by Lyla Payne
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Also By Lyla Payne
Mistletoe Sneak Peek!
Title Page
Dedication
BEFORE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
AFTER
Thank You
Not Quite Dead
First World Problems
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright 2014 by Lyla Payne
Cover Design: Complete Pixel
Cover Photography: Mikel Anne Arnce
Cover Models: Lainey and Brian Good
Copyediting: Bethany Reis
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used factiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Also by LYLA PAYNE
Broken at Love
By Referral Only
Be My Downfall
Staying On Top
Going for Broke (published in Fifty First Times: A New Adult Anthology)
Not Quite Dead
Not Quite Cold
Mistletoe & Mr. Right (turn the page for a sneak peek)!
Mistletoe & Mr. Right is a Christmas novella (that means it’s short!) set in Fanore, Ireland, a beautiful little place in County Clare (on the Western coast) that I had the privilege of visiting last summer. I hope you enjoy this sneak peek!
Chapter One
All my daydreams of Ireland are colored in greens—lime shades, olive hues, carpets of emerald grass all topped by a stormy sky. The reality disappoints me with far-reaching grays and whites, sprinkles of browns, and the slightest hint of purple on the cliff side, but then again, maybe I held expectations that were too high for December. It wouldn’t be the first time in my life that expectations didn’t live up to reality.
Nerves dance in my stomach, taking lessons for tangos or fox-trots, maybe hoping to make it big on So You Think You Can Dance, and not only because the rain slanting across the windshield of the winner of the Tiniest Rental Car Ever turns difficult travel into a nightmare. The roads in Western Ireland wind and twist, turning back on themselves like a slithering snake, bordered by waist-high stone walls that appear to have grown straight up out of the earth. Boulders so massive they must have been dropped there by giants litter the steep hillsides, adding to the wonder of being in a new country for the first time in my life.
I’ve never driven on the wrong side of the road before, or from the wrong side of a car, and this is the first time I’ve driven a stick shift in over four years. More than a few tree branches have fallen victim to my bad American driving since I left the airport in Shannon. With the increasing rain and the fact that I’m not the best driver in the world even in familiar conditions, it seems possible that I may not make it to Fanore alive.
That would put a real damper on my boyfriend’s surprise Christmas gift—my unexpected presence at his family’s bed-and-breakfast.
I take the last turn toward Brennan’s hometown and settle back into the seat, trying my best to relax my death grip on the wheel. The small village—wee, from his descriptions—won’t appear for at least another thirty miles.
A smile touches my lips at the thought of the last four months with my boyfriend; a smile that’s aiming for nostalgia but stretches too thin. Too nervous. The night we met lingers in the back of my mind, like a ghostly handprint, but mostly it reminds me of all the hopes of that fresh beginning.
And how they’ve started to fade …
It had all been perfect. Like a movie, like the way I’d planned on my life taking that all-important turn toward forever exactly when I’d planned on taking it.
*
Junior year started a week ago, but we’ve been too slammed getting through recruitment with Gamma Sigma to enjoy any of it. Semesters begin early for sorority girls, and the first parties never take place until after bids have been passed around to new pledges and we’ve all managed to assure them we’re capable of conducting ourselves like proper ladies.
I’m tired, worn out even though classes have barely started, and inclined to blow off the Lambda party, but my roommate Christina refuses to take no for an answer. As usual.
“Jessica, seriously. Come on. We’ve been holed up in this house staring at résumés, faking smiles, and eating peanut-butter sandwiches for over two weeks. Let’s get out. Smile for real. Maybe even laugh.”
“I don’t feel like it.” I cast a look toward my ethics textbook, the sight of which inspires reconsideration. “What would I even wear?”
“Who cares what you wear? Just get up and put something on.” She knocks my feet off my desk and goes to stand in front of the mirror, slathering on thick lip gloss and sticking on fake eyelashes while I drag a simple plum-colored sundress from the closet we share.
“This?”
“Sure. It’ll make your eyes pop.” She eyes me in the mirror. “Maybe straighten your hair.”
I groan, but one look at the dark brown nest atop my head cuts off any formal argument.
We’re primped, out our door, and through the door to the party within the hour. The Greek houses at TCU are on-campus dorms, which means no parties, raging or otherwise, so we’re being hosted by one of the Lambda brothers at his rental.
It’s a standard night, with standard red plastic cups brimming with watery Natty Light from the keg and standard music pumping through their sound system as Chris picks up a drink and leads me into the backyard. The sweltering air sticks my dress to every piece of wet skin, and my hair clings to the nape of my neck. Everyone around me slams their drinks, desperate to get to the point where they don’t notice how uncomfortable they are, but the idea of losing control of my mouth or my body has always seemed far worse than enduring the heat of Texas in August. Or anything else, for that matter.
I sip a bottle of water, laughing when the mood hits me, mostly scanning the crowd for this guy Jeremy that I’ve had a crush on since he played in our charity soccer tournament last year.
Instead, I keep catching grass-green eyes attached to shaggy brown hair and a stupidly handsome face over by the fire pit. I’ve never seen the guy before, and he doesn’t really fit the über-rich, preppy mold of a Lambda, which makes me think he must be new. TCU is too big for me to know everyone, but after three years it’s small enough to recognize all of the faces.
“Are you going over there, or what?” Chris slurs, her gaze following mine. “You two have been staring for like, two hours.”
I shrug, uncomfortable. “I don’t know. I like it better when the guy makes the first move.”
“What?” Her eyes pop open in exaggerated shock and she clutches her chest, which is easy to do since it’s shoved halfway out of her clingy black top. “Je
ssica MacFarlane, feminist and go-getter extraordinaire, thinks her ten-year plan is going to come together waiting for a guy to make the first move? Keep dreaming.”
I whack her arm but can’t help smiling. Chris and I have been close since pledging Gamma Sig together freshman year, but we’re total opposites—starting with the fact that she thinks my plan is complete crap.
That said, she has a point. If I’m going to get engaged within a year of college graduation, giving me plenty of time to travel and establish a career before having the first of two children, maybe the time for waiting has passed. I’m already a junior, after all.
Who says guys have to make the first move, anyway?
I smooth my dress, toss my hair, hoping the humidity hasn’t turned it into a coonskin cap, and take a deep breath. “Okay. I’m going in.”
The walk across the small yard seems to take an eternity, especially since Handsome sees me coming before I make it halfway there and breaks into a heart-stopping smile.
“I must say, I like being the one who makes someone else walk across a room for once.” He greets me with an unbelievable accent, his green eyes fastened to my face. “I’m Brennan. Donnelly.”
“Jessica MacFarlane,” I manage, my fingers tightening around my sweaty plastic bottle. It pops and his eyebrows go up, his whole face smiling. “That’s a great accent. California?”
He laughs, luckily aware I’m joking, and my muscles relax the slightest bit. This isn’t so bad.
“Ireland, I’m afraid.”
“What are you doing in Texas?”
And so the conversation unfolded, uncovering mundane facts about him and about me, until he loosened up enough to ask for my number before we headed our separate ways. He called after the standard three days, we’d gone to another party together, and that had been that. Nothing special, except for him, and the way he checked every box on my list.
*
Unlike everyone else in my life, Brennan didn’t comment on my not drinking. He didn’t think it was weird that I have to have every last detail planned out. He lets me be me, which is great.
Or it was great. I frown, pulling my thoughts back to the present as the sign for Fanore pops up on the side of the road. Now, after four months of fun but no clear direction for the future, I’m wondering if Brennan’s lack of interest in how I do things translates to a lack of interest in general.
And I’m not getting any younger.
A gust of wind knocks the car sideways and I focus harder, noting that my boyfriend was not joking when he described Fanore as a blip in the road. Maybe four turnoffs angle from the main road, where there are two pubs, a post-office-slash-convenience-store, and a few other storefronts I can’t make out through the rivulets streaming down the foggy windshield.
The sign declaring the turn for the Thistle Farmhouse B&B comes out of nowhere. My tires lock and slide when I slam on the brakes in an attempt to navigate the turn, but they manage to keep me on the road. The car slams into dirty, deep puddles of mud along the unpaved road toward the Donnellys’ bed-and-breakfast, jarring my teeth and sending vibrations through my limbs. My knuckles are so tight on the wheel my fingers have gone numb, and I force slow breaths out through my nose. We’re almost there. Dying on an Irish back road to nowhere before college graduation is not part of the plan.
Cows and sheep graze beside the road, oblivious to the freezing sheets of rain, and if there are fences keeping them safe from my kamikaze driving, they aren’t visible at the moment. At least three other bed-and-breakfasts lurk in the mist—one called the White House, and then the Donour Lodge, which has some amazing landscaping. Fanore lies deep in the country, with the crashing ocean and rocky beach on my right and nothing but pastures and homes on the left. The Donnellys’ place must be the pretty white farmhouse up ahead.
I squint, trying to guess how much farther, when something white and furry flashes in front of the car.
This time the brakes respond to my frantic stomps, tires working hard to grip the sludge of the road, but they can’t prevent the nauseating thunk followed by a pathetic mewl that challenges the rush of the wind.
Purchase Mistletoe & Mr. Right
by:
USAToday Bestselling Author
LYLA PAYNE
For all of the readers who believed Sebastian could be saved. This one’s for you.
BEFORE
Audra
New York City is as awe-inspiring as everyone claims, but I didn’t expect it to be so dirty.
It’s been snowing off and on for the two weeks I’ve been here, and even though February is snow-covered in Scotland, too, at home the landscape is pristine. Here the precipitation hardens into filthy blocks of frozen black slush within ten minutes of hitting the ground. It’s a little prettier in some parts of Central Park, one of my favorite haunts since I’ve done nothing but wander and fret since coming here to hide after Christmas in Scotland, but I’m starting to think maybe beauty isn’t the draw of this city, anyway.
Being beautiful doesn’t mean much, not in the long run. It comes, it goes, it leaves nothing behind on the nightstand the morning after. New York is better than pretty—it’s energetic. It’s magical and enigmatic and the streets are paved with the footsteps and successes of hundreds of thousands of people who’ve walked them before me. Made it through some tough shite before me.
Maybe some of them even had a raunchy sex tape snake its way onto the internet and lived to tell the tale.
My stomach twists hard at the thought of Logan and how stupid and trusting I’d been while we dated. Even the thought of a long walk in the park can’t cheer me up.
Instead, I shuffle out to the living room of the Paddingtons’ impressive penthouse on the Upper East Side and stare out the window. I’m not technically an invited guest because no one knows I’m here, but Blair had offered the place to me anytime I wanted to use it. She probably assumed I’d tell her first.
Despite my better judgment I pick up my phone and press the entry Shitstain, which is what Logan Walters has become on my life. It rings once and then goes to voicemail, letting me know that he declined the call. After ruining my life and chasing me off Whitman’s campus in shame and terror, the sexual predator can’t even take my calls.
Hi, it’s Logan. Leave it or don’t, makes no difference to me.
I take a deep breath, swallowing a hot, slimy ball of hatred and disgust, and try smiling. Because some asshole teaching good phone etiquette somewhere says the person on the other end of the line can hear my expression.
“Hi, Logan. It’s Audra, you remember me.” Swallow it harder, Audra. “I wondered if we could talk. There’s got to be something I can do to change your mind about how you handled our … breakup. Call me. Please.”
Bile coats the back of my tongue before my phone hits the couch. Having to use my sweetest voice to beg that piece of shite to please consider taking my naked body off the internet curls my hands into fists, burns my eyes with tears, even after six weeks. But I’ve tried crying, I’ve tried screaming, and I’ve gotten not a peep.
I thought I’d at least try to attract the cockroach with honey, but that approach isn’t working, either.
A dark head bobs toward the front door of the apartment building, face half hidden by trademark bitch glasses. The designer jeans, printed scarf, and classic Burberry bag hanging off her arm could belong to dozens of snooty women who live on this block.
But they don’t. They belong to Blair.
Crap.
It’s not surprising that she found me. If she wasn’t so smitten with Sam Bradford, spending at least two weekends a month flying around the world to sit in the stands at his tennis matches, she probably would have shown up sooner. My palms break out in a sweat because I’m not ready to face someone else with the truth. To watch them think, Jeez, Audra, could you be any dumber?
A little sliver of relief pierces my nerves, making me stop moving. For the first time, my mind turns over the idea that maybe try
ing to deal with this whole thing—or not deal with it, as the case may be—on my own might be more than I can handle. I hate that I ran. I am a Scot, not a runner. A facer.
Yet Logan Walters sent me scurrying into a hole. Fuck him.
A key turns in the lock, and then she’s here, in New York City, when she should be getting ready for another week of classes. Blair whips off her giant black sunglasses and gives me a look that clearly asks for an explanation.
No hello, no How are you and where have you been. Just What are you doing in my apartment written in snapping chocolate-brown eyes.
The non-greeting twitches my lips into a weak smile. It’s so Blair, and a rush of longing floods my bloodstream. Tears prick my eyes and spill over onto my cheeks, each one carrying stress that’s been balling up inside me for weeks. They pool around my lips. They taste like relief because I’ve missed her. I miss my life and my sorority sisters and my stupid twin bed.
My tears move her forward and she puts her arms around me in a rare show of affection. The gesture makes me cry harder.
“Okay, okay. You’ve got to calm down. I know you’re the little sister and you’re used to having four big brothers to take care of everything and make it all better, but I am an only child.” She pulls back, discomfort wrinkling her nose. Her hand sweeps back and forth between us. “This? Freaks me out. Talk.”
I sniffle a laugh, wiping my eyes and nose with the sleeve of my pajama top. “You make me sound like a baby.”
Blair rolls her eyes and flops on the leather sofa, tossing her purse on the expensive cherry coffee table like it didn’t cost six hundred dollars. “You are a baby. Now tell me what’s going on.”
The leather is cool against my overheated skin when I sit next to her. My brain wanders through the events of the past several weeks—or really, the one inciting incident that sent me home early for Christmas. Shame, the same kind that made it impossible for me to go back to school not knowing how many of the guys at frat parties have seen me wild and naked, heats my cheeks. Anger is right behind it because I shouldn’t be ashamed. I’m not a prude, and the fact that I had sex with Logan doesn’t bother me—it’s the fact that I didn’t choose to share my body with hundreds of thousands of strangers, too.
