Read Miss Impractical Pants for Free Online Page B

her foot by favorite leading men. As soon as the discs were in order, her other foot had a temper tantrum and scattered them to hell and beyond. Weren’t there any movies that didn’t involve leading men—besides those snail-paced British movies where women sit around pretending to enjoy a dull life while they pine for companionship? If she were one of those British heroines, she’d hurl her sewing basket against the wall and show them how life was meant to be lived—sans leading man.
    What she needed to do was get out of the house before resorting to an irrational sobfest. She glanced at the clock: six o’clock, not too late. She pushed off the couch and dashed toward her bedroom. Exchanging her purple fleece bathrobe and penguin pajama bottoms for a pair of jeans and a brown ribbed turtleneck—a boring outfit that reflected the state of her life—she gathered her hair into a loose ponytail that spilled to the middle of her back. She pinched a little extra color into her complexion, and marveled that it took less than five minutes to find her car keys. At least one thing was going right.
    ***
    A light from the television flashed through the front window of the ivy-covered Tudor home. Katie’s heart raced a little as she pulled Rhett Butler up the narrow drive. She didn’t have an excuse for coming here. Not that she needed one, but she would have liked to have something prepared. She made her way up the front porch and shivered as she waited for Mr. Scott to let her in.
    The door swung open. “Bloody hell, lass! What’cha doin’ on me doorstep in this kind of weather without wearin’ so much as a jumper? It’s cold enough to freeze the bits off a brass monkey!” the robust widower chided, his brogue seeming thicker than usual. “Get yourself in and put wood in t’oile.”
    Katie was puzzled. “Put wood in the oil? Why would you put wood in oil?”
    Mr. Scott stopped tightening his cardigan and rolled his eyes at her. “It’s not in theee oy-ill, you Yank. It’s in t’oile—I believe you would say ‘put wood in the hole.’”
    “No, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t say that—it doesn’t make sense.”
    Mr. Scott’s usual rogue curl had escaped the conventional combing of his silver hair, joggling this way and that. “For heaven’s sake, impossible child, it means shut the door.”
    Katie stepped into the house and did as she was told. “You know , if you would have just said that in the first place, the door would have been shut five minutes ago.”
    His laugh was hearty, as though he had been saving it up all day long. She feared he probably had.
    Her brow furrowed. “So, Mr. Scott, did you do anything exciting today?”
    “Let’s see now. I met a few ladies in the market and had them round for tea. Then, I invited them to lie down on their bellies so I could use their backs as canvases while I practiced me tattoo artistry. It was brilliant fun.” His tone couldn’t have been flatter.
    “Oh, Mr. Scott, didn’t you do anything today?”
    “You know damn well I did as I always do. I read me books and did me crosswords. Now stop na ggin’ me. I hired you to be me R ealtor, not me nanny. And it’s Avery. ‘Mr. Scott’ is me father, and after so many years, I’ll thank you to remember that.” He turned from the door and stalked off, grumbling as to why, three years ago, he’d chosen Katie to represent him in the buying and selling of some investment properties.
    “Because I have a quick wit and keep you on your toes.” She followed behind him, answering his mumblings. “I remind you of your British roots. That’s why.”
    Plopping onto the plump leather sofa, he belted a laugh that echoed from the high arched doorway. “That you do, lass, that you do. Have I grown so predictable that you can read me thoughts now?”
    “Well, yes.” Katie’s smirk pulled into a grin. “And you grumble when you’re upset.”
    He gestured for her to take a seat. “Surely, you didn’t come over