Blue Heron [2] The Perfect Match

by Kristan Higgins

  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 glasses?” 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 Competition 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, Michelle 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 butt 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!

  Be charmed by more Kristan Higgins:

  Somebody to Love

  Until There Was You

  My One and Only

  All I Ever Wanted

  The Next Best Thing

  Too Good to Be True

  Just One of the Guys

  Catch of the Day

  Fools Rush In

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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, embarrassment, 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 eye
s. 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 associated 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-bump 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-fiancée; 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 passed 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 boobage, so it was all good. When Clint had asked if he could drive her home, which of course was code for sex, 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 passed. 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.

  Time to call her sister.

  “He passes,” Faith said by way of greeting.

  “You have a problem, hon,” said Pru. “Open your heart and all that crap. Jeremy was eons ago.”

  “This has nothing to do with Jeremy,” Faith said, ignoring the answering snort. “I’m a little worried about his name, though. Clint Bundt. It’s abrupt. Clint Eastwood, sure, that works. But on anyone else, I don’t know. Clint and Faith. Faith and Clint. Faith Bundt.” It was much less pleasing than, oh, let’s say, Faith and Jeremy or Jeremy and Faith. Not that she was hung up on the past or anything.

  “Sounds okay to me,” Pru said.

  “Yeah, well, you’re Prudence Vanderbeek.”

  “And?” Pru said amiably, chewing in Faith’s ear.

  “Clint and Faith Bundt. It’s just...off.”

  “Okay, then break up with him. Or take him to court and force him to change his name. Listen, I gotta go. It’s bedtime for us farm folk.”

  “Okay. Give the kids a hug for me,” Faith said. “Tell Abby I’ll send her that link to the shoes she asked about. And tell Ned he’s still my little bunny, even if he is technically an adult.”

  “Ned!” her sister bellowed. “Faith says you’re still her little bunny.”

  “Yay,” came her nephew’s voice.

  “Gotta go, kid,” said Pru. “Hey, you coming home for harvest?”

  “I think so. I don’t have another installation for a while.” While Faith made a decent living as a landscape designer, most of her work was done on the computer. Her presence was only required for the last part of a job. Plus, grape harvest at Blue Heron was well worth a visit home.

  “Great!” Pru said. “Listen, ease up on the guy, have fun, talk soon, love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Faith took another pull of Red Bull. Pru had a point. Her oldest sibling had been happily married for twenty-three years, after all. And who else was going to give her romantic advice? To Honor, her other sister, if you weren’t calling from the hospital, you were wasting her time. Jack was their brother and thus useless on these matters. And Dad...well, Dad was still in mourning for Mom, who’d been gone for nineteen years.

  The wash of guilt was all too familiar.

  “We can do this,” Faith told herself, changing the mental subject. “We can fall in love again.”

  Certainly a better option than having Jeremy Lyon be her first and only love.

  She caught a glimpse of her face in the rearview mirror, that hint of bewilderment and sorrow she always felt when she thought of Jeremy.

  “Damn you, Levi,” she whispered. “You just couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you?”

  * * *

  TWO NIGHTS LATER, Faith was starting to think that Clint Bundt was indeed worth the ten minutes she’d taken to shave her legs and the six it’d taken to wrestle herself into the microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment she’d bought on QVC last month. (Hope. It sprung eternal.) Clint had picked an upscale Thai place with a koi pond in the entryway, red silk wall hangings making the room glow with flattering light. They sat in a U-shaped booth, very cozily, Faith thought. It was so romantic. Also, the food was really good, not to mention the lovely Russian River chardonnay.

  Clint’s eyes kept dropping to her cleavage. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you look good enough to eat.” He grinned like a naughty boy, and Faith’s girl parts gave a mighty tingle. “I have to tell you,” he went on, “the very first second I saw you, I felt like I was hit on the side of the head with a two-by-four.”

  “Really? That’s so sweet,” Faith said, taking a sip of her wine. So far as she could recall, she’d been dressed in filthy jeans, work boots and soaked to the skin. She’d been moving some plants around in the rain, trying to ease the mind of the city councilman who was concerned over the park’s water runoff
(which, please, had been nonexistent; she was a certified landscape architect, thank you very much).

  “I wasn’t sure I was capable of speech,” Clint now said. “I probably made a fool out of myself.” He gave her a sheepish look as if acknowledging he’d been quite the love-struck suitor.

  And to think she hadn’t even noticed that he’d been...well...dazzled by her. That’s how it went, right? Love came when you weren’t looking, except in the case of the millions who’d found mates on Match.com, but, hey. It sounded good.

  The server came and whisked away their dinner plates, setting down coffee, cream and sugar. “Did you see anything you liked on the dessert menu?” he asked, smiling at them. Because really, they were an adorable couple.

  “How about the mango crème brûlée?” Clint said. “I don’t know if I’ll survive watching you eat it, but what a way to go.”

  Hello! Tingling at a 6.8 on the Richter scale. “The crème brulee sounds great,” Faith said, and the waiter sped away.

  Clint slid a little closer, putting his arm around Faith’s shoulders. “You look amazing in that dress,” he murmured, trailing a finger down the neckline. “What are the odds of me getting you out of it later on?” He dropped a kiss on the side of her neck.

  Oh, melt! Another kiss. “The odds are getting better,” she breathed.

  “I really like you, Faith,” he whispered, nuzzling her ear, causing her entire side to electrify.

  “I like you, too,” she said and looked into his pretty brown eyes. His finger slid lower, and she could feel her skin heating up, getting blotchy, no doubt, the curse of the redhead. What the heck. She turned her face and kissed him on the lips, a soft, sweet, lingering kiss.