Four Day Fling

“You meddler!” I jabbed my finger into his arm. “Dad! What the hell?”

“I like him,” Dad said simply. “I think he’s perfect for you and I think you’re a stubborn pain in the ass who won’t admit that you love him.”

“I don’t love him.”

“You’re proving my point, Pops.”

“You’re a meddler,” I repeated. “And I’m annoyed.”

“Eh. It worked.” He shrugged. “I have a flask of whiskey in my pocket. Want some?”

I held out my hand.

Without speaking, he put the flask in my hand, and I took a big mouthful. I was so annoyed—so freaking annoyed—but what could I do?

Kill my sister, for one. Although, I’d have to consider if that crime was worth the time.

Probably not.

“What do you expect me to do now?” I asked him.

“I expect you to tolerate your mother—who is being particularly difficult today—for thirty minutes. Smile. Nod. Eat. That’s all you have to do.”

“Mm. You owe me for this, Dad.”

“Why? I’m doing you a favor.”

“No, you’re meddling. And making me have dinner with Mom for no real reason. You owe me.”

He sighed. “Fine. What do I owe you?”

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out,” I said, walking back down the hall.

What was wrong with my family?

***

“I’m so sorry,” Dad said, standing at the end of the table. “Miranda, sweetheart, we have to go. I’ve got a call at work—one of my clients is having an emergency I have to deal with.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I was still annoyed, and I still wasn’t on board with my father’s plan.

I thought the whole thing was ridiculous. I was doing just fine until he’d stuck his nose in, and I’d texted my sister a few choice words, too.

They mostly consisted of “fuck” and “you” and “off,” but still.

They were words.

“Oh, goodness. Of course.” Mom dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “I’m so sorry. Honey, did you take care of the bill?”

“It’s all handled. I’m sorry.” Dad kissed me on the cheek then leaned over to shake Adam’s hand. “Hopefully we can have dinner again soon.”

Not on your nelly, Dad.

Mom kissed both our cheeks and scurried out to Dad saying, “I’ll drop you back at the house, Miranda, then go to the office…”

My God. The little shit had it all planned out.

And yes, I would refer to him as a shit. He was a shit. I was mad.

I drank the rest of my wine in one go.

“That was weird,” Adam said, turning around.

I peered at him out of the corner of my eye. “Not really.”

“What do you mean?”

I sighed and put the empty glass down. How the hell was I supposed to say this? There was no way to say it that wasn’t all weird.

Like, hey, my dad knows we’re fake and wanted to set us up for real because he knows that I’m basically on the edge of falling in love with you.

No.

Jesus, no.

“Poppy.”

I glanced at the wine. That’s right. I finished it.

Fuck this.

“Dad, uh…He knows,” I said vaguely.

Adam stared at me to elaborate.

“He knows I didn’t know who you were at the wedding,” I said quietly, looking down. “He spoke to Rosie. She told him everything.”

“Fucking traitor,” he muttered.

I covered my mouth with my hand and laughed into my palm. Look—there was no arguing with the cold, hard truth. And that was the truth. My sister was a damn traitor.

“You know the British behead people for that,” Adam added.

“Maybe two hundred years ago. Probably not so much now,” I said. “But, yes. She told him. He set us up tonight.”

Adam rubbed his chin. “So we sat through the stress of your mother to get set up? Couldn’t he arrange that we all meet and then not come? If I was setting my son up, that’s what I’d do.”

“Your son? Why not your daughter?”

“Because any date of my daughter’s, is getting greeted with the barrel of a shotgun,” he replied.

“Well, any date of my son’s is getting greeted the same way.” I folded my arms. “That’s how this works. You date my child, you get to sit your ass down and tell me about yourself before I agree.”

Adam tilted his head. “Did your dad ever do that?”

“Does my dad look like he’s the type to threaten dates with a gun?”

“No. Do I?”

“Only because you have muscles,” I replied. “My hair makes me scary.”

“Oh, yes. Look at those curls. They’re terrifying.”

“The temper,” I reminded him. “Like a match.”

He reached over and twirled a curl around his finger. “Is that why you’ve had a face like a smacked ass all night? Because you knew this was a set-up?”

“Mhmm.” I met his eyes. “I’m not happy.”

“There are worse guys you could be set up with.”

“I’m not saying it’s bad, I’m—”

“Your dad set us up for a reason, Poppy. It wasn’t because we’d be a good ice-skating team.”