The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(58)
Household chores were shared, and Honor was pleased to find that Tom was tidy, even if he made his bed crookedly (hers looked like a magazine photo, thank you very much). He rinsed the sink out after shaving and owned a vacuum cleaner.
They watched a movie one night, but each of them appeared to be the polite type who didn’t talk during movies, so it hadn’t exactly been a bonding experience. “Good film” had been Tom’s comment, and Honor had agreed with “Yes. It was.”
On Tuesday, Charlie came over, and Tom had been manically cheerful, ignoring the fact that Charlie didn’t answer questions, eat dinner or make eye contact. “How’s school going?” Honor asked. He grunted in response. “Do you have Mrs. Parrish for English?” He sighed and nodded once. “She was my teacher, too.” Charlie dragged his eyes to her face as if to say, And why would I care? “Does she still smell like menthol?” A shrug.
“Charlie. Answer, mate,” Tom said.
“Yes. Mrs. Parrish still smells.”
“How about some grape pie?” she offered. She’d baked it in honor of this painful evening, hoping it would go better than it had thus far.
“He hasn’t finished his dinner,” said Tom.
She looked at the kid. “Well, it’s a special occasion. Your first dinner with us. So maybe we can bend the rules, Tom.”
He hesitated. “All right. Would you like some pie, Charlie?”
He shrugged. But, Honor was pleased to note, he also ate three pieces. In silence, mind you, but still. When Tom got back from driving him home, he went for a run. A long run.
So communication didn’t seem to be their strong suit.
Things were strained, to say the least. On the one hand, this was a business arrangement, more or less, so the typical romantic pressure off. On the other, she had already slept with the guy, and late at night, as she listened to the unfamiliar sounds of Manningsport Village and the occasional car passing, Honor wondered if she’d been stupid to tell Tom they should stay apart. Maybe sex would’ve made this seem a little more natural.
But then again, if things didn’t work out, sex might have just complicated the already unusual situation.
Didn’t keep her from stealing looks at him, that was for sure. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem similarly affected...or if he was, he covered it well.
On Thursday evening, Faith called, asking her if the two of them could have dinner. Honor said yes, albeit reluctantly. Feigning the role of smitten bride-to-be—or any role, really—wasn’t going to be easy, especially given the fact that Faith was an actual smitten bride. Faith offered to drive and asked to meet at Cabrera’s Boxing Gym first, because Levi had a “thing,” and so Honor walked the three blocks, Spike’s cute little black-and-tan head popping out of Honor’s purse, alert for danger.
Honor had never been to Cabrera’s, which was unusual, as she’d been in every other business in Manningsport. It was a circle of Dante’s Inferno, as far as she was concerned—cold, dark and poorly lit, with all sorts of smacking, thudding, punitive sounds coming from various areas. There was Faith, easy to spot in her yellow dress, staring into a dimly lit ring.
Honor went over, pausing as she passed a teenager sitting on a metal chair. It was Charlie Kellogg, dressed in gray sweatpants and a T-shirt with a picture of a horned goat on it. Maybe he was in a club that met after school or something. He was clutching a phone, earbuds firmly in place.
“Hi, Charlie,” she said.
He glanced at her, but didn’t answer.
“Nice to see you again,” Honor murmured, moving over to her sister.
Faith’s eyes were glued on the two men in the ring; apparently, Levi’s thing was to be ogled by his wife as he boxed with someone. Really not Honor’s cup of tea, two sweaty men bludgeoning each other, but whoever it was seemed to be giving Levi a pretty good time of it. The other guy was tattooed on both shoulders, muscled, glistening with sweat, and you know, maybe there was something to be said for boxing, after all. Both men wore helmets, but she could see Levi smile as he jabbed (or whatever). The other boxer answered with a left-right-left combination, and Levi staggered back, then recovered, saying something unintelligible to the other guy.
“Who’s putting the smackdown on Levi?” Honor whispered.
Faith gave her a strange look. “Your fiancé,” she answered.
Honor jerked in surprise. “Oh, sure. It’s just with the helmets, and the funky lighting, it looked a little...like, uh, Gerard. Gerard Chartier. From the firehouse.”
Gerard was six foot five and rather resembled Mr. Clean. Tom was a good five inches shorter, maybe a hundred pounds lighter and had a Union Jack tattooed on his shoulder. Might’ve been a clue. Then again, the one time she’d seen him without his shirt, he’d been on top of her (oh, happy memory), and she’d been too busy shoving her tongue in his mouth to examine him for identifying marks.
The bell rang, and both men hit each other’s gloves and exited the ring. Levi wrapped his squealy wife in his arms and kissed her, and then Tom leaned in and kissed Honor, as one would expect a young(ish) couple to do.
It was a quick kiss, but it took Honor by surprise, anyway, sending an electric pulse through her so hard and fast that she swore the lights flickered. That mouth of his, so...excellent, and the masculine smell of sweat and soap. His hair was spiked from his exertion, and his abs were sinfully magnificent, and a bead of sweat sliced down toward his—