.” She went, obviously eager to nest, or get away from him, or both.

The little dog squatted and peed on the rug. Lovely thing, really. Then it followed her up the stairs, so tiny it had to leap up each step.

Tom glanced at the clock on the stove. Four o’clock. Too early for a drink, unfortunately. Very well. He could correct the midterm debacles, and then take a look at the plans for the little Piper Cub he was supposed to modify. And give Jacob a call to set up a meeting so the lad could get a little glimpse of what a mechanical engineer could do.

But a drink would be nice, seeing that Tom was now engaged to one Honor Grace Holland, who wanted very much to have this all work out.

And if it hadn’t worked out with Melissa, how in bloody hell was it going to work out here?

* * *

FOUR YEARS AGO, Tom had come to Manhattan for the summer, as he hadn’t been to the States before. Had never left England, for that matter, always too busy working or boxing or in school. Figured he’d start in the legendary city and possibly head to some of the national parks the Yanks were so proud of.

After a few days in Manhattan, he went to see his great-aunt Candace, who lived in Philadelphia—The Birthplace of Freedom, the sign announced, rather cheekily. Honestly, the Americans thought they invented air. Tom barely knew Aunt Candy, but she was his late grandmother’s baby sister. His dad had fond memories of her and asked him to make a point to see her. So Tom rented a car and made the obligatory trek, and Aunt Candy embraced him like he was her long-lost son. She showed him the sights, the cracked bell, Independence Hall. When she brought him to the art museum, he ran up the steps (along with three or four other tourists), and danced around at the top near the statue of Rocky Balboa, making his great-auntie laugh. He treated her to dinner, and when she asked him if he’d stay one more day so she could show him off to her friends, he agreed. She was quite the lovely old bird.

He went to her church picnic the next day, where her friends cooed over his accent and told him he was adorable, clucking that he wasn’t married yet at the ripe old age of twenty-eight.

“Will you help me fix this?” came a voice, and Tom looked down. A smallish boy with a mouthful of teeth too big for him held up a cheap plastic kite. One of the plastic braces was broken.

“That’s Janice Kellogg’s grandson,” Candy said. “Charlie, this is my grandnephew, Tom.”

“Let’s have a look, then, mate,” Tom had said. He took out his pocket knife, cut a stick from a nearby bush, bent it so the wind resistance would be greater, whittled the ends, sliced off a long strip of plastic tablecloth and replaced the tail. A few minutes later, Charlie’s kite took off, higher and faster than any other in the park. Who better to fix a kite than a mechanical engineer with a minor in aeronautics? The look of delight on the kid’s face...it was lovely. He knelt down next to the lad and showed him how to make the kite do a figure-eight, getting a yelp of joy as reward.