The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(79)

“Yes! Yeah, absolutely. It’s just been a long day.”

Levi looked at them another minute, and Honor’s stomach cramped. She tipped her head against Tom’s shoulder and smiled. “Thanks again. Tell Faith I’ll call her later.”

He nodded, then lifted a hand and walked away.

Tom took a breath, then released. “All right, then,” he murmured, and with that, he went back in the exam room to wait for his release.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PEOPLE HAD WARNED Tom that the weather in this area would be unpredictable, but this was bleeding ridiculous. Four days ago, he’d gone for a run at the college, and it had been sixty-five degrees. Buds on the trees, all that.

Today, it was snowing. And despite four years in this country, Tom still hated driving in the snow. He’d fishtailed on his way into the Village and nearly rear-ended Honor’s little Prius, which was parked on the street, rather than in the driveway, for some reason that only women would fathom.

He got out of the car and headed inside, a clot of snow falling down his collar as he opened the door. “Get off me, Ratty,” he said when the dog attacked.

“She’s not a rat,” Honor said. She was pouring herself a glass of wine, still in her incredibly uptight navy blue suit and ugly shoes. Why on earth Honor Holland wasn’t slutting it up and showing off her wares was a mystery. There was absolutely nothing wrong with her. “How’s your eye?”

“Fine.” They hadn’t talked too much since two days ago, aside from apologizing to each other repeatedly (and ineffectively, he thought), he for putting her in an uncomfortable situation, she for drawing blood.

Held up at gunpoint. Never told anyone. Christ. Every time he thought of it, the red haze descended. He wanted to kill the bloke who’d done it, picking a woman with a complete lack of street smarts. Which, of course, was exactly what muggers looked for. Didn’t change the red, though. And it didn’t make Tom any more able to say the words that were stuck in his chest. Don’t ever get hurt again. Don’t ever take chances. Don’t get sick. Don’t leave. Don’t die.

He sighed.

“What do you feel like for dinner?” she asked.

“I don’t care. Want me to cook?”

“I don’t mind.”

“Neither do I,” he said. “Go on, sit down, relax. You look tense.”

She bristled. “I’m not.” She picked up Spike and kissed the dog’s head.

“Good.” Conversation was clearly not their strong suit.

They were better at sex. At least, so far as he could recall. It had been a bloody long time. Fucking weeks. Or, more appropriately, not-f*cking weeks.

The doorbell rang, causing Ratty to burst into a flurry of brain-hemorrhaging barks. Yark! Yark! Yarkyarkyarkyark! “I’ll get it,” Honor said, taking the dog with her.

Tom opened the refrigerator and surveyed his options. Living with Honor meant the larder was much better stocked than when he lived here himself, though he always tried to have some snacks on hand for Charlie. Now, though, they were swimming in food. Chicken, beef, lettuce, tomatoes, oranges, spinach, cottage cheese, Parmesan, yogurt, hummus. And lots of good wine, as well.

“Tom? Um, Pooky?”

He turned at the wretched nickname. Honor’s face was blotchy, and her eyes were a little too wide. She stood in front of another woman. “This is Bethany Woods. She works for Custom and Immigration Services.”

Bloody hell.

“Hallo there,” Tom said, smiling. Bethany was somewhere in her forties, a stout, sturdy woman with tight black curls and severe glasses with rhinestoned corners. “Tom Barlow, lovely to meet you.”

“Hi,” she said. “This is an unscheduled visit courtesy of the U.S. government. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Tom said. “To what do we owe this honor?”

Bethany gave a tight smile. “We’ve had a tip that you and Ms. Holland might be about to commit marital fraud.”

Tom glanced at Honor, who looked like she was about to vomit. “Fraud? How so?” he asked. “Have a seat, Bethany, sorry. Would you like a glass of wine or a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you,” she said, giving him a quick scan. The Janice, as he thought of it.

“Please sit, at any rate. Darling?” He held a chair for Honor, who hesitated, then sat stiffly.

“Dr. Barlow,” Bethany said, “we’ve contacted the college where you work and discovered they have no plans to renew your green card.”

“Right,” Tom said. Honor was biting her lip. Another second, and there’d be blood. He took her hand under the table and gave it a warning squeeze. Ratty snarled, earning a significant look from Ms. Woods.

“Records show that your marriage license has been filed,” she continued, “and a few days ago, someone called our office anonymously and said that you two barely know each other.”

Now who in the bloody hell would do that? Honor’s father, perhaps? The man had yet to look Tom in the eye. Droog, perhaps jealous that Honor hadn’t chosen him instead of Tom? Probably not him; he was good bloke.

“Well, it was fast,” Tom said. “I’ll give you that. But we’re getting married because we love each other. Right, darling?”