The Perfect Match by Kristan Higgins Page A

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.

CHAPTER FIVE
    “I DON ’ T KNOW if I’m the red-lipstick type,” Honor said two nights later. “I feel a little like Pennywise the Clown.”
    “God, remember Jack made us watch that?” Faith exclaimed from where she was smooching Spike on the bed. “I practically wet myself, I was so scared. Not that you look like him, Honor,” she added. “Not even close.”
    Colleen O’Rourke, self-proclaimed expert on all things male, squinted critically at Honor. “Yeah, okay,” she said. “A little like Pennywise. We had to try. But we’re on the right path, don’t worry.” She plucked a pink-and-green hairband from the basket where they still resided. “And can I just say how glad I am to see that those hairbands have gone the way of the dinosaur?” She tossed it on the floor, where Spike immediately pounced and began gnawing. Blue, Faith’s gargantuan Golden retriever, whined from his hiding place under the bed, as he was a big baby where Spike the Ferocious was concerned.
    Honor frowned, then remembered not to (time for Botox?). She still wasn’t used to her hair, kept trying to swoop it off her shoulders, only to realize it was gone. That, combined with more makeup than she’d worn in the past twenty years, made her reflection quite unfamiliar.
    “You look great,” Faith, the bringer of all this stuff, said reassuringly. Until her sister had arrived a half hour ago, Honor’s dressing table had only contained a hairbrush and a jar of Oil of Olay moisturizer (the same brand Goggy used, Faith pointed out). Now, the table surface was awash in girlie stuff—blush, eye shadow, seven different types of moisturizer, brushes and wands and tubes and pots.
    Yes. Honor had agreed to a makeover. Things were feeling a little desperate. Could new eye shadow change her life? She was about to find out at the ripe old age of the years are precious,