she could just look at him. He was so handsome. Black lashes worthy of a mascara commercial, straight nose, perfectly shaped mouth. A hint of five-o’clock shadow gave his almost-beautiful face just the right amount of machismo. Hard to believe she was in bed with him, even after all these...encounters.
She knew he’d had a few girlfriends here and there. During those times, they didn’t sleep together, of course, and Honor would try to be neutral on the rare occasions that Brogan did talk about these other women. Inevitably, he’d break up with them (which was a great sign, she thought).
As for other men, well...there’d been four other relationships, lasting between five and twenty-three days. She’d only ever slept with one other guy, and let’s face it. It hadn’t compared with this.
Now or never, Honor.
“You asleep?” she whispered.
“Nope. Just letting you ogle me,” he said, opening his eyes with a grin.
She smiled back. “And I appreciate it.” She licked her lips, knees tingling with adrenaline. “So.”
“So.” He reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. It was all the encouragement she needed.
“You know what I thought the other day?” she asked. Her toes curled, but she kept her voice casual.
“What?”
“I was thinking we should get married.”
There. She said it. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe normally.
“Yeah, right.” Brogan snorted. He stretched, yawning. “Man, that flight is catching up with me.” Then he looked back at her. “Oh. Uh, are you serious?”
Play it easy here, her brain advised. “Well, yeah. I mean, it’s a thought.”
He stared at her, then his eyebrows jumped in bewilderment. “Really?”
His voice did not indicate that he’d just heard a wonderful idea. It indicated...bafflement.
“It’s just, you know, we’re good friends. Good, good friends. Really good friends.” Oh, youch. Stop talking. You sound like an idiot. “You know, we’ve been friends for ages now. Long time.” Her tongue felt like a piece of old leather, and wasn’t that an attractive image! Would you like to kiss my shriveled, dry, leathery mouth, Brogan? Because the years are precious, you know. Egg-wise.
She forced out an awkward laugh, then wished she hadn’t. “Just putting that out there. It’s been, what? Seventeen years that we’ve been together?”
“Together?” he said, sitting up abruptly.
“Uh, sort of. We always, um, fall back on each other.” She sat up, too, leaning against the leather-upholstered headboard. Tears stung her eyes, and she immediately ordered them back. She cleared her throat. “I mean, we’re such good friends. And then there’s this. Sex.”
“Yeah! Right. No, we’re great friends. Definitely. I think of you as my best friend, really. But, um...” Brogan took a deep breath. “I never really saw us as together per se.” He swallowed and, to his credit, looked at her.
Calm, calm. “No, you’re right. I just thought, we’re getting to a certain age, and you said you were cutting back on traveling.” She paused. “And neither one of us has ever found someone...permanent. Maybe that says something.”
Please say you agree. Please realize what a great idea this is.
He didn’t answer, but his eyes were kind. Horribly so, and that was answer enough. Her heart stuttered, then shriveled like burned paper. To avoid looking at him, she traced the stitching in the comforter. Now that the initial rejection was done, she could keep it together. She was a rational, calm person. Except she might be having a heart attack. She kind of hoped she was.
Brogan was quiet for a minute. “You know how I think about you, On?” He turned to see her face. “I think of you like an old baseball glove.”
She blinked. Was he kidding? A sports analogy? Granted, he was full of them, but now?
He nodded. “Like an old friend, something you turn to when you need it.”
“A baseball glove.” Could she smother him with the pillow, maybe, or did that only work in the movies? How about panty hose strangulation? Too bad she hadn’t worn any.
He took her hand and squeezed it, and she let it lie there like a dead fish. “It’s like Jeter once said. Or maybe it was Pujols. Yeah, because this was back when he played in Saint Louis. Wait, was it Joe Maurer? No, because he’s a catcher, so that’d be a mitt. Anyway, whoever it was, he was talking about how when he’s in a slump, or when he doesn’t feel right about an upcoming game, he puts on his old glove. He’s had it for years, right? And when he puts it on, it’s like an old friend, and he knows he’ll have a better day because of it.” He turned to her, tipping her chin up, and she blinked, her eyes feeling like two hot, hard stones. “But you don’t need that glove every day.”
Surely this was the worst breakup speech in history.
He winced. “Okay, that was the worst comparison ever,” he said, and she had to laugh then, because it was that or burst into tears. “What I’m trying to say, On, is—”
“You know what?” she said, and her voice was normal, thank you, God. “Forget it. I don’t know where the idea came from. Maybe it was because your parents saw me naked.”
He grinned.
“But you’re right,” she said more firmly. “Why ruin a good thing?”
“Exactly,” he said. “Because we are a good thing. Don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. No, no, getting married was just...just a thought. Never mind.”
He kissed her then, and it nearly tore her heart in half. An old baseball glove? Holy fungus. Yet her head was cupped between his hands, and she was letting him kiss her, like nothing had changed at all.
“Feel up for round two?” he whispered.
Are you kidding? You just compared me to an old baseball glove. I’m leaving.
“Sure,” she said. Because nothing had changed. She was the same old glove she’d always been.
If she left, he might realize she’d been dead serious, and if he knew that, then she wouldn’t have any pride left. And since her heart had just been poleaxed, pride was suddenly very important.
* * *
SHE APPEARED AT Dana’s door an hour later, and the second she knocked, tears made a rare appearance, sliding down her face in hot streaks.
Dana opened the door, took one look and blinked. An odd expression—half surprise, half something else—came over her face. “Well, I guess I can see how that turned out,” she said after a beat. “I’m sorry, babe.”
She got a clean pair of pajamas, and Honor changed, then washed her face in the sloppy, comforting bathroom.
“At
