Blue Heron: The Perfect Match Part 48

"My brave, brave girl," he wept.

All Honor really wanted was a nap.

And Tom.

But the doctors wouldn't leave her alone, and she had to have tests and oxygen and then she was asleep.

When she woke up, it was much quieter. She was in a regular hospital room, not the E.R., wearing a johnny coat. Light spilled in from the hall.

And Tom was there, sitting in a chair by her bedside. "Hallo," he said, and her eyes filled with tears.

"Thank you for saving my life," she whispered. "Again."

"Thank you for taking twenty years off mine," he said. "Again. I'll be dead in a month if this keeps up." He reached down and picked something up. Spike. "Say hallo, Ratty."

Spike wriggled onto the bed, whimpering in joy, and climbed up Honor's chest to lick her face. Her tears, specifically. She gave a watery smile, then frowned. "What happened to your hands?" she asked Tom. They were both bandaged.

"I burned them on the door handle."

She winced. "Sorry."

"Oh, for Christ's sake. It was worth it. Now move over." He lowered the side rail of her bed and climbed in with her, the mattress creaking under his weight. "And put this back on, and don't take it off again."

He slid her engagement ring onto her finger.

"Tom," she began.

"Shush," he said, and much to her astonishment, his eyes filled with tears. "You're marrying me. That's the end of it."

The words made her heart ache in a bittersweet swell. "That's very sweet," she whispered. "And I'm sure I scared the life out of you, but you don't have to-"

"Check your phone messages. I was way ahead of your dramatics."

"What do you mean?"

He smoothed her hair back with one bandaged hand. "It means I didn't need to almost lose you to realize that I love you, Honor."

Ratty-er, Spike-licked some more tears, as they seemed to be flowing out of her, then turned to bite Tom's hand.

He smiled, that goofy, crooked, sweet smile that made her heart stutter with love, and she found that she was smiling back. "Say yes, miss."

"What was the question again?"

His smile grew. "Will you marry me? For no reason this time, other than the fact that I can't live without you and will probably die of misery if you don't."

"In that case, I guess I have no choice."

He leaned in and kissed her. "I'll take that as a yes."

EPILOGUE.

Eighteen months later THE AUDITORIUM WAS extremely crowded, loud and didn't smell so great. Then again, it didn't smell so bad, either. Honor was pretty used to it by now.

"Do you need anything, darling? All set? Hungry?"

"I'm fine, Tom. Sit down. You're making me nervous."

"Yeah. Good idea." He didn't sit down. He did bend down and give her a kiss, however, then resumed pacing.

"I'm afraid to sit down," Goggy said, sitting down, anyway. "The germs in here! Do they clean it every day, do you think?"

"I don't know, Goggy."

"They should've held this at the activity center at Rushing Creek," the old lady said. "Much cleaner." Not that the activity center was big enough, but yes, Goggy and Pops had moved into the "asylum," a month after the Old House fire, and they loved it there. Pops flirted with "those trashy sixtysomethings," according to Goggy, and still showed up to check the vines every day. Goggy took up swimming in the Olympic-size pool and had yet to drown, and no one got food poisoning, though Goggy came up to the New House at least twice a week to cook and fight with Mrs. Johnson (who was still called just that, despite her marital status).

Today, the entire Holland clan had come out for the big event, front row seats, of course. Even Abby had come home from NYU, looking incredibly glamorous with her new bangs and leather jacket. Ned was flirting with Sarah Cooper, Levi's little sister, much to Levi's chagrin. Faith and Levi held hands and smooched occasionally, their toddler son asleep in the stroller. Even the Kelloggs had come, too, and while Janice still stared at Tom like she wanted to smear him with b.u.t.ter, well, it was nice for Charlie.

"Drink this," Mrs. Johnson said, handing her a thermos and patting Spike's head. "You need to stay hydrated. It's cuc.u.mber water. Very healthful and delicious."

"How's my grandchild?" Dad asked, rubbing Honor's tummy. "h.e.l.lo in there! Grandpa can't wait to meet you!"

Yep, she was pregnant. Four and a half months, and already totally in love with the little thumper inside of her, and dying to find out if it was a boy or a girl. But they wanted to wait to find out. Old-school.

Six months after the wedding, Charlie had asked Tom if he could come live with them at the New House. The Kelloggs put up a little resistance at first (what would their friends think?), but it was only a token. Everyone, including Charlie, knew that Janice and Walter really didn't want the responsibility of raising him the rest of the way.

Tom did. So did Honor.

Mitch.e.l.l DeLuca was more problematic, hanging up when Tom had called him, putting a heavy guilt trip on Charlie via text. Tom's plan had been to drive to Philly and beat the snot out of him, but Honor invited Mitch.e.l.l to the New House for dinner instead. Made Goggy's ham and salt potatoes and Mrs. Johnson's pineapple upside-down cake, and wrung a promise out of Tom that he'd stay cool and let her handle things. She told Mitch.e.l.l simply that, while no one could ever take his place in Charlie's life, she and Tom both loved Charlie, could give him stability and an extended family, and that Mitch.e.l.l was welcome to visit or have Charlie visit any time he liked. Then she stared him down, waiting until he said yes.

Which he did. She was good at that sort of thing.

And when Mitch.e.l.l left, Tom held her tight and said that he loved her more than he knew it was possible to love anyone, and thank G.o.d they were married, because he'd be lost without her.

So it was that five years almost to the day after his mother met Tom Barlow, Charlie came to live in the New House. He was quiet and horribly sloppy, his grades were mediocre, his taste in music hadn't improved. And clearly, he loved Tom. And her, even if he never said the actual words.

And now, a baby. She couldn't wait to see her child's face. Couldn't wait to see Tom's when he held their little one for the first time, couldn't wait to see Charlie as a big brother.

"They're starting," Tom said, sitting down next to her. She took his hand, which was damp with sweat.

"He'll be great," she said.

Tom gave her a rueful smile, then rubbed the back of his neck. "I might be having a heart attack," he said.

"Me, too."

"Which one is Charlie?" Goggy asked, squinting.

"Why won't you get gla.s.ses?" Pops asked.

"I don't need them. You're the one who's blind as a bat."

Dad leaned forward and gave Tom's shoulder a squeeze. "Good luck," he said.

The bell rang. "Go, Charlie!" Abby bellowed. "You can do it, buddy!"

The rules of the Western New York Regional Junior Golden Gloves Compet.i.tion stated that Charlie would have to go three rounds, each lasting ninety seconds. He'd won the first two fights-this was the championship match. Unfortunately, his opponent looked like Oscar de la Hoya and the Incredible Hulk rolled into one, seeming to outweigh Charlie by fifty pounds. Tom said that wasn't possible, but it sure looked that way to Honor.

The longest two hundred and seventy seconds of her life, Honor bet, gnawing on her thumbnail. She almost couldn't watch.

But, of course, she did, flinching every time the other kid landed a hit. Tom was on his feet yelling encouragement, "Come on, Charlie, that's it, mate, get out of there, move away, almost there, bring it home, lad!"

Honor, too, jolted to her feet. "Hands up," she yelled. "Get in there, Charlie!"

The entire Holland clan was screaming by the end, and when the referee held up Charlie's arm, proclaiming him the winner, they just went wild.

Then Charlie, who was staggering with fatigue, went to the ropes and waved for Tom to join him.

Tom froze for a second, then turned to Honor. "I love you," he said. It was something he told her at least five times a day, something that still made her heart squeeze. It always would, she knew. He bent down and kissed her stomach. "And I love you, baby," he said.

Then he was off, into the ring to join their son.

Keep reading for an excerpt from THE BEST MAN by Kristan Higgins.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

At Maria Carvainis Agency, Inc., thanks to the Boss, Chelsea Gilmore, Martha Guzman and Elizabeth Copps. How lucky I am to have you all in my corner!

At Harlequin, thanks so much to everyone who works so hard on my behalf, especially Margaret O'Neill Marbury, Susan Swinwood, Kate Dresser, Tara Parsons, Mich.e.l.le Renaud and Leonore Waldrip.

Kim Castillo at Author's Best Friend and Sarah Burningham at Little Bird Publicity help me in so many ways, it would be impossible to enumerate them all, and in addition to that, they're both the loveliest people imaginable.

Thanks to Kyle Bennett, aka Cute Boxing Trainer, for whipping my b.u.t.t into shape while teaching me about the elegant sport of boxing. I appreciate the pain and suffering! Thanks also to Jennifer from United States Citizenship and Immigration Services (who is nothing like Bethany in the book). Any mistakes or exaggerations are all mine. To Hank Robinson, my second father, thanks for advising me on aeronautics and engineering. Love you! To my brother Mike Higgins, owner of Litchfield Hills Wine Market, thanks for help with all things vine-related. To my mom, who proofreads my stuff and laughed so hard over Droog Dragul, thanks, Mommy!

In the Finger Lakes region of New York, thanks to the helpful, wonderful people at Finger Lakes Wine Country and Steuben County Conference & Visitors Bureau, and especially to Sayre Fulkerson and John Iszard at Fulkerson Winery and Kitty Oliver at Heron Hill Vineyard.

In the world of writers, I am blessed with many friends, as that world seems populated with the nicest and most generous people imaginable. Thanks especially to Jill Shalvis, Robyn Carr, Susan Andersen, Huntley Fitzpatrick, Shaunee Cole, Karen Pinco, Jennifer Iszkiewicz and Kelly Matthews for their love, laughter and support.

Thanks to the love of my life, Terence Keenan, and our two beautiful children, who bring me endless joy, happiness and laughs...well, heck. I love you more than I can say.

And thank you, readers, for the privilege of spending some time with my book. That honor never fades.

Looking for more love and laughs? Don't miss The Best Man, also by New York Times bestselling author Kristan Higgins. Available now!

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CHAPTER ONE.

Three and a half years later FAITH HOLLAND PUT DOWN her binoculars, picked up her clipboard and checked off a box on her list. Lives alone. Clint had said he did, and the background check showed only his name on the rental agreement, but a person couldn't be too careful. She took a pull of Red Bull and tapped her fingers against the steering wheel of her roommate's car.

Once upon a time, a scenario like this would've seemed ridiculous. But given her romantic history, a little footwork was simply smart. Footwork saved time, embarra.s.sment, anger and heartbreak. Say, for example, the man was gay, which had happened not just with Jeremy, but with Rafael Santos and Fred Beeker, as well. To his credit, Rafe hadn't known Faith thought they were dating; he'd thought they were just hanging out. Later that month, determined to keep trying, Faith had rather awkwardly hit on Fred, who lived down the street from her and Liza, only to have him recoil in horror and gently explain that he liked boys, too. (Incidentally, she'd fixed him up with Rafael, and the two had been together ever since, so at least there was a happily ever after for someone.) Gay wasn't the only problem. Brandon, whom she'd met at a party, had seemed so promising, right until their second date, when his phone rang. "Gotta take this, it's my dealer," he'd said blithely. When Faith had asked for clarification-he couldn't mean drug dealer, could he?-he'd replied sure, what did she think he meant? He'd seemed confused when Faith left in a huff.

The binocs were old school, yes. But had she used binoculars with Rafe, she would've seen his gorgeous silk window treatments and six-foot framed poster of Barbra Streisand. Had she staked out Brandon, she might've seen him meeting unsavory people in cars after they'd flashed their headlights.

She'd attempted to date two other guys since moving to San Francisco. One didn't believe in bathing-again, something she might've learned by stalking. The other guy stood her up.

Hence the stakeout.

Faith sighed and rubbed her eyes. If this didn't work out, Clint would be her last foray for a while, because she really was getting worn out here. Late nights, the eye strain a.s.sociated with binocular use, a stomachache from too much caffeine... It was tiring.

But Clint might be worth it. Straight, employed, no history of arrest, no DUIs, that rarest of species in S.F. Maybe this would make a cute story at their wedding. She could almost imagine Clint saying, "Little did I know that at that very minute, Faith was parked in front of my house, chugging Red Bull and bending the law...."

She'd met Clint on the job-she'd been hired to design a small public park in the Presidio; Clint owned a landscaping company. They'd worked together just fine; he was on time, and his people were fast and meticulous. Also, Clint had taken a shine to Blue, Faith's Golden retriever, and what's more appealing than a guy who gets down on his knees and lets your dog lick his face? Blue seemed to like him (but then again, Blue tended to like any living creature, the type of dog who'd leg-hump a serial killer). The park had been dedicated two weeks ago, and right after the ceremony, Clint had asked her out. She'd said yes, then gone home and begun her work. Good old Google showed no mention of a wife (or husband). There was a record of a marriage between a Clinton Bundt of Owens, Nebraska, but that was ten years ago, and her Clint Bundt a) seemed too young to have been married for ten years; and b) was from Seattle. His Facebook page was for work only. While he did mention some social things ("Went to Oma's on 19th Street; great latkes!"), there was no mention of a spouse in any of the posts of the past six months.

On Date Number One, Faith had made arrangements for Fred and Rafael to check him out, since gaydar was clearly not one of her skills. She and Clint met for drinks on a Tuesday evening, and the guys had shown up at the bar, done the shark-b.u.mp test on Clint, then gone to a table. Straight, Rafael texted, and Fred backed him up with Hetero.

On Date Number Two (lunch/Friday afternoon), Clint had proven to be charming and interested as she told him about her family, being the youngest of four, Goggy and Pops, her grandparents, how much she missed her dad. Clint, in turn, had told her about an ex-fiancee; she'd kept her own story to herself.

On Date Number Three (dinner/Wednesday, in the "make him wait to measure his interest level" philosophy), Clint had met her at a cute little bar near the pier and once again pa.s.sed every criteria: held her chair, complimented her without too much detail (That's a pretty dress, she'd found, set off no warning bells, unlike Is that Badgley Mischka, OMG, I love those two!). He'd stroked the back of her hand and kept sneaking peeks at her b.o.o.bage, so it was all good. When Clint had asked if he could drive her home, which of course was code for s.e.x, she'd put him off.

Clint's eyes had narrowed, as if accepting her challenge. "I'll call you. Are you free this weekend?"

Another test pa.s.sed. Available on weekends. Faith had felt a flutter; she hadn't been on a fourth date since she was eighteen years old. "I think I'm free on Friday," she'd murmured.

They stood on the sidewalk, waiting for a cab as tourists streamed into souvenir shops to buy sweatshirts, having been tricked into thinking that late August in San Francisco meant summer. Clint leaned in and kissed her, and Faith let him. It had been a good kiss. Very competent. There was potential in that kiss, she thought. Then a taxi emerged from the gloom of the famed fog, and Clint waved it over.

And so, in preparation of the fourth date-which would possibly be the date, when she finally slept with someone other than Jeremy-here she was, parked in front of his apartment, binoculars trained on his windows. Looked as if he was watching the ball game.