Mistletoe and Mr. Right

by Lyla Payne

  “Why do you want to be a news anchor?” he asks, startling me out of my cocoon. I frown at him, but Grady doesn’t even have the good sense to pretend to be sorry for eavesdropping.

  “I don’t know. It’s a steady paycheck, and it’s a service people need.”

  “Hmm.” I’m starting to realize that Grady is good at watching, at listening, and he might not realize he’s looking at me like I’m an idiot when his brain is focused on gathering information. “But with the Internet and considering that most people avoid the news because all it does is remind them of things they can’t change, don’t you think that’s a tad … obsolete?”

  “Well, when you put it that way.” I poke him and he grabs my wrist to thwart the attack. A pop, then a sizzle shoots up my arm, dissolving into a shiver when it hits my armpit.

  Grady drops my wrist like it’s covered in acid, swallowing hard and shifting on his crate. I’m desperate to break the sudden tension, to bring our level of comfort back to where it was moments ago. My brain function fades to a minimum in the wake of his touch, my tongue stumbling over ums and wells before finding the rest of my explanation.

  “I think you’re right. With the way the Internet is changing reporting, people our age and younger are going to go out of their way to avoid the networks. They’re slanted. In politician’s pockets. News is going to be a grassroots project, probably through social media because of its immediacy. Any network that wants to stay relevant is going to hire more reporters and send them everywhere with their smartphones.”

  The opinion rolls off my tongue without a second thought because it’s something I’ve thought about often—I even turned in a massive research paper on the subject. If I were a different person, traveling the world and reporting news in real time, no network filter, would be super appealing.

  “I can see that. We’re already seeing it, really, with the way social media sites are where people go to see what’s trending by the minute.” He nods, his gaze thoughtful but more guarded than it was a moment ago. “But you, Jessie MacFarlane, still want to sit in a studio every night and read someone else’s words off one of those things.”

  “Teleprompter,” I supply, feeling attacked. “And I don’t think my getting blown up or working for pennies, never knowing where I’m going to lay my head from one night to the next is going to change the world.”

  “I think we don’t know who or what will change the world.” A strange sadness touches his smile. “Our world changes, and then we trace back to the spark. The moment the earth tipped on its axis.”

  Questions stick in my throat because he’s lost in a memory. As someone with deep, private closets of her own, I know better than to force open the door. The idea that this guy I’ve never met thinks it’s possible to change the world—that I could change the world—opens up windows in front of my eyes. In my soul.

  They let in too much light, too many possibilities, and fear makes me slam them shut.

  “Maybe. But I know I’m not brave enough to take on a project like that.”

  “Not part of the plan?” He gives me a smile, but it hasn’t recovered from whatever triggered his melancholy.

  “Nope. Afraid not.”

  Grady’s shoulders tense as he reaches out, calloused fingers brushing the back of my hand. My brain insists I jerk it away, that taking comfort from a guy not my boyfriend is wrong, but my body refuses.

  “I’m sorry your surprise didn’t go off as planned. If it makes you feel any better, the Donnellys aren’t going to approve of anyone for Brennan who isn’t Katie McBride. So, it’s not totally your fault.” He pauses, managing a more familiar, teasing smile this time. “Aside from the attempted vehicular goat-slaughter, of course.”

  “Ha.” I pull my hand away under the pretense of straightening my ponytail. “Wait, who is Katie McBride?”

  “Brennan’s high school sweetheart. First love. Maeve named all six grandkids they were going to give her.” A line of wrinkles appears between his eyebrows. “He never mentioned her?”

  I’ll say one thing about Grady Callaghan. He sure knows how to ruin a moment.

  After freeing myself from the comfortable confines of the barn and trekking back across the crusty, cold snow toward the farmhouse, I’m greeted by Donnellys. They tumble out of two cars, and the sight of Brennan and a girl I don’t recognize supporting a pale, sweating, barely conscious Mr. Donnelly between them dries up my greeting in my throat.

  Chapter Five

  “Oh my God, what happened?” I’m breathless after sprinting the last several yards to the front porch, following my boyfriend and the mystery girl into the house.

  “He had an allergic reaction,” Brennan grunts, laying his father on the couch in the living room. “He’s going to be fine, just a bit drugged up.”

  “What? How did that happen?”

  The guilt tightening the skin on Brennan’s face makes my palms sweat. “Don’t freak out, chicken, but my dad’s allergic to nutmeg. He thought that pie you left in the fridge was sweet potato, because that’s what we eat at Christmas dinner, and snuck a few bites.”

  I actually feel the blood drain out of my face. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know, I swear!”

  “Of course you didn’t, dear.” There are lines on Mrs. Donnelly’s face that weren’t there this morning, and even though fatigue still tugs at my eyes, there’s no way she looks any better. “It was an accident, pure and simple. We’re lucky Katie was there.”

  Katie?

  I turn toward the stranger, a girl around my age with waves of silky black hair flowing from underneath an adorable green knit hat, complete with pink flower on the side. The color of the hat is no match for her eyes, which are the shade of emeralds and just as sparkly. Freckles scatter across her perky nose and the smile that splits her cheeks could probably power this whole damn island.

  If this is Katie McBride, the girl is a nightmare. Mine, anyway.

  “Oh, right.” Brennan clears his throat. “Jessica, this is an old … friend. Katie McBride.”

  “Katie McBride, the hero of the day,” Molly chirps after stomping every last flake of snow from her boots and leaving them by the front door.

  I look down to find mine leaving puddles on the polished oak floors.

  “Stop it, you all. All I did was recognize the issue and get an EpiPen from the first aid kit in my car.” A pretty pink blush splashes across her cheeks. She turns an apologetic gaze toward me. “I’m a member of the volunteer fire department, so I always carry one. It was seriously no big deal.”

  Great. I basically try to murder Mr. Donnelly and Katie McBride steps up to save his life.

  “It’s lucky you were there,” I tell her with what feels like a decent attempt at a smile.

  “Wasn’t it?” Molly beams. “And she’s staying for Christmas!”

  Brennan puts an arm around my waist, eyes brimming with an apology he’s either not able or willing to verbalize among others. It helps that he at least realizes why this would be uncomfortable for me even though he’s never mentioned this girl, ever. “We ran into her in town, and once Molly found out her family is in Africa for the holiday, she insisted—as in, threatened to handcuff her if she said no—that she come back and spend the next couple of days here with us.”

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Jessica,” Katie says in a soft voice. “Brennan didn’t stop talking about you the whole drive.”

  “The whole drive? Wow.” The smart-ass reply slips out, surprising everyone including me. It’s on the tip of my sassy tongue to inform her that this is the first time I’ve heard her name but that seems like taking Grady’s advice to relax a bit too far. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

  “I’m freezing my bollocks off. Can one of you mongrels shut the blasted front door?” Grandpa Donnelly snarls, prodding his granddaughter with the rubber end of his cane.

  Molly responds, skipping out of the room with a grin on her face. In fact, all of the Donnellys are smiling, and I’m not a
selfish enough person to wish a lonely Christmas on Katie. But part of me wonders whether or not inviting her had been the plan all along, derailed by my showing up unannounced.

  But there must be a reason Brennan never mentioned her. We’ve talked about past relationships and he mentioned that he dated a few girls in high school, but when I’d confessed that he’s my first real boyfriend he’d allowed me to believe there weren’t any serious ex-girlfriend’s lurking behind door number two, either.

  Mr. Donnelly and his crotchety father shuffle off to bed after hanging up coats and scarves and boots in the foyer and Molly bids us all goodnight at her mother’s prodding. It’s late—after midnight—and Katie’s yawning. I’m past tired, too, but Brennan pulls me aside when his mother slings a fleshy arm around her hero of a guest and sweeps her away.

  “I have to tell you something,” he says, making a face that says he thinks I’m going to freak out.

  “Let me guess. Katie’s your gorgeous first love and your parents are still secretly hoping the two of you will work it out, get married, populate the island with beautiful babies, and live happily ever after?”

  He eyes me, not sure what to think if his expression is any indication. “Pretty much, yeah. How do you know that?”

  “Lucky guess.” I sigh at the flash of annoyance on his face. “Grady.”

  “You two just keep running into each other when I’m not around, huh?” Brennan gives me a thin smile. “Don’t believe everything he says about me.”

  “But his assessment of your past with Katie is spot on?”

  “Yes and no. It’s true my parents love her and things were serious for a while. But we were kids, Jessica. People grow up. Apart. Move on. You know the drill.”

  Even though everything he’s saying makes perfect sense, it doesn’t sound as though Brennan’s fully convinced by his own argument. There’s nothing to be done about it now, though, and everything will look better—or at least clearer—after some shut-eye. Maybe.

  I fall asleep thinking that even though I took Grady’s advice about speaking my mind with Brennan—on accident, mostly—it did not, as predicted by the rugged farmhand, bring the Donnellys any closer to acceptance.

  *

  The time change plagues me into the following morning, my screwy internal clock rousing me as soon as the sun peers over the horizon and leaps into my room. My eyeballs might as well be on fire, the lids weighed down like lead, but try as I might, sleep dances just outside my reach.

  My stomach growls, reminding me there had been no dinner last night. Even if breakfast is still a little ways off, maybe I can scare up some more of that soda bread. Or I could make something for the Donnellys—something American to show them that fitting me into their family could be fun.

  The idea takes root as I tug my unruly—and apparently Scottish—hair back into a braid. All of the loose pieces stay put with the assistance of a half a sheet of bobby pins. Jeans and a clean sweater, plus water splashed on my face and a good toothbrushing, almost make me feel like a human being.

  Since my watch claims it’s only a few minutes past six, it’s no surprise that the hallway that leads from my first-floor guest room into the kitchen is dark and quiet. In my daydreams mothers are up the day before Christmas Eve, putting last-minute touches on cookies and pies, but six is probably pushing it, even for daydreams.

  Which is why the sight of Katie McBride at the kitchen’s island, her feet dangling from a bar stool, takes me by surprise. She’s clad in pajamas and thick wool socks that look homemade, hair mussed, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug of tea and the other holding a ratty paperback of Wuthering Heights.

  The girl looks for all the world like she’s never belonged anywhere but in this kitchen.

  She looks up, her bright green eyes hardly hindered by the glasses she must have swapped for her contacts, and smiles. “Good mornin’, Jessica. I’ve wet the tea if you’re interested.”

  “Thanks.” I’d still rather have coffee but the scent of the tea as it pours into the sturdy mug is different than what Mrs. Donnelly whipped up yesterday—all honey and cloves and cinnamon—and my mouth waters.

  Taking the tea and shuffling back to my room is more than a bit tempting but that would seem like running away. For all of her beauty, for all of her history with my boyfriend, Katie probably knows Brennan better than anyone else. I’m not above picking her brain under the guise of friendliness.

  And yeah, maybe I want to see if she thinks it’s over.

  When I slide onto the stool at the end of the counter, she puts down her book without marking her place, takes a lazy sip of her tea, and cocks her head toward the paperback. “Have you ever read it?”

  “Wuthering Heights? Sure. It’s one of my favorites.” I’ve always wondered what it says about me that the stories of tragic love speak to me more than the sweet kind. Another one of those questions best left unexamined.

  Katie nods. “I read it every Christmas.”

  “Me, too,” I allow, even though admitting we have anything in common makes me want to scoop my eyeballs out with a melon baller.

  “And want to give Heathcliff a good smack as a holiday present,” she laughs, the sound tinkling off the china in the cabinets. “But I have a feeling he’s the kind of guy who never learns.”

  “I’m pretty sure Catherine knew what she was getting into, anyway.” I take a sip of my own tea, which is lovely on my tongue as it was in my nose, and can’t help but smile.

  “I suppose you’re right. Women know what kind of mess they’ve gotten themselves into with the man they choose. Or gotten themselves out of,” she finishes in a softer tone, eyes faraway now, like they’ve taken a train ten years into the past. She looks so sad sitting here in the misty morning, like a leprechaun kicked out of the hive for giving away one too many pots of gold.

  A droplet of sadness splashes into my curiosity. There’s no good reason that I, Brennan’s current girlfriend, should be interested in the regrets of his former, but who am I to argue with my gut?

  I’m not willing to give up Brennan, but I am willing to let her talk. Weirdly enough.

  The far-off expression dissolves with her next drink of tea, replaced with a conspiratorial grin and an impossibly charming accent. “So, Molly says Grady Callaghan’s been bailing you out of trouble right and left since you got here. What do you think of Ireland? And the Donnellys?”

  “Gosh, that is so true about Grady. What’s his story, anyway?” I almost bite my tongue trying to stop the question before it escapes. I’m supposed to be finding out more about Brennan. My boyfriend. Not indulging my increasingly hard to ignore obsession with his childhood friend.

  The glint in Katie’s bright gaze says she didn’t miss my flash of horror. “Grady’s story is a sad one, I’m afraid, and he’s pretty private about it. He’s stuck in Fanore but he has his reasons. He and Brennan have always been competitive, but he’s a good guy. A really good guy, actually.”

  “Ireland is lovely,” I say to change the subject, cautious of my choices now. “I mean, even covered in snow and freezing cold.”

  “But you’re from Missouri, yeah? It’s one of the few places in the States that I haven’t visited,” she comments easily. “But I imagine you get plenty of winter.”

  My heart perks up at the mention of home. I hadn’t expected to miss it quite as much as I do, especially since there’s no Christmas-scented kitchen waiting for me there. “You’ve been to the States often?”

  “Yes. My parents are both international teachers, so we’ve moved around a lot, and on our summer holidays we almost always spent time in the States.”

  “That’s nice.” Totally lame response, but I just don’t care to hear about how much more well rounded and courageous she is than me.

  “Have you traveled much?”

  “Nope. This is my first time abroad.”

  “Really? Wow. I could make you a list of places you’ve just got to see, but it would be a hundred cities
long.” Excitement peels off her in wisps, trying to infect me.

  I’m so jealous my hands curl into excited fists. Not because she’s been there, but because it’s hopeless to think I ever could. “I don’t know if I’ll make it much farther. I’m a bit of a nervous traveler.”

  “Really? I thought Brennan said you wanted to be a journalist.” She sits slightly forward, watching me over the rim of her mug. “Won’t you have to pay your dues covering international stories for a few years?”

  It crosses my mind to be pleased that Brennan was actually talking about me in the car and that wasn’t just something she said to appease me after her sudden appearance. But there’s an edge to her words. A challenge, one that I’m more than willing to take. If things aren’t going to work out for Brennan and me, fine. It won’t be because of this girl, though.

  “I do want to be a journalist but I’m afraid the boring kind that sits behind a desk on a network affiliate is more my speed.” I smile, softening what could sound defensive. She can’t know she gets to me with her perfect face and her happy laugh and the years of history in this house. “Brennan doesn’t really get it, I don’t think.”

  “Jessica, he’s a guy. If their mickeys had ears everyone would be better off.”

  “I’m assuming a mickey is a penis,” I choke out.

  She nods and we dissolve into genuine laughter. It leaves me missing my sorority sisters, a raw ache that throbs a bit in my chest. Katie refills our tea, and even though there’s a lull in the conversation it’s not uncomfortable at all, at least not considering we’re two girls who barely know each other.

  I squash my instinct to like her, remembering why I’m here in Ireland. “So, tell me about you and Brennan.”

  She waves a hand, her eyes sad again like maybe they’ve been that way underneath all the time. “You don’t want to hear about that. Ancient history.”

  I roll my eyes. “Come on. We’re barely twenty. It can’t have been more than three years ago.”