Page 2 of Snowed In with My Best Friend's Dad

I looked at him. “You’re sure thirsty.”

Finally, he let out a frustrated sigh and held his hands out to the side. “I’m chastised for trying to help and for not trying to help.”

So now I was the bad guy? “I, ah—”

“Brett, darling, fancy seeing you here.” A woman who looked like she’d walked out of aVoguemagazine stepped up to him.

“Just doing some last-minute shopping.”

“Oh, how wonderful.” The woman looked at me, her well-plucked brow arching in what I took to be distaste before turning back to the man. “We should get something to eat and catch up.”

“Sorry. I’m having a drink with... ?” He looked at me expectantly.

“Miranda.” What? Why was I giving my name?

“Miranda,” he repeated to the woman.

“Really?” The woman looked between us, clearly not buying it.

His arm went around my shoulder. “Really. Shall we?” he asked me.

I must have been lost in la-la land, because I nodded and let him steer me out the door.

“Would you like something hot or cold?” he asked once out on the sidewalk.

I stared up at him, wondering what he was talking about.

“The drink?” He arched a brow. “Are you sure you’re okay? You didn’t hit your head, did you?”

“Why didn’t you want to go eat with Ms. Plastic?”

His lips twitched up again. “Because she’s Ms. Plastic.”

“You don’t like plastic?”

“Plastic can be okay sometimes. How about across the street?”

I glanced across the street to where there was one of the million Irish bars in Boston.

“Come on. Don’t make me a liar to Candi.”

I snorted. “Really? That’s her name?”

“Really.”

Ten minutes later, I marveled that instead of being at home microwaving mac and cheese, I was sitting across from the man who'd knocked me on my butt, sipping red wine. He had scotch and soda.

“So, tell me about yourself, Miranda.”

“I don’t think so, Brett.” I remembered the woman calling him that. He didn’t strike me as a Brett. He seemed more like a William or Edward. Old money names.

“Okay. No sharing of personal information. I like that. Strangers in the night sort of thing.”

I shrugged and sipped the most excellent glass of wine. Normally, I ordered the cheapest on the menu, but Brett insisted on ordering something else for me. It had to be at least thirty dollars a glass.

“Are you regretting not going with Ms. Plastic?”

“Not at all. Believe it or not, I’m enjoying your company.”

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