The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(88)

By the time he reached the place where her sister was parked, Tom was breathing hard, had a cramp in his calf and was more angry than he could ever remember being in his life.

He tossed Honor in the front seat of Faith’s truck. Good girl, she’d left the keys in. No time to ask for permission; he got in the driver’s side and started it up, then threw it in gear and drove down the hill.

Honor was still shaking, shivering violently, hunched over, her arms folded around herself and the dog. Bloody idiot. Both of them.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Don’t say a word,” he ground out.

Past her father’s, past the grandparents’ crooked house. The tires screeched as he pulled onto Lake Shore Road, and he gunned the engine, laying down rubber as he sped home. His breath made clouds of fury in the cold truck.

Onto their street, into the driveway. Tom barreled out of the truck in a flash. He yanked Honor’s door open and pulled her into his arms again. He might’ve been a little rough, because she gave an ooph as he did, but bloody hell.

Into the house, his wet shoes squeaking on the floor. Up the stairs, into the bathroom. He set her down and threw on the taps, then started undressing her, as her hands were shaking too hard. Shaking and bloody and filthy.

From under her shirt, the dog moved. So it was still alive. Pity.

He yanked off her clothes. Her skin was nearly blue.

Fuck.

He grabbed the dog and set the dog in the shower, where it barked. Then Tom lifted Honor in, following her, all his clothes still on.

He still couldn’t look at her. Too bloody furious.

Or something.

Water streamed down Honor’s body, her skin quickly turning pink. She had a bruise on her leg and several cuts, and her eyes looked too big. Tom picked up her dog and stuck it under the water with her, then lathered it up with shampoo, ignoring its little snarls. When he was assured the dog was as warm and mean as usual, he set it outside the tub, where it shook itself dry.

“Thank you,” Honor said again.

Her shivering had stopped.

“You could’ve died for that little rodent,” he said tightly. “Think about what that would’ve done to your family.”

“I’m sorry I scared you, but—”

“No, Honor!” he yelled. his voice bouncing off the tile walls. “It was bloody stupid! A dog isn’t worth what a person is. Look at you! You’re all torn and bloody and you could’ve f**king died in that water! Christ Almighty.”

“Why aren’t you cold, too?” she ventured.

“Because I’m bloody furious!” he barked. “What would I do without you?”

He grabbed her weird pink scrunchy thing and doused it with her shower gel. “I mean, with Immigration,” he muttered.

She didn’t say anything, and after a minute, he glanced up from lathering her shoulders. Her eyes were wet.

“Don’t you dare cry after what you just put me through. You took twenty f**king years off my life. Are you crying? Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” she said, and her voice only shook a little. “It’s just the water.”

He tossed down the scrunchy and kissed her. Hard. “You f**king terrified me,” he muttered, and kissed her again, this time more gently.

She was alive. She was safe. She was wet and na**d and warm.

Then, before he took her right here in the shower, he left, streaming water, sopping wet.

Because the last thing he wanted was to feel all this.





CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE PHONE WAS ringing when Honor got out of the shower. Tom’s wet shoes were by his bed, and his car was not in the driveway.

She picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hey,” said Faith. “I’m standing here in the kitchen at the New House. Did Tom steal my truck? Dad says he was driving like a bat out of hell. Is everything okay?”

Spike, her damp fur standing up in clumps, jumped up next to her and began gnawing on her thumb. Honor stroked her little tummy, and the dog’s tail wagged. At least Spike was all right. Thanks to Tom.

Honor wiped her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry. I had a little accident. Fell through some ice.”

“My God! Are you okay?” Faith asked.

“Yeah. Just kind of cold.”

“Is Tom all right?”

“He’s fine. He’s, um, he’s not here right now,” Honor said, and there was an embarrassing little tremble in her voice.

Faith was quiet for a second. “Dad will drive me to your place. I’ll pick up dinner first, okay?”

Honor’s eyes filled again, this time with gratitude. “That’d be great,” she said.

An hour later, filled with chicken tikka masala from Taj’s Indian and two glasses of pinot gris, Honor was sitting on the couch, wrapped in a fleece blanket, Spike snoring gently on her chest.

Dad and Mrs. J. had interrogated her about her rash actions. Mrs. J. brought a loaf of comforting blueberry bread and checked the larder to make sure she had enough food; Dad gave her a lecture about ice safety. After a half hour, Faith managed to kick them out. Then she tucked Honor in on the couch, fussing over her quite nicely. Blue cowered under the kitchen table, chewing his disgusting tennis ball, afraid to come within a thirty-foot radius of Spike.