Although she wouldn’t have passed up sharing his bed either.
‘Jeez,’ she chastised herself. ‘I need to get a grip.’
“This is much better,” Christine said, setting the glass back down in front of Mac. She was going to need her own glass.
“You can finish it,” Mac said, pushing the glass back to her.
Christine stifled the urge to shake her head. He was being nice. Nice sucked. Nice meant he was trying not to piss her off. Which meant boring.
“Maybe I’ll try a mojito instead. Those are green, right? Something festive. Are you Irish?” He had to be with his red hair. He looked a little annoyed by the question and Christine wondered if she’d hit a nerve.
“Yeah, but I don’t celebrate St. Patrick’s Day.”
“How is that possible? Everyone celebrates St. Patrick’s Day. You’re Irish. Doesn’t that mean you have to celebrate?”
His jaw ticked as he sipped the glass of wine he’d just offered her the rest of. She smiled to herself, wondering if she was going to get to see something other than a polite guy who would bore her to tears by the end of the night.
“I guess that’s why. Why bother celebrating when amateur drunks were pretending they had any idea what was really going on? St. Patrick’s day isn’t about drinking. It was originally just meant as a day to celebrate the man who brought religion to Ireland.”
“Whoa,” Christine interrupted his tirade. “I didn’t know you were so passionate about it.”
“Yeah, well, it’s frustrating that the Irish get accused of being drunks all the time when the people who cause the biggest problems aren’t usually even Irish. We can hold our damn liquor. Not the lightweights who think they can drink me under a table and then get pissed when they pass out and I could probably drive home.”
Christine smirked. “Well, that sounds like a story. Why don’t you tell me about it?”