“I’d love one.” She looked at Jessica. “I’ll have a Grey Goose. Straight up, please.” Jess obliged, and Honor took the drink and drained it.
“That bad, is it?” Tom asked.
“No, not at all. Why do you ask?”
That was some kiss.
“Why don’t you guys grab a table?” Jessica suggested. She pointed them to a table in the corner of the bar, over by the fireplace.
They went over, the warmth of the fire at Honor’s back, snow falling heavily out the window. Now that she had a moment, she took in her companion—a green river man’s shirt, the top three buttons undone, giving her a glimpse of a silver chain. Dark jeans and sturdy leather shoes.
He looked utterly...male.
Jess brought her some seltzer water, which was her drink of choice at work. Sweet of her to remember. “Do you want another Grey Goose, Honor?” she asked. “Or anything to eat?”
“No, no. I’m all set.”
“I thought you were starving,” Tom said.
“Nope. Just one of the many lies I told tonight.”
He smiled, and Jessica patted her shoulder before sliding away.
“Nice girl,” Tom said.
“She is. She works for me,” Honor said. “At the vineyard.”
“Blue Heron, isn’t it?”
“Mmm-hmm.” The adrenaline rush was fading, leaving her feeling a little limp. “You should come on a tour sometime.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Every day at three, then four times a day after May 1.”
Tom Barlow smiled a fast, sweet, crooked grin, and Down Under tightened in response.
No. She wasn’t the type. She didn’t pick men up in bars, not that he was interested. What had he said that night? You’re not ugly. Talk about damning with faint praise. Nope. Not gonna get involved with a man looking to commit marital fraud.
That had been some kiss.
Do something about it, the eggs said. They were now sporting bifocals and quite irritable. Can you please get a move on here? We’re going to bed when Dancing with the Stars is over.
Tom took another sip of his drink and looked at her. “Tell me again what you do, Honor. I was too busy being an idiot to ask the night we were set up.”
Work. She could always talk about work. “I’m the director of operations for our vineyard. Media, sales, staffing, distribution. My dad and brother make the wine, my older sister handles the farming, my nephew helps out everywhere and runs the tasting room in the season. And my grandparents are semiretired. Can’t forget them.”
“Sounds idyllic.” He seemed to mean it.
“The farm’s been in the family for eight generations. We’re all part of it in some way.”
“What’s it like, working with your family?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s wonderful, except when it’s horrible.” He grinned again, that flashing, unexpectedly sweet smile, and again, Honor felt a little jolt of lust. His smile changed his face from rather somber to utterly adorable, like a mischievous little kid, and wow, yes. It worked.
“I always thought it’d be lovely to come from a big family,” he said.
“It has its moments.”
Maybe it was because he’d already seen her at her worst, or had already essentially rejected her, or simply because he’d been nice and pretended to be her boyfriend. Maybe it was the snow and the quiet of the evening; Jessica was reading a book at the bar, and all the other patrons had left. Maybe it was the Grey Goose on an empty stomach. Whatever the case, Honor felt herself relaxing. The armor (if there was armor, and she was pretty sure Levi was wrong on that front) was nowhere to be found.
Do something different.
“How about you, Tom? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Sorry to say, I’m an only child. My dad lives in Manchester.”
“Go United.”
He winked and flashed that smile again. “I think I just fell in love with you.”
Had she found him irritating? She couldn’t seem to remember why. “Don’t take it personally,” she said. “It’s my cocktail party brain.”
“Say again?”
“My cocktail party brain,” she said. “I can make small talk about anything.”
“Anything?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
His eyes narrowed, a smile playing at his full, gorgeous lips. “Is that right? Tell me something about developments in medicine.”
“There’s a new drug that stops the progression of Alzheimer’s. FDA approval expected within three months.”
“Is there? Of course, you can make stuff up, I’ll be none the wiser. Music trivia?”
“Ray Charles had twelve children.”
“Did he? Fancy that. All right, let’s get to my side of the pond. Royal family?”
“Philip and Elizabeth, Margaret, Harry, Andrew, Kate, William, Beatrice, Pippa...you’ll have to be more specific.”
“Divorces in the royal family, then.”
“Everyone except the old folks and the kids.”
He laughed. “True enough. American foreign policy?”
“Speak softly and carry a big missile.”
“Mechanical engineering.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it. “I give. I don’t know anything about that.”
“I’m a mechanical engineer.”
“I thought you taught math.”
“No. Do you know what a mechanical engineer does?”
“Um... You can fix a lot of stuff?”
His smile grew. Oh, sigh, said the eggs. Think of what we could do with his DNA. “Yes,” he said, “That’s it exactly.”
“You understand how things are built,” she said. It sounded vaguely dirty.
“Yes.”
“You know how to...get things going.”
His eyes dropped to her mouth. “Mmm-hmm.”
“You’re good with your hands.”
He leaned forward. “Are you flirting with me, Miss Holland?” he asked, his voice low.
Oh, crap. Well, she’d been trying to. Where was Colleen O’Rourke when you needed her? She practically had a master’s degree in men. Honor straightened up and put her hands in her lap. “No.”
“You don’t need to stop,” he said mildly. “It was quite nice.” He leaned back in his chair. “For the record, a mechanical engineer is responsible for how just about anything is built. We make sure any type of structure or vehicle or roadway is strong, safe and will stay together.”
Strong, safe, stay together.
Meow.
Flirt with him. Do it! the eggs demanded.
It was now impossible to flirt. She racked her brain for flirtiness. Tried to channel Colleen. Nope. Nothing. She shifted, her leg bumping his. We can work with that, said the eggs. Almost there.
Shut up, Honor said. We’re not getting pregnant tonight, okay? Just go back to Dancing with the Stars.
“I saw you at the college that day,” she said. “You seem to have a lot of female students.”
“The Barbarian Horde, I call them, most of whom will flunk out before midterms. Speaking of that, how was your date with Droog?”
“Oh, he seems very nice.”
“Did he swab down the table before sitting?”
She smiled. “Yes.”
“He does that everywhere. Good chap, though.” He paused. “Will you see him again?”
All of a sudden, Honor could hear her heart beating. “No.”
They didn’t say anything else for a minute. The fire hissed and snapped, and the snow was piling up, a lot more than the dusting the forecasters had predicted. It would be smart to head home, as conditions on the Hill tended to be worse than here in the Village, t
hanks to the difference in elevation.
She didn’t move.
“So you and Prince Charming are still chums?” Tom asked. “Even though he chose your friend?”
She felt the start of a slow burn in her cheeks.
“Sorry,” Tom said. “None of my business.”
“No, it’s fine,” she said. “Brogan and I have known each other since elementary school. Slept together on and off for years.” Probably more than Tom Barlow wanted to know. “He wanted to tell me that he’s going to be a father.”
“Are you joking?” She shook her head. “Bloody hell.” Tom rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “And what does Brogan Cain do for a living?”
“He’s a sports photographer. Baseball, football, basketball.”
“I know what sports are, darling.” He took a sip of his drink. “Brogan Cain,” he said thoughtfully. “I hope they pick out a really shitty name for the kid. Candy Cain. Sugar Cain. Rain. Wayne. Jane. Hickory.”
Honor smiled faintly. It was still almost too great a shock to process—Dana and Brogan, and now Baby Cain on the way. She’d like to laugh about it. It just didn’t seem probable.
“I hope your friend gets really fat,” Tom continued. “No glow for her. Heartburn. Acne. Swollen feet. A full-blown, Jessica Simpson Pop-Tarts and ice cream kind of fat.”
It seemed like she was laughing, after all. “That’s cute. Jessicker Simpson.”
“I did not say that.” He raised an eyebrow, the one with the scar running through it.
“You did. It was cute. You have a nice accent.”
“I haven’t any accent all, darling. It’s the English language, remember? And I’m English. You’re the one mucking things up, you ungrateful Yank.”
Tom Barlow was growing on her.
And that had been quite a kiss.
“How’s your green card situation?” she asked.
“It’s fine. All set.” He looked out the window. “Sorry again for my behavior that night, by the way. It was a very odd meeting.”
“Don’t worry about it.” His mood seemed to have changed. “So you just moved to Manningsport, but you’ve lived in America for a while?”
“Yes.”
“Why’d you move?” she asked.
He paused. “A job,” he said, and she sensed there was more to the story. Something tragic, Goggy had said.
“It’s a nice town,” she said. “You won’t be lonely for long.” And where had that come from?
Tom frowned. “Why do you think I’m lonely?”
She hesitated. Why had she said that, really? Somewhere in his eyes, behind the easy flirting he seemed so good at, she sensed a little bit of...sadness.
“You were here alone until I forced you to talk to me.”
“Doesn’t that make you lonely as well, then?”
“Nope. I’m just being nice. It’s good for tourism.”
“A shame. Think of the things two lonely people could get up to.”
Good thing she was sitting, because her knees went hot and loose all of a sudden. Why are you not unbuckling his belt at this very moment? the eggs demanded, scowling over their bifocals.
“I’m not really the type,” she said, her voice a little unsteady.
“Pity.”
Her internal organs seemed to be melting.
Come on! said the eggs. We’re dying here! Literally!
But doing something different did not mean picking up near-strangers in a bar. Honor wanted to get married, not just sleep with someone. She’d been sleeping with someone for fifteen years, and that had gotten her exactly nowhere. She wanted a courtship, not sex. Well, sex during courtship, that was, once a relationship had been established. Hey. She’d read all the books. Control the pace. Don’t be slutty. Sex too early = abject disaster. Tom Barlow had the sexiest mouth ever.
He just looked at her, his gray eyes unreadable.
At that moment, Jessica came over. “Hey, guys. We’re closing, sorry to say. It’s really piling up out there.”
“Right,” Honor said, grabbing her purse. “I’ll get this, Tom. Since you were so nice to cover for me.”
He looked at Jessica. “I am rather nice,” he said with a wink.
“That’s not what it says on the bathroom wall,” Jessica returned, deadpan.
Yes. Jessica was flipping beautiful. And Tom was ridiculously appealing, not to mention that accent. He’d flirted with Honor because she was there. Because he was nice, it seemed, and because it was a distraction. He’d probably flirted with Jessica and he flirted with Monica O’Rourke the night they’d met, and no doubt he flirted with Colleen. He was a flirt. Nothing wrong with that; she just shouldn’t read into it.
Crap, said the eggs.
“Okay,” she said, putting a twenty on the table. She’d call Pru from the car, see if she could crash there. “Thanks again, Tom. See you Monday, Jess.”
“Have a great weekend,” Jessica said.
“Thank you,” she said to Tom, meaning it.
“A pleasure,” he said. He stayed seated.
Outside, the wind gusted off the Crooked Lake, slapping wet snow against her face. She stopped for a minute, her car roughly fifty feet away. She wore suede shoes with a very modest heel because yes, she had dressed up for Brogan. Sort of. A little. She had her pride, after all. No treads, however. Hopefully she wouldn’t fall.
“Honor.” It was Tom, coming out of the restaurant as he pulled on his coat. “Are you wearing ridiculous shoes? You are. So impractical.”
With that, he picked her up, eliciting a squeak of surprise. “You don’t have to— Put me down.”
“Oh, stop. You women love this sort of thing.”
“Tom, really, I—”
“Stop flopping around, you’re making it harder. Which car is yours? The Prius? How did I know?”
She slid her arm tentatively around his shoulders. He certainly was...solid. “It’s the only car left.”
“And here I was going to claim a relation to Arthur Conan Doyle.”
Being carried...not quite as romantic as it seems, especially when one is not prepared. She felt a bit idiotic. His shoulders, on the other hand, were wide and solid and...and...rational thought was a little hard to summon at the moment.
He set her down next to her car. Honor’s face was hot. “Well, thank you,” she said. “It was nice talking to you.”
He ran a hand through his hair, which was wet from the snow. “Same here.”
Different.
With that, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, there in the soft light of the streetlamps and under the pink-hued sky. His mouth was soft and warm and utterly lovely, and he kissed her back, gently, slowly. A floating sensation filled Honor, deepening as his hand slipped to cup the back of her head.
Then he pulled back a little and tucked a bit of hair behind her ear. His eyes were soft and kind.
“Tom?” she whispered. “I think I’m that type, after all.”
A corner of his mouth pulled in a smile. “The type who’ll come home with me, then?”
Her hand, she noted, was resting over his heart, and she could feel it thudding solidly against her palm. “Yes,” she heard herself say. “Hop in.”
* * *
THIRTY-NINE SECONDS later, they were at Tom’s house, which had once been the Eustaces’ place, Honor remembered, a plain little house with a front porch and small yard. She opened the car door, but Tom was already out and around. He offered his hand, and she took it. That was a big hand. That was a paw, practically, swallowing hers.
“Change your mind?” he asked.
“Nope.” Nevertheless, her heart was stuttering and racing, and a slight tremor shook her hands.
She was inside now, and Tom
turned on a light that did little to brighten the gloom. She could make out an ordinary living room, ordinary furniture. A couch. Coffee table. Then he was unbuttoning her coat, and Honor swallowed. Slid her hands up his torso, feeling the hard muscles there, the contour of his ribs and shoulders under his shirt. His eyes met hers, and he gave her a small smile.
God, his mouth was...delicious. Aside from that feature, there was nothing particularly special about his face. Normal eyelashes. Normal nose. Normal everything, except put it all together, and he was incredibly delicious, and she was pulsating for him.
Then he led her to the couch. She’d never done it on a couch. Or anywhere but a bed, come to think of it. Was she actually going to have sex in a living room? What about the floor? The floor would be...well, she didn’t know. Sex on the floor? Her? Honor Holland, the boring sister? Oh, Lordy, how did that even work? Would she get rug burn? Would he? What about—
“Sit. Your feet must be freezing.”
She sat. He slid off her shoe and rubbed her foot in those mammoth hands. He was right. They were freezing, which she might not have noticed if his hands weren’t so warm. He switched to her other foot, rubbing it briskly, then looked up and smiled, that lovely smile that changed his face from solemn to incredibly adorable.
She didn’t realize she’d launched herself at him until she was kissing him, and hell, it’d been what, almost two minutes, possibly more, since he’d last kissed her, and she missed it. He landed on his back with an ooph, but she didn’t really care.
“Hallo, what have we here?” he murmured, and she kissed him again, sliding her tongue against his, dying to kiss him, taste him, feel him. Her hands were in his hair, and he smelled like cold air and soap and tasted a little like whiskey, and my God, it was amazing, and look at her, practically straddling him, her legs tangled with his, kissing and kissing and kissing that generous, wonderful mouth, feeling a throb right down into her bone marrow.
Tom rolled over, pressing against her, cradling her face in his hands. “You sure you want to do this, love?” he whispered, and even though it was just a Britishism, the word went straight into her.
She nodded.
“Enough said, then.” He grinned again, and he lowered his mouth to hers, and suddenly, you know what, being that type was fantastic. The whole night was strange and surreal—Brogan and the baby and then Tom, the quiet bar, the snow, the kiss, this house where she’d never been, and good God, the kissing! Those full, soft lips, so unlike any other kiss she’d ever had, giving and tempting, making her want to do sweet, dirty things.
Blue Heron [2] The Perfect Match Page 12
