Free The Perfect Match by Kristan Higgins

you hear what
she said about menopause?
    Honor sighed. “Sure,” she said.
    “I just thought it’d be nice,” Goggy said. “I have a soft spot
for his family, that’s all. You’d be surprised at how many times I think of
Peter and what my life would be like if he hadn’t died in World War II.
Protecting freedom and saving the world. So when I heard his grandnephew was in
town, all by himself, lonely, depressed, British—”
    Such a prize. “You can stop now,
Goggy, I just said I’ll meet the guy.”
    “You did?”
    “Yes.”
    Goggy smiled triumphantly.
    “Don’t go planning any weddings,” Honor warned. “I’m just doing
it to be polite.” An image of a balding man with large, horselike teeth and a
love of sharing math theorems popped into her head. “What’s his name?”
    “Tom Barlow.” A completely ordinary name. Not like Brogan Cain,
for example. “I told him you’d meet him tonight at O’Rourke’s.”
    “What?”
    “And put on lipstick, for heaven’s sake. You’re such a pretty
girl. And be nice! It wouldn’t kill you to smile. Oh, there’s Henrietta
Blanchette. I heard she got food poisoning from that slop they serve here. I’ll
go say hi.”
    Honor’s mood was soft after the movie. First, the wine had been
fantastic, this lovely Tempranillo with hints of strawberries, cherry jam and
leather. Then the Rushing Creek residents, who loved Watch and Wine and always
had something nice to say (once they’d gotten their kicks out of mentioning her
catfight, that was). But in general, whatever barriers seemed to exist between
Honor and her peers evaporated with old people, who called her honey and dear and told
her about their kidney stones and varicose veins. Also, one couldn’t rule out
the movie itself. Keanu Reeves, amen, sister. The kiss in that movie— the kiss, the babymaker—had she ever been kissed like
that?
    Er, no.
    Nope, no man had ever been desperate to kiss her. No man had
ever kissed her like he’d die if he didn’t. No sirree. Didn’t happen. Didn’t
seem like it was going to happen, either, not when a
middle-aged British math teacher was her only prospect.
    That could change. She’d update her dating website profiles.
Ask Faith to help her out with things like push-up bras and flirting. Maybe some
of the men she did business with were single, and maybe they’d notice her. It
could happen.
    It’s just that no one was like Brogan.
    Nope, nope. No more thoughts like that. So over him. Almost.
Well, getting there. Okay, not at all, really.
    As she walked through Rushing Creek, she heard a familiar
laugh.
    Right. Dana cut hair every other Thursday at Rushing Creek’s
salon. Honor had recommended her for the gig, actually.
    The sound made Honor stop in her tracks, her stomach suddenly
flooded with a cold rush of emotion. Anger, embarrassment, jealousy,
loneliness...
    Yeah. Loneliness.
    Don’t let her see you.
    Dana looked up and saw. “Honor!” she called. “Do you have a
second?”
    Fungus . Feeling her face flush,
Honor nodded. She went into the salon, which, though small, was a lot nicer than
House of Hair.
    “Mrs. Jenkins, I just need to take out your hearing aid, okay?”
Dana asked, slipping it out. “There,” she said to Honor. “Now we can talk. The
old bat’s deaf as dirt.”
    An unexpected yearning swooped through Honor’s chest. For five
years, since Dana moved to Manningsport, they’d been friends, the type of friend
Honor hadn’t had since college. Hanging out, calling for no reason,
commiserating over work, family, men. They’d had a lot of good times together. A
lot of laughs.
    Honor didn’t say anything. Then again, she didn’t leave,
either.
    “That’s some haircut,” Dana said. “Not bad. Where’d you get it
done? Parisian’s?”
    Still, Honor didn’t answer. They were not going to talk about hairstyles (but yes, it was Parisian’s).
    “Look, you gave it your best shot, Honor. Okay?” Dana went on.
“He didn’t love you.