The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(85)

She could love him at the drop of a hat.

If he felt the same way, he was hiding it well.

Speaking of weddings, Brogan and Dana’s engagement had been in the paper this morning. It was still strange, the absence of those two as her constant companions. Especially Dana. Brogan was trying. Still sent her emails with links to articles or a funny cartoon, a postcard from L.A. last week. It was nice, really—he still cared enough to make an effort.

From Dana, there’d been nothing, and that was okay. Whatever loneliness Honor felt was mostly reflex by now. Besides, now she had other people. Faith and she were closer than they’d ever been, which was absolutely lovely. She had Jessica Dunn, who was proving to be a smart and steady employee for Blue Heron. Colleen and Connor, who’d always seemed off-limits as Faith’s closest friends, felt more like Honor’s friends, too, these days. Of course, there were Dad, Pru and Jack. And Honor still saw Mrs. J. every day at lunch. So she had friends.

And she had Tom.

Sort of.

Speaking of grooms, there was Dad, down in the merlot vines with Pru. Honor smiled and waved, and made Spike wave as well, and they waved back in unison. Peas in a pod, those two, both wearing very similar plaid shirts. No coats. They were Yankees, after all. What was a little cold and wind to a farmer?

“Honor,” Ned said, appearing in her doorway, “I’m gonna swing by some of the accounts. Press the flesh, maybe do a tasting here and there, since it’s almost happy hour.”

“Okay,” she said. “Need anything from me?”

“Nope. I’m good.” Her nephew smiled.

“Yes. You are,” she said. It was true; unlike Dad, Pru or Jack, who preferred to be left alone to tend to their grapes and subsequent fermenting, Ned had the gift of schmooze. “You’re a man now, Neddie dear. Which doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten that you sucked your thumb until you were seven.”

“Oh, I still do,” he said with an easy grin. “Why give up a good thing? See you, Auntie.”

Nice to have someone else from the family out there, representing Blue Heron. For twelve years, Honor had done it alone, dragging Dad along once in a while. But Ned liked doing it.

“Hey, Tom,” she heard Jessica say. “How are you?”

“Jess, lovely to see you,” Tom said.

Honor felt her cheeks fire up and couldn’t stop herself from looking at her reflection in the computer monitor. There was just something about that accent that hit her right in the ovaries. Preach it, sister, the eggs agreed. How about getting us a little action here?

Sure, Honor knew sex was on the horizon. Very soon, in fact. She’d almost jumped him the other night when he kissed her hand. So they’d get it on, of course. They had the marriage license, and this thing was happening. And once nooky commenced, Honor had the very strong suspicion that she’d be crazy in love, and a lot more vulnerable to heartbreak.

So what? Beats being celibate forever, the eggs pointed out. Get a move on!

“Yeah, yeah,” Honor muttered. “Hang in there. We’ll know when the time is right.” She could just about imagine them pointing at their tiny watches in outrage.

Word. But Tom had this odd ability to be both wonderful and distant at the same time. Case in point—the discussion of the mugging the other night, as they lay in bed. Oddly intimate, until click, he shut off.

Last night over their mostly quiet dinner, Tom had asked about the Black and White Ball and what it was for, and Honor found herself inviting Tom to tramp around the property. Ellis Farm abutted the rear fields of Blue Heron, so they’d hike up past Rose Ridge and down onto the unused farmland, where soon, Honor hoped, they’d begin work to make the land more accessible. She’d been talking to a bike trail designer for six months now, and had a grant from the state to help offset some costs.

“Hallo, Honor,” he said now, poking his head in her door. “How was your day?”

“Great,” she said. “And yours?”

“It was good.” He smelled like fresh air and coffee. “Brought you a treat.” In his hand was a familiar bag—Lorelei’s Sunrise Bakery.

“Thanks.” She opened and peeked in, and Spike stuck her head right in. Sugar cookies. Very nice.

He wore faded jeans and hiking boots and a battered brown leather jacket. Effortlessly hot. And dang, he was watching her ogle him, a faint smile crinkling his eyes. “You don’t dress like a math teacher,” she said, clearing her throat.

“I’m not a math teacher.” His smile widened, flashing that slightly crooked tooth, and hope flashed as fast and strong as lightning in her heart.

She could love this guy.

She slipped off her pumps (which Faith had deemed “tragically sensible” but were very comfy, unlike Faith’s own complicated, painful and enviably slutty collection of footwear) and pulled on her muck boots. “Spike, want to go for a walk?” she said, smiling as her dog’s shaggy little ears pricked up at the magic word, then clipped on the neon-pink leash she’d bought the past week. Already, it was frayed from where Spike had been chewing it. This would be the fourth leash since she got the wee terror.

Outside, the wind was sharp, the air growing colder by the minute. This would have to be a quick hike, or her ears would freeze. Even so, crocuses had pushed their way up through the lawn, and the maple trees were red-budded with the promise of spring. They headed up the hill toward the conservation property, birds calling to one another as they swooped and preened.