Chapter Eight

Revel was one of Miranda’s favorite restaurants to meet her father for lunch. The Asian fusion place, inspired by Korean street food, was a fifteen-minute walk from Dad’s condo and, although there were only limited vegan options, what was there was fabulous.

The smoked tofu bowl with kale she’d just demolished was in front of her, and she was contemplating ordering one of their excellent cocktails for, well, dessert. A girl can’t be too virtuous! Dad was just finishing up his lunch, the albacore tuna rice bowl, when their waiter, a cute redhead with shoulder-length hair, a handlebar mustache, and attired all in black, swung by their table.

“Get you guys anything else? Dessert?”

Miranda smiled at him. He was cute. She wondered if he was single and then put the thought to bed. Now’s not the time! “I think we’re gonna go liquid for dessert.” She laughed. “I’ll have that ginger, lemon, tequila concoction. What’s it called?”

“Ginger’s Grace. So good.”

“Yeah, that.” She put her focus on her dad. “Daddy?”

“I’m good with water.”

“Cool.” The waiter disappeared to get Miranda’s drink.

She made a pouting face. “So you’re gonna make me drink alone?”

He smiled kindly. “Make you? Hardly. Does it matter?”

“Daddy!”

“I’m just saying, if you want a drink, have one. I still have work to do this afternoon. I have a phone interview and need to get ready. The last thing I need is to slur my words when I’m rhapsodizing about my writing influences.”

“You hate those things.” Miranda knew her father detested the promotional work that went hand-in-hand with being a full-time professional author.

He nodded. “I do. But they help keep me in the public eye. And with the new one coming out soon, I need to do what I can. Not much choice. Besides, I’ve worked with this woman before, and she’s sweet. No hardball stuff. Just talk about process and plenty of time to tout myself.”

The waiter sat down Miranda’s drink before her, and she took a sip. Heaven. I might just have a couple of these babies. Mother’s milk and all that. I didn’t have a mother, so I can justify it. Miranda chuckled at her rationalizing. “You sure?” She pointed to her drink.

Connor nodded and his frown made her feel guilty, but not guilty enough to prevent another swallow. He said, “I thought you said you had work to do today. On that novel? The one you’re doing for your graduate thesis?”

She took another sip. “It’s nearly done. Just working up to my big reveal of who the killer is.”

“You want to tell me more about it?”

She wagged a finger. “Uh-uh. I learned at your knee not to talk too much about works in progress. It sucks the life out of them is what you said, right?”

Her father was steadfast in never discussing details of what he was working on. He claimed it was because it affected his creative mojo, but she knew him well enough to understand one thing—he hated talking about his writing—period. That would be akin to shining a spotlight on him, and he preferred being off in a corner, always observing. He was the least self-centered person she knew.

Time to change the subject, since he wouldn’t talk about his work, and she was too far behind in hers to let him know about it. She felt a twinge of guilt about her lie. She wasn’t almost finished. She had barely three chapters done, and those were in need of heavy editing.

“You saw Steve’s post on Facebook?” Miranda almost hated to bring it up, but Steve was the elephant at the table throughout their meal.

Connor smiled, but the expression didn’t rise to meet his eyes, which radiated sadness. “About his engagement to this Rory person? Yeah. I saw.” He took a long swallow of water and stared down at the table for a moment. When he looked up again, his smile was even bigger. And even more forced. “I wish them well.”

“Shut up. You do not.”

“Now, now, I do. What good would it do me to think otherwise? A wise person once said that the opposite of love is not hate; it’s indifference.”

“So you’re indifferent?” Miranda recognized a lie when she saw one.

“I’m working on it. It’ll come because I have no other choice.” He gave her a shaky half smile. “I can either curse them or bless them. If I do the former, I torture myself, and they don’t even know the difference.”

She put her hand over his for a second. He was being brave—and breaking her heart. “Oh, Daddy. I’m sorry. I know it must be hard seeing him getting married, especially so soon after he left.” She knew her father had been cut off at the knees by being abandoned by the one person he’d been confident would never, ever do such a thing.

“Not for you to worry about, my dear.” He sighed. “I will be okay.”

She grinned. “I know you will. Any plans to see anyone?”

“What, like a shrink?”

“No, silly. Like a date. It’s been, what, three weeks, since you had that horrible night out with that creep? Any other prospects?” She didn’t really want to hear that there were. She felt he had a long way to go in his healing and liked it when he said he’d thought about rescuing a cat.

And then he answered.

And Miranda wished she hadn’t asked.

“Well…”

“Yes? Another online Prince Charming?” She sipped her drink.

“Not exactly. You probably won’t want to hear this.”

Lunch churned in her gut. She dreaded what was coming and hoped for something different than what her intuition was telling her. “Go ahead.” She was a little breathless. Where was that waiter? She needed another drink for sure now.

“Trey called.”

“Good for him.”

“Come on. Everybody deserves a second chance.”

“Even after they practically raped you?”

“Now you’re exaggerating. He made an unwise move on me, like a pass. Look at me; can you blame him for trying?” Her father laughed, but Miranda didn’t join in. She thought this Trey guy was gone for good—and she wasn’t a bit sorry. “Anyway, he was very contrite about the whole thing. Very apologetic. He didn’t try to excuse his behavior.” He sought out her gaze. She could feel it, even though she wasn’t, in fact, looking at him. She deigned to meet his eyes and saw how hungry he was for her approval.

“Don’t you think we all deserve a second chance?”

She wanted to say no. She wanted to at least comment that she didn’t know. But she knew anything other than a supportive word would hurt him, so she tried to swallow her misgivings, along with yet another sip of tequila. “Yes. We all do.”

“And we’re keeping it casual.” He filled her in on the plans for their Friday get-together (she noticed how he didn’t call it a date), stressing that they were meeting at Monsoon. “He wants to pay, but I think it’d be better if we went Dutch, don’t you?”

I think it would be better if you didn’t go at all. She quashed the thought and said, “That’s a good idea. Be careful, okay?”

“Just dinner and talking. That’s it. I don’t plan on even bringing him back like last time.”

“Promise?”

He finished his water and stood. “Honey, look at the time. I need to get home for my call.” He reached in his pocket and took out his wallet. A hundred-dollar bill appeared on the table. She would have said he didn’t need to do that, but she knew him well enough to know that’d be an argument she’d lose. So she said, “Sure. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Love you,” he said.

“Love you too,” she called back as he started away from the table. She watched him go. Her view of him heading out the door was blocked by their waiter, and she called him over to ask for another cocktail.

 

AFTER THREE COCKTAILS, Miranda wandered down to what was known as the Fremont Cut, a narrow body of water that led, in one direction, to Lake Union, and in the other, toward Ballard and the Chittenden Locks, which straddled the fresh water of Lake Washington and the salt water of Puget Sound.

She sat, cocooned in her fleece jacket and cable-knit sweater, on a bench. Behind her, bushes had been fashioned into two huge dinosaur topiaries. She had a good buzz going, so the chill and the damp air didn’t really penetrate as they normally would. She could relax here, watching boats, runners, walkers, and cyclists go by. The breeze cooled her flushed cheeks.

She believed she would have really gone back to her room and worked on her novel had it not been for Connor telling her about his upcoming date. She assumed that his venturing into twenty-first century dating was tentative, a reaction to being jilted, and that the bad experience he’d endured would be enough to put him off the idea for a while.

What was the hurry, anyway? He wasn’t exactly ancient. Nor would his distinguished good looks fade any time soon.

Connor needed time to grieve, to absorb what he’d lost. He and Steve had been almost like one person for so long, their lives and limbs intertwined so completely that the notion of untangling them was a hopeless prospect.

And then Thanksgiving came along, with Steve’s unexpected and nearly devastating announcement that he was leaving, and Miranda learned several lessons.

Never take anything for granted.

Always expect the unexpected.

Nothing is forever. Nothing is secure.

You can count only on yourself.

Grim lessons, for sure, but important ones.

And now, her father was seeing—again—a man she didn’t trust from the moment their eyes first met. Her feelings could be deemed irrational, could be given the advice to give Trey Goodall a chance. And yet…and yet, she couldn’t. She trusted her gut. And there was something about this gorgeous man that made her hackles rise, the same as they had when she’d encountered a snake on a hiking trail.

She didn’t think intuition was magic. It was self-protective. She wished the same internal alarms she’d had about Trey worked for her father.

And then, and then…Trey had proved himself to be a snake within a few hours of their going out together! Why couldn’t her father just move on? Be alone for a while, or at least find someone more trustworthy.

It still rankled her that she’d be unable to discover anything at all about him online. That wasn’t just weird; it was highly suspicious in today’s world. Miranda thought he either wasn’t who he claimed to be, or he had real secrets that needed burying.

And from these thoughts, and her alcohol-clouded brain, an idea was born.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket, brought up her housemate Debbie Cook. She and Debbie were the moms of their Craftsman, planning meals, paying bills, keeping the place immaculate, while the boys, Rick and David, gallivanted off to the gay bars on Capitol Hill and seemed to be competing for who could have the most hookups…and, sadly, STIs. Still, they were funny and warm and neither was ever, ever boring.

Still, she was grateful for Debbie and their feminine bond.

She was glad when Debbie picked up. Miranda could picture her flicking her long, dark hair over one shoulder as she put the phone up to her ear and said, “Hello, Ugly.”

“Hey, Brainless,” Miranda came back in an old ritual for them. “Do you have plans for Friday night?”