Blue Heron: The Perfect Match Part 9

"Exactly," Connor agreed. "You're-what do you girls call it? Walled off. Shut down. You have armor."

"I don't have armor!" Honor barked. "I don't! What armor? There's no armor!" Spike barked in agreement.

"You want to go out for dinner?" Levi asked Faith.

"Maybe you're just unaware of the vibe you give off," Colleen said. "The hairbands, for example. Do they scream s.e.x? No."

"I'm not unapproachable," Honor said to her brother-in-law.

"Okay, you're not. I apologize. Faith, save me."

"I have an idea," Faith said. "Honor, pretend you're meeting Connor for the first time. Like you guys are on a first date, you've been chatting online, but this is the first time you've laid eyes on each other."

"Great idea," Honor said. "Sit, Connor."

Unapproachable. Armor. Please. Spike came over and whined to be picked up. She obliged, kissing the dog on the head. So approachable. Even animals thought so.

"That dog will have to go," Colleen said. "It's worse than a cat."

"How dare you," Honor murmured, giving Colleen a look. "Come on, Connor. Get in character."

"Yeah, Conn, get to it," said Colleen. "We have a bar to run. Who's opening tonight, anyway?"

"Monica." Connor sighed and sat obediently across from Honor at the foot of the bed. "Hi, are you Honor? I'm Connor."

"Oh, Connor and Honor! That rhymes!" Colleen said. "Sorry. Back to you two."

"Hi, Connor. Nice to meet you." Totally approachable. She shot Levi an icy glare. He was busy giving Faith a steamy, let's-get-it-on look.

"You're even prettier than your picture," Connor said.

"Thanks." She smiled brightly.

"Eesh, you look like a wolverine when you smile like that," Colleen said. "Easy, girl."

Honor sighed, then tried again, baring only a few teeth this time.

"Now you look feeble. Don't worry about it, we'll work on that later. Just keep going."

Connor was Faith's age. A nice guy. Good-looking. An excellent bartender. Otherwise, she didn't know him too well. "So tell me about yourself," she said.

"Good line," Faith murmured, swatting at Levi's hand.

"I'm a bartender who likes the smell of crisp autumn leaves and Johnson's baby shampoo."

Honor paused. "That's kind of creepy."

"See? You're gutting me already. I feel emasculated."

"Well, then, you need to sac up a little, don't you?"

"And we're done," Connor said. "Levi, how about that beer, pal?"

PRU WENT OFF with the guys, but Faith and Colleen spent another half hour giving her advice on how to talk to men, which was not something Honor would've suspected she needed to be taught. With Brogan, she'd just been herself.

Okay, not a great example. Thinking his name still made her brain cringe.

The troops finally left, and Honor got dressed in the outfit Faith had picked out. Jeans (Colleen's, and they stopped a good four inches below the belly b.u.t.ton and felt freakishly uncomfortable), purple suede ankle boots with three-inch heels (Faith's, obviously), a pale green shirt (Colleen's), pearls (Mom's), four silver bracelets (Faith's) and long, dangling silver earrings (Faith's again).

Clearly, Honor had no idea how to dress herself. Then again, that was the point. Short hair, better clothes, makeup. She'd be married in no time.

"Droog. This is my husband, Droog." Okay, it lacked a certain elan.

Spike was sleeping on Honor's pillow, worn out from emasculating Blue, who wanted very much to love Spike but which Spike wouldn't allow. Her doggy had been a rescue, so Honor wasn't sure what her history was with other dogs. Bossy, obviously, which Honor admired.

At any rate, Mrs. J. would take her into her apartment for the night and watch whatever violent TV show she was into this week. The housekeeper loved Spike more than she loved most humans.

She tiptoed down the stairs, terrified of falling in the high-heeled boots and breaking a femur or rupturing her spleen, and went into the kitchen.

"Oh, G.o.d!" she blurted. She leaped back into the hallway, pressing her back against the wall. Holy. Fungus. "Sorry, sorry!"

"We weren't doing anything!" her dad yelled as a kitchen chair crashed to the floor. "It's not what you think!"

"Honor Grace Holland, why are you sneaking around this house, creeping up on people?" Mrs. Johnson said.

"We were just kissing!" Dad said.

"Is it safe to come back in?" she asked, feeling a laugh start to wriggle around in her stomach.

"Yes! We weren't...we were just... Oh, jeesh. Is that the phone?"

"Don't you move, John Holland. We were not kissing, Honor," Mrs. Johnson said darkly. "Your father, the ridiculous man, asked if he could kiss me just the one time. And just the one time it will be, John Holland, if you can't keep track of which of your many children is skulking around corners."

"Okay, okay," Honor said, going back into the kitchen. Dad's face was bright red, and Mrs. Johnson looked like she was about to kick a baby dolphin, she was so mad. "I'm sorry I didn't make more noise. I didn't know there was a romance unfolding here. I'll tie a bell around my neck next time."

"There are no bells required! There is no romance!" Mrs. J. thundered. "It was an experiment only, and one of complete failure, given your intrusion, Honor. We thought you had left with the others. Your father said we were alone."

"Mrs. J., I'm sorry, okay? Don't murder my dad." He sent her a grateful look.

The clock ticked on the wall.

"So," she said. "Dad and Mrs. J. I like it."

"There's nothing to like, you wretched child," the housekeeper muttered.

"Oh, stop. Your guilty secret is safe with me. But let me tell you, if I'd been Faith, you'd be packed into the back of her car, on your way to a justice of the peace this very minute. And Jack would be dead on the floor of a heart attack."

"My poor Jackie," Mrs. J. said. Honor rolled her eyes.

"Anyway, more power to you," she said. "I'm going on a date. Mrs. J., would you watch Spike?"

"Of course. Where is the little baby now? And why did you name her Spike? She should have a delicate name. A girl's name. Princess or Sugar-Paws."

"Or Hyacinth," Dad said. It was Mrs. Johnson's first name, and he was gazing at the housekeeper with a dopey smile.

Well, well, well. Honor said good-night and walked out to her car.

Last fall, Dad had decided to start dating...sort of...but after a few failed attempts, he seemed to give up. Mrs. Johnson was single (they all thought; she was a mystery wrapped in an enigma), and she'd been with the family since Mom died.

But a romance between the two of them, huh? If there'd been handwriting on that wall, Honor had missed it completely.

It could work, though. Certainly, Mrs. Johnson was a wonderful (if terrifying) person. She took good care of Dad and all his kids. Certainly, she knew all of them inside out and out.

It was nice to picture her father with someone. Not so alone anymore. He'd always had her, of course, which was a little pathetic when she put it like that. But still. They'd always been two single people alone together.

A surprisingly strong band of loneliness tightened around Honor's chest. If Dad and Mrs. Johnson became a couple, where would that leave her? She'd have to move. She couldn't be the spinster daughter, living with the newlyweds, sneaking Bugles into her room and misery-eating as she watched I Didn't Know I Had a Parasite.

All the more reason to put the pedal to the metal and get going, the eggs said. We want to be fertilized.

"You have a point," Honor muttered, starting her car. If Dad could find a honey, surely she could, too. eCommitment had recently come up with two matches for her. One was married, a Google search had revealed (thank you, Faith). So Droog it was.

See? She was trying. Really hard. She did need to get a life, and not just because Dad might beat her to the altar.

Three days ago, Dana emailed, asking if she was ready to hang out. Honor had been out of town on a sales trip to Poughkeepsie and had only responded to say so. Then yesterday, Brogan left a message, saying he was back from Tampa and would love to see her for dinner.

And last night, Honor had a panic attack, abruptly terrified that she'd die in this bed where she'd slept most of her life, and Dad, not the most observant man in the world, would think she was traveling, and Spike would chew off the tip of her nose for food, which would mean closed casket, definitely. This pleasant little fantasy had led her to visiting OnYourOwn.com and cruising through profiles of sperm donors, and then panicking a little further. She'd soothed herself by making a list of things she needed to do for the Black and White Ball, which was only a month and a half away, and ended up working until 3:00 a.m.

"Mom?" she said as she drove out of town. "I could use a little help finding a man. Okay? Be my wingman."

Please G.o.d, Droog Dragul would be nice.

"HONOR?".

Honor's head snapped around. Oh. Oh, dear. "Droog?"

"Yes. How luffly you look," he said. He grabbed her by the shoulders and leaned in to kiss her (eep!). She leaned back as far as possible, which caused his lips fall on her chin, where they stayed for a horribly long moment before she wrenched away.

"Um, hi. Hi, Droog. Nice to meet you."

Don't judge on first impressions had been the advice from Faith and Colleen. Droog was lucky, in other words.

They were in the middle of the student center at Wickham College, where Droog headed up the Science and Engineering department. The Droog in front of her bore little resemblance to the Droog in the eCommitment photo (she should really stop thinking his name, which was not improving with repet.i.tion). No, his photo had apparently involved Glamour Shots, a spray tan and many dedicated hours with Photoshop. The actual live Droog (there it was again) looked ten years older and was considerably whiter. Also, he carried a purse. Not a cool, battered leather satchel, but a purse that Honor had been eyeing last week at Macy's.

"Come. Vee vill go in my car. I heff Dodge Omni. It is old, but very good gas mileage."

"You know, I think I'll drive myself," she said, wiping sweat from her forehead. "It's, uh...it'll be easier for me to get home."

"As you vish."

It was possible, Honor thought as she followed him outside, that Droog Dragul's accent would grow on her. After all, hadn't she loved the Count on Sesame Street? Perhaps his narrow face would be more attractive in a softer light. And she herself was no supermodel.

She wondered if he could see himself in a mirror. If he sparkled. Stop judging, she told herself. He couldn't help being Transylvanian or Romanian or Hungarian or whatever it was.

She smiled firmly (though hopefully not like a wolverine) as he led the way to the parking lot. If nothing else, this date would be practice. It had been several years since she'd been on a first date. Years.

The sound of feminine laughter, and lots of it, made her turn her head. A gaggle of girls cl.u.s.tered around a man. He turned her way.

Oh, fungus. It was Tom Barlow.

Without thinking, she ducked, pretending she dropped her keys. Hey, why not actually drop them for authenticity purposes? She did. Kicked them under the car a little so she could have more time. Hopefully, Tom and the gaggle would move on.

"Heff you lost something?" Droog asked, bending to help. He was very tall.

"Um, no, no. I just dropped my keys." Right. So she should pick them up and not just stand here, hunched over like Quasimodo. She squatted down and reached under the car, feeling only gritty pavement. Took a peek. Great. She'd effectively kicked them out of reach.

"I vould help you, but dee cartilage in my knees has torn and shredded, and I can no longer kneel. Eh heh heh heh."

One! One beeg mistake! Two! Two bad knees!

"Hallo, Droog. Hallo, woman on the pavement."

She sighed. Busted.

"Tom, Tom, how are you, my friend?" Droog asked. "I vould like you to meet my date, Mees Honor Holland."

She looked up. Tom raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing around that mouth. "Oh," she said flatly. "Hi."

"Lovely to see you again," he said.

"Heff you met before?" Droog's eyebrows rose way, way up on his giant forehead.

Tom just kept looking down at her. "We both live in Manningsport," he said after a beat, and his accent was so much more appealing than the Count's. "Met at the pub one night, had a bit of a chat. Small town and all. Have you dropped something, Honor?"

"Um, my car keys," she said.

He knelt down next to her, and she caught a whiff of his soap. He hadn't shaved recently, and his jaw was bristly with stubble. Or maybe it wasn't bristly. Maybe it was soft. Those lips would be soft, that was for sure.

Give us five minutes and we can be ready, the eggs said.

Tom leaned over, and something surged inside her. For one nanosecond, she thought he was going to kiss her, and yes! That would fine! Her eyes fluttered; the left one got stuck, thanks to the clumpy mascara. But no. Of course he wasn't going to kiss her here on the pavement (or ever). He was reaching for her keys.

Which put his head very close to her, um, special places. Her uterus wobbled, and she pictured the eggs taking up a battering ram.

"Everything all right with your eye?" Tom asked with a knowing grin.