The Perfect Match. Kristan Higgins

there seems to be a rat in your bag.”

      “Very funny. It’s my dog.”

      “Is it? If you say so. Well, Honor Holland. Lovely to meet you.”

      “You, too.” Her expression contradicted that statement, but she sat down. The rat peeked out of the bag and bared its teeth. Ah. It was a dog, he was almost positive.

      “So.” She folded her hands—pretty hands, very tidy with clear polish on her short nails—and looked at him. “I gather you’re the Brit who was in the bar the night of my little...meltdown.”

      “Darling, that wasn’t little,” he said warmly. “It was bloody magnificent.”

      “Can we skip over that?”

      “Absolutely! Though if you’d like to reminisce, I’m all ears. Your hair’s quite different, isn’t it? Looks better. That sister-wife thing was a bit off-putting. Also, there’s less for people to grab if you get into another fight. Very practical of you. So. Shall we get married?”

      His charm seemed to be lost on her. “Okay, I’m leaving. I don’t think we need to waste any more time here, do you?”

      “Oh, come now, darling. Give us a chance, won’t you? I’m a bit nervous.” He smiled. When he smiled in class, most of the females (and a couple of the lads as well) got a bit swoony.

      She blushed. Brilliant. She covered by looking into her purse, where the little rat dog was still baring its teeth at him. Tom tried smiling at the dog. Didn’t have quite the same effect as it had on the wee beastie’s owner.

      The server appeared. “Hi, Monica,” Honor said. “Got anything special tonight?”

      “We’ve got two bottles of the McGregor Black Russian Red.”

      “I’ll have a glass of that, then.”

      So Miss Holland wasn’t leaving yet. “And I’ll have another of these,” Tom said, holding up his empty glass.

      “No, he won’t,” Honor said.

      “Taking care of me already, love?” he asked.

      “You got it,” the serving wench said, giving Tom the eye. He winked at her, and off she went.

      “Are you drunk?” Honor asked.

      “Please,” he said. “I’m British. The proper word is pissed.”

      “Great,” she muttered.

      “So, Miss Holland. Thanks for coming to meet me.”

      She didn’t answer. Just looked at him, expressionless.

      She wasn’t bad. Nothing wrong with her. Blondish hair. Brown eyes. Normal build, though he wished the shirt was a bit more revealing so he could take a look. Those pearls weren’t doing much for her sex appeal.

      Take them off, and yeah, he could imagine her in bed. Quite vividly, in fact. On second thought, leave the pearls on and take off everything else.

      Oh, shit. He rubbed the back of his neck. The server brought Honor her wine and Tom’s whiskey.

      His date didn’t touch her glass.

      “Right,” he said. “Why don’t I summarize what I know about you, and you can fill in the gaps—how’s that?”

      “Fine,” she said.

      “As I understand it, you were in love with a bloke who was clearly using you for sex and is now marrying your best mate.”

      She closed her eyes.

      “Don’t forget, darling, I had a front-row seat that night. So now you’ve realized your knight in shining armor is, in fact, a faithless whore of a man—”

      “You know what? It wasn’t like that. So shut up.”

      Tom leaned back in his seat and squinted at her. “Funny, that. How women always rush to defend the men who’ve scraped them off their shoes. Interesting.” Now was the time he should stop talking. “Anyway, you backed the wrong pony and now you’re a bit desperate. Want to get married, prove you’re over the wanker, pop out a couple kids while there’s still time.”

      She sputtered. His mouth kept doing its thing. “That’s all fine. As for me, I need a green card. Not sure about kids just yet, but I say let’s get married and figure that out later. You’re female, you’re not old, you’re not ugly. Sold.”

      God. He was such a bunghole.

      She stared him down. Had to give her credit for that. “I’ll let you get the check,” she said.

      The relief he felt was mixed with regret. “Cheerio, then. Lovely to meet you.”

      “Wish I could say the same,” she said, sliding out of the booth.

      “Don’t forget the vermin,” he said, nodding to her bag. She grabbed it and left without looking back.

      “Well done, mate,” he said to himself, a familiar feeling of disgust in his stomach. He pressed his fingers against his forehead for a second, resisting the urge to follow Miss Holland and apologize for being such a prick.

      It was just that using someone was easier in theory than in reality. Even for Charlie’s sake.

      Besides, he’d been with a woman who was in love with someone else. Been there, done that, had those scars.

      And realizing she was the woman who’d been so...passionate that night...he rather liked that wine-tossing, hair-pulling woman. Someone like her deserved better than a marriage of convenience, whatever her reasons for coming here tonight.