The Perfect Match
Page 17
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.
She wasn’t the type, but hells yeah, she was doing a good impression. Her skirt slid up around her thighs as she wrapped her legs around him, bringing him closer, and Lordy, he felt so good, so solid and hard and male, completely unfamiliar, definitely a landscape worth exploring.
His hand slipped between them to unbutton her shirt, kissing the skin he exposed bit by bit, his mouth hot and gentle. Honor’s vision flashed, her breath shuddering out of her. She tugged his shirt from his waistband and slid her hands up his back, feeling thick muscle and hot skin, and pulled his shirt over his head. Something metal brushed against her—a medallion, dangling from a silver chain around his neck.
He pulled back a bit, looking down at her. His own breath was ragged, and though his face had been gentle earlier, he now looked somewhat...fearsome. Down Under clenched at the word.
“You’re lovely, you know,” he said, smoothing the hair off her forehead, and damned if she didn’t fall a little in love right then and there. Then he kissed her again, hot and deep and fierce, heavy on top of her, and she kissed him right back, her hands exploring the warm, hard expanse of his back, his heavy, corded arms.
“You’re not built like a math teacher,” she said raggedly.
“I’m not a math teacher,” he muttered, and she felt him smile against her mouth. Then she licked his full bottom lip like she was some kind of sex goddess, like she knew exactly what she was doing and didn’t have to think at all. Like she was the most beautiful woman in the world with his hands sliding into her hair, his mouth on her throat, lower now. His clever fingers unhooked her bra, and his mouth followed the path of his hands.
And Honor discovered she was most definitely that type, after all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TOM WOKE UP in small pieces, little flashes of an unusually happy feeling bringing a smile to his face before his eyes were open.
Then his hand brushed something soft, and his eyes did open then.
Honor Holland was sleeping on her stomach, her face turned away from him. She was na**d.
Right.
Last night had been...unexpected. Pretending to be her man in front of that wanker who’d broken her heart, hell, that was easy. He owed her for the night they’d met, when he’d made damn sure she wouldn’t like him.
The problem had been...well, she was quite decent, Honor was. Seeing her sitting there, throbbing in pain once again because of Brolin or whatever his name was, Tom had wanted to make her feel better. Flirted with her a bit, because a talent was a talent, let’s be honest.
And then something changed. When she said that thing about him being lonely, he felt like he’d been punched in the chest by Iron Mike Tyson. Funny, how a person could ignore something so effectively until someone pointed it out. Next thing he knew, he was carrying her to her car.
When she kissed him, he hadn’t expected that electric current to slam through him like a thousand volts. Hadn’t really planned on asking her home. But she’d been right. He was lonely. And maybe, despite her big family, maybe she was, too.
Which was all fine and lovely, but now he had a na**d woman in his bed, and aside from the obvious, he wasn’t sure what to do about that. Or what to say when she woke.
Taking care not to disturb her, he got out of bed, grabbed some jeans and a pullover and closed the bedroom door behind him.
The kitchen was still a bit of a mess. Tom made coffee, then surveyed the contents of the fridge. Good. He could offer Miss Holland breakfast if she was so inclined. He’d have to clear off the table, though, because he’d set out the airplane model last night. The PT-17 Stearman, one of the great planes of World War II. Three years ago, he and Charlie had gone to an air show and seen one fly, and Tom had ordered the model the next day. Finished, it would’ve been the sixth model they’d done. He wondered what happened to the others.
At any rate, the Stearman was in pieces, the fuselage waiting for sides, the many pieces of balsa laying out in optimistic order. Charlie was supposed to have come around for dinner last night, and Tom thought that maybe if the airplane was right there on the table, it might garner the kid’s interest. Granted, the odds of that were the same as being eaten by a giant squid, but he had nothing left in terms of new ideas on how to reach Charlie. And hope sprang eternal, or some such rubbish.
As it was, Janice called, saying Charlie had a stomachache (a lie, no doubt) and didn’t want to come; hence Tom’s foray to Hugo’s, as the boisterous atmosphere of O’Rourke’s had seemed a bit much.
Hence the hookup with Honor Holland. Probably ill-advised.
Still, a surprisingly fantastic shag was nothing to regret.
And speaking of, he heard footsteps on the stairs. She peeked into the kitchen, and he felt attraction slam into him. Hard.
“Morning,” he said.
She blushed. Her clothes were rumpled, her hair disheveled. The classic walk of shame if ever he’d seen it. “Hi,” she murmured.
“Coffee?”
“Sure. Thank you.” He poured her a cup, and she took a sip. Her hands were shaking slightly. “How did you sleep?” she asked, and her cheeks grew pinker.
“Very well. And you?”
“Fine.” She set the cup on the counter. “Listen, Tom, last night was...not my typical, um, modus operandi.”
Latin, so early in the morning? “Yet you seemed quite the expert.” He grinned.
The blush spread to her neck. “I’m not usually so, er, slutty. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”
“Nothing wrong with slutty. From my perspective, anyway.”
“It’s not that I— See, I don’t generally...”
He patted her on the shoulder. “It was just a shag, Honor. You picked me up in a bar. Own it. Be proud.”
She ran a hand through her hair and looked at the floor, and he felt a dart of regret sing through him. She wasn’t the teasing type, was she?
“I had a nice time,” he said more seriously. “I hope you did, as well.”
Her cheeks practically gave off heat, they were so red. “Mmm-hmm.”
“Have a seat. I can make you breakfast if you like.”
“Oh, no, that’s fine.” She did sit at the table, however. “Model airplanes, huh?”
He sat across from her and picked up a piece of the PT-17. “I work on the real thing as well, if you’re trying to impugn my masculinity. Bit of a side business. One of the many things a mechanical engineer can do, for your cocktail party brain to store away. Customize airplanes for the very rich.”
She appeared to be hiding behind the coffee cup. “So this is your hobby?”
He paused. “I used to make these with my unofficial stepson,” he heard himself say. “We started this one a few years ago.”
“What’s an unofficial stepson?”
He filed a piece of aluminum tongue, as the fit was a bit snug. “It’s a surly teenager whose mother and I were once engaged.” The cabane struts came next. He’d have to go slowly. Wouldn’t want to finish it on his own, just in case hell froze over and Charlie decided he wanted to work on it.
“You were engaged?” Honor asked.
“Yes. She died.”
He heard her quick intake of breath. “Oh, Tom, I’m so sorry.”
He gathered up the rest of the wing pieces to put back in the box. “Don’t worry about it.” He glanced at her face. “It’s been three years.”
Honor nodded, still holding her coffee cup like a shield. “How old is this unofficial stepson?”
“Fourteen.”
“Are you close?”
Tom rubbed the back of his neck. “We used to be, when I lived with them. Not so much anymore.”
“Does he live with his dad?”
“No.” As ever, the thought of Mitchell DeLuca made Tom’s eye throb. “He lives with his grandparents. Janice and Walter Kellogg? Perhaps you know them. They moved here a few months ago, and I followed.”
She shook her head. Took a sip of her coffee. Didn’t say anything, and blessed be, because a woman who thought before speaking...that was a nice change. “How long have you lived in America?”
“Four years. I met Melissa when I was here on holiday and ended up staying. We got engaged a few months later, and she died a few months after that.”
“How did it happen?” Honor’s voice was soft.
“She was hit by a car crossing the street.” An utterly stupid and completely preventable incident. With great care, he put the Stearman back in the box.
“I’m so sorry,” Honor said again. “My mom died in a car accident, too. It’s an awful way to lose someone. Not that there’s a good way.”
“True enough.” He stood up. “I’ve got eggs and toast, and I’d be more than happy to make you breakfast.”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
“More coffee, then?”
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
He got up and poured her a cup.
“So why aren’t you close, you and Charlie?” she asked as he handed her the coffee, and some coffee sloshed over the rim, onto her skirt.
“Shit. Sorry,” Tom said, grabbing a dish towel and blotting at the stain.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” She looked at him, straight in the eye, as he was kneeling at her side.
Brown eyes. Lovely, really, dark and quiet. And at the moment, she was giving him a no-nonsense look, a tolerates-no-shit look combined with something else.
Kindness.
He looked back at her skirt and blotted some more.
“He blames me for her dying. She was...away when it happened. With Charlie’s dad, who apparently liked to pop in and out just enough to f**k with everyone’s head. So off they went for a weekend, and I was watching Charlie like an absolute wanker, really, taking care of my fiancée’s kid while she was screwing around. Then she decided to text me while crossing the street against the light, and that was that.”
“Oh, God.”
“Right. When the dust settled, Charlie’s dad didn’t want to take custody.” The familiar red haze flared, then faded. “I wanted to adopt Charlie, but I didn’t have any claim on him.”
The clock over the door ticked. Honor was still looking at him. “So this whole green card is so you can be around Charlie.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t get one, did you?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “No, I didn’t.” He stood up and took his coffee cup to the sink, dumped it. Outside, the snow fell from the branches in clots, the temperature having jumped overnight.
The chair scraped as she stood up. She came over to the counter and leaned against it, folding her arms over her chest. “What other options do you have?”
“Not many. I’ve been looking for another job in the area, but I haven’t had much luck. The truth is, I imagine Charlie’ll be relieved to be rid of me. He barely speaks to me.”
Honor nodded. Took a slow breath and released it. “So let’s get married.”
He glanced at her sharply. “Oh, no. That plan is off the table. Thank you, but it’s not...necessary.”
“Of course it is,” she said briskly. “You love this boy, you need to be around for him. I’ll marry you and you can stay. You should’ve said this up front and not been such an ass.”
He gave her a quick smile. “Right. Sorry about that. But you’re not going to marry me. Marrying a stranger isn’t going to cure your own issues with Brighton—”
“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.
She wasn’t the type, but hells yeah, she was doing a good impression. Her skirt slid up around her thighs as she wrapped her legs around him, bringing him closer, and Lordy, he felt so good, so solid and hard and male, completely unfamiliar, definitely a landscape worth exploring.
His hand slipped between them to unbutton her shirt, kissing the skin he exposed bit by bit, his mouth hot and gentle. Honor’s vision flashed, her breath shuddering out of her. She tugged his shirt from his waistband and slid her hands up his back, feeling thick muscle and hot skin, and pulled his shirt over his head. Something metal brushed against her—a medallion, dangling from a silver chain around his neck.
He pulled back a bit, looking down at her. His own breath was ragged, and though his face had been gentle earlier, he now looked somewhat...fearsome. Down Under clenched at the word.
“You’re lovely, you know,” he said, smoothing the hair off her forehead, and damned if she didn’t fall a little in love right then and there. Then he kissed her again, hot and deep and fierce, heavy on top of her, and she kissed him right back, her hands exploring the warm, hard expanse of his back, his heavy, corded arms.
“You’re not built like a math teacher,” she said raggedly.
“I’m not a math teacher,” he muttered, and she felt him smile against her mouth. Then she licked his full bottom lip like she was some kind of sex goddess, like she knew exactly what she was doing and didn’t have to think at all. Like she was the most beautiful woman in the world with his hands sliding into her hair, his mouth on her throat, lower now. His clever fingers unhooked her bra, and his mouth followed the path of his hands.
And Honor discovered she was most definitely that type, after all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TOM WOKE UP in small pieces, little flashes of an unusually happy feeling bringing a smile to his face before his eyes were open.
Then his hand brushed something soft, and his eyes did open then.
Honor Holland was sleeping on her stomach, her face turned away from him. She was na**d.
Right.
Last night had been...unexpected. Pretending to be her man in front of that wanker who’d broken her heart, hell, that was easy. He owed her for the night they’d met, when he’d made damn sure she wouldn’t like him.
The problem had been...well, she was quite decent, Honor was. Seeing her sitting there, throbbing in pain once again because of Brolin or whatever his name was, Tom had wanted to make her feel better. Flirted with her a bit, because a talent was a talent, let’s be honest.
And then something changed. When she said that thing about him being lonely, he felt like he’d been punched in the chest by Iron Mike Tyson. Funny, how a person could ignore something so effectively until someone pointed it out. Next thing he knew, he was carrying her to her car.
When she kissed him, he hadn’t expected that electric current to slam through him like a thousand volts. Hadn’t really planned on asking her home. But she’d been right. He was lonely. And maybe, despite her big family, maybe she was, too.
Which was all fine and lovely, but now he had a na**d woman in his bed, and aside from the obvious, he wasn’t sure what to do about that. Or what to say when she woke.
Taking care not to disturb her, he got out of bed, grabbed some jeans and a pullover and closed the bedroom door behind him.
The kitchen was still a bit of a mess. Tom made coffee, then surveyed the contents of the fridge. Good. He could offer Miss Holland breakfast if she was so inclined. He’d have to clear off the table, though, because he’d set out the airplane model last night. The PT-17 Stearman, one of the great planes of World War II. Three years ago, he and Charlie had gone to an air show and seen one fly, and Tom had ordered the model the next day. Finished, it would’ve been the sixth model they’d done. He wondered what happened to the others.
At any rate, the Stearman was in pieces, the fuselage waiting for sides, the many pieces of balsa laying out in optimistic order. Charlie was supposed to have come around for dinner last night, and Tom thought that maybe if the airplane was right there on the table, it might garner the kid’s interest. Granted, the odds of that were the same as being eaten by a giant squid, but he had nothing left in terms of new ideas on how to reach Charlie. And hope sprang eternal, or some such rubbish.
As it was, Janice called, saying Charlie had a stomachache (a lie, no doubt) and didn’t want to come; hence Tom’s foray to Hugo’s, as the boisterous atmosphere of O’Rourke’s had seemed a bit much.
Hence the hookup with Honor Holland. Probably ill-advised.
Still, a surprisingly fantastic shag was nothing to regret.
And speaking of, he heard footsteps on the stairs. She peeked into the kitchen, and he felt attraction slam into him. Hard.
“Morning,” he said.
She blushed. Her clothes were rumpled, her hair disheveled. The classic walk of shame if ever he’d seen it. “Hi,” she murmured.
“Coffee?”
“Sure. Thank you.” He poured her a cup, and she took a sip. Her hands were shaking slightly. “How did you sleep?” she asked, and her cheeks grew pinker.
“Very well. And you?”
“Fine.” She set the cup on the counter. “Listen, Tom, last night was...not my typical, um, modus operandi.”
Latin, so early in the morning? “Yet you seemed quite the expert.” He grinned.
The blush spread to her neck. “I’m not usually so, er, slutty. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”
“Nothing wrong with slutty. From my perspective, anyway.”
“It’s not that I— See, I don’t generally...”
He patted her on the shoulder. “It was just a shag, Honor. You picked me up in a bar. Own it. Be proud.”
She ran a hand through her hair and looked at the floor, and he felt a dart of regret sing through him. She wasn’t the teasing type, was she?
“I had a nice time,” he said more seriously. “I hope you did, as well.”
Her cheeks practically gave off heat, they were so red. “Mmm-hmm.”
“Have a seat. I can make you breakfast if you like.”
“Oh, no, that’s fine.” She did sit at the table, however. “Model airplanes, huh?”
He sat across from her and picked up a piece of the PT-17. “I work on the real thing as well, if you’re trying to impugn my masculinity. Bit of a side business. One of the many things a mechanical engineer can do, for your cocktail party brain to store away. Customize airplanes for the very rich.”
She appeared to be hiding behind the coffee cup. “So this is your hobby?”
He paused. “I used to make these with my unofficial stepson,” he heard himself say. “We started this one a few years ago.”
“What’s an unofficial stepson?”
He filed a piece of aluminum tongue, as the fit was a bit snug. “It’s a surly teenager whose mother and I were once engaged.” The cabane struts came next. He’d have to go slowly. Wouldn’t want to finish it on his own, just in case hell froze over and Charlie decided he wanted to work on it.
“You were engaged?” Honor asked.
“Yes. She died.”
He heard her quick intake of breath. “Oh, Tom, I’m so sorry.”
He gathered up the rest of the wing pieces to put back in the box. “Don’t worry about it.” He glanced at her face. “It’s been three years.”
Honor nodded, still holding her coffee cup like a shield. “How old is this unofficial stepson?”
“Fourteen.”
“Are you close?”
Tom rubbed the back of his neck. “We used to be, when I lived with them. Not so much anymore.”
“Does he live with his dad?”
“No.” As ever, the thought of Mitchell DeLuca made Tom’s eye throb. “He lives with his grandparents. Janice and Walter Kellogg? Perhaps you know them. They moved here a few months ago, and I followed.”
She shook her head. Took a sip of her coffee. Didn’t say anything, and blessed be, because a woman who thought before speaking...that was a nice change. “How long have you lived in America?”
“Four years. I met Melissa when I was here on holiday and ended up staying. We got engaged a few months later, and she died a few months after that.”
“How did it happen?” Honor’s voice was soft.
“She was hit by a car crossing the street.” An utterly stupid and completely preventable incident. With great care, he put the Stearman back in the box.
“I’m so sorry,” Honor said again. “My mom died in a car accident, too. It’s an awful way to lose someone. Not that there’s a good way.”
“True enough.” He stood up. “I’ve got eggs and toast, and I’d be more than happy to make you breakfast.”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
“More coffee, then?”
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
He got up and poured her a cup.
“So why aren’t you close, you and Charlie?” she asked as he handed her the coffee, and some coffee sloshed over the rim, onto her skirt.
“Shit. Sorry,” Tom said, grabbing a dish towel and blotting at the stain.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” She looked at him, straight in the eye, as he was kneeling at her side.
Brown eyes. Lovely, really, dark and quiet. And at the moment, she was giving him a no-nonsense look, a tolerates-no-shit look combined with something else.
Kindness.
He looked back at her skirt and blotted some more.
“He blames me for her dying. She was...away when it happened. With Charlie’s dad, who apparently liked to pop in and out just enough to f**k with everyone’s head. So off they went for a weekend, and I was watching Charlie like an absolute wanker, really, taking care of my fiancée’s kid while she was screwing around. Then she decided to text me while crossing the street against the light, and that was that.”
“Oh, God.”
“Right. When the dust settled, Charlie’s dad didn’t want to take custody.” The familiar red haze flared, then faded. “I wanted to adopt Charlie, but I didn’t have any claim on him.”
The clock over the door ticked. Honor was still looking at him. “So this whole green card is so you can be around Charlie.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t get one, did you?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “No, I didn’t.” He stood up and took his coffee cup to the sink, dumped it. Outside, the snow fell from the branches in clots, the temperature having jumped overnight.
The chair scraped as she stood up. She came over to the counter and leaned against it, folding her arms over her chest. “What other options do you have?”
“Not many. I’ve been looking for another job in the area, but I haven’t had much luck. The truth is, I imagine Charlie’ll be relieved to be rid of me. He barely speaks to me.”
Honor nodded. Took a slow breath and released it. “So let’s get married.”
He glanced at her sharply. “Oh, no. That plan is off the table. Thank you, but it’s not...necessary.”
“Of course it is,” she said briskly. “You love this boy, you need to be around for him. I’ll marry you and you can stay. You should’ve said this up front and not been such an ass.”
He gave her a quick smile. “Right. Sorry about that. But you’re not going to marry me. Marrying a stranger isn’t going to cure your own issues with Brighton—”
