The Perfect Match (37 page)

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

F
AITH
H
OLLAND
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 eyes. 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?”

* * *

T
WO
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.

“Sorry to interrupt, lovebirds,” said the waiter. “Don’t mind
me.” He set the dessert on the table with a knowing smile.

“This!”

The bark made all three of them jump. Clint’s elbow hit her
glass, the wine spilling onto the tablecloth.

“Oh, shit,” Clint said, shoving away from her.

“Don’t worry about it,” Faith said. “I do stuff like that all
the time.”

Clint wasn’t looking at the wine.

A woman stood in front of their booth, a beautiful little boy
dangling from her hands as she held him out in front of her. “
This
is what he’s ignoring because of you, whore!”

Faith looked behind her to see the whore, but the only thing
there was the wall. She looked back at the woman, who was about her age and very
pretty—blond hair and fury-flushed cheeks. “Are you...are you talking to me?”
she asked.

“Yes, I’m talking to you, whore!
This
is what he’s missing when he’s wining and dining
you.
Our son! Our baby!” She jiggled the toddler to
demonstrate.

“Hey, no shaking the kid,” Faith said.

“Don’t speak to me, whore!”

“Mommy, put down!” the toddler commanded. The woman obeyed,
jamming her hands on her (thin) hips. The waiter caught Faith’s eye and
grimaced. He was probably gay, and thus her ally.

Faith closed her mouth. “But I didn’t... Clint, you’re not
married, are you?”

Clint was holding up his hands, surrender-style. “Baby, don’t
be mad,” he said to the woman. “She’s just someone I work with—”

“Oh, my God, you
are
married!”
Faith blurted. “Where are you from? Are you from Nebraska?”

“Yes, we are, whore!”

“Clint!” Faith yelped. “You bas—” She remembered the kid, who
looked at her solemnly, then scooped up a fingerful of crème brûlée and stuck it
in his mouth.

“I’m so sorry,” Faith said to Mrs. Clint Bundt (well, at least
Faith wouldn’t be saddled with that name). The kid spit out the dessert and
reached for the sugar packets. “I didn’t know—”