Mistletoe and Mr. Right

by Lyla Payne

  Grady snaps the reins again and the horses break into a gallop, leaving me to burn with hot lust at the images accompanying his sexy-as-hell reply. We fly toward the McCormacks’, living a different present than I could possibly have foreseen when agreeing to take this trip almost four thousand miles from home.

  And just like that, Grandfather Donnelly’s words make sense. Since my trip to Ireland ended with Brennan and I going our separate ways instead of better than ever, it might seem as though my plan missed its mark.

  But glancing sideways at Grady next to me in the sleigh, a snow-covered Ireland surrounding us, and an unstoppable grin making my cheeks ache, it’s not so hard to believe that maybe I’ve ended up in, if not the right place, the one I was meant for all along.

  Epilogue

  The road to Fanore is still narrow, still treacherous, and still impossibly dark, but at least this time it’s not raining.

  It’s snowing.

  The streets wind and twist even more than they do in my memory, which is saying a lot, but when I make the turn off toward the Thistle Farmhouse B&B, at least I know to slow down. And watch for goats. I let out a breath once Minicar Extraordinaire slides past the spot where Nanny Goat and I had our altercation last year, then jump when a warm, calloused hand covers mine.

  “Oh, look; it’s where we first met.”

  I shake my head, still not daring to take my eyes off the road. “Where you treated me like an annoying American for the first time. So sweet.”

  “Well, you are an annoying American,” Grady points out as we slide into the parking lot unharmed. “But now you’re my annoying American.

  Caramel lights melt through the B&B’s windows like butter, slipping onto the porch and reaching into the parking lot, but not quite reaching our car. Snowflakes tumble downward, dotting the windshield and melting on the hood as I switch off the ignition, undo my seat belt, and turn toward the passenger seat.

  Grady sits there, in the flesh for the first time in over six months. He’d been to visit me once while he’d been in the States applying for a couple of photography internships, but the visit had been too short and involved too many other people.

  I’d jumped at the chance to visit Fanore for Christmas again, this time with an actual invitation.

  Grady’s rough hands brush my jaw, bringing my thoughts back to the present. Then his lips are on mine and we’re struggling to get close enough around the stick shift and console and too many clothes, but I can’t ever get close enough to Grady.

  His tongue sweeps over my bottom lip, opening me up for his pleasure and I tip my head, giving him all the access he wants. My hands drift down, toying with the inch of bare skin between his collar and chin, earning a groan that sends heated tingles all the way to my toes. We’re both breathing hard when we pull apart, his forehead pressed against mine while we fight for normal heart rates and proper oxygen.

  “You are going to kill me, Jessie.”

  “I hope not. We’ve barely gotten started and you’ll have to last the whole summer.”

  A silly smile deepens his dimples. “You and me in Greece. All summer. You in a totally inappropriate skimpy swimsuit.”

  Grady and I both got internships with an up-and-coming news-reporting website—me doing social media reporting and him covering the photography end. It was pure luck they assigned us to the same location.

  “I can’t believe we both got internships at the same communications company.” I poke him playfully and he catches my hand, running fingers over my palm. Electricity zaps every nerve ending. “It must be the luck of the Irish.”

  He rolls his eyes, leaning in to capture my lips with his again. We get lost in tongues and hands and skin for a little while longer, and when we stop to breathe I notice it’s cold. “We should go inside. You know the family is waiting with a midnight snack.”

  I can picture it now—not a daydream this time, because it lives in my memory—Molly skipping around, trying to get Katie’s attention or sparring with her brother. Mrs. Donnelly setting the table, wetting the tea, checking her desserts. Mr. Donnelly yelling at his kids to settle down and his father, old Granddad, presiding over the mess of wonderful that he helped create.

  The holly wreath on the front door beckons us inside. It was so nice of them to invite us both for the holiday. Two little orphans, for all intents and purposes, who managed to find each other in the most unlikely of circumstances.

  “Shall we?” Grady asks, getting out of the car and offering his arm as though he’s a gentleman.

  I know better, and what’s more, I prefer it that way. An idea goes off like a lightbulb over my head before we make it three steps and I sneak him a conspiratorial grin that makes him groan, this time for a different reason.

  “I know that look, little Jessie. What devious plan is on your mind?”

  “I was just thinking we should go check on Nanny.”

  “She’s fine, I fed her before I came to pick you up,” he insists, taking another step toward the house.

  “Yeah, but I mean, maybe you and I should go check on her. Just to be sure. In the barn. Alone. Where it’s warm and no one ever goes except you …”

  The lightbulb goes off for him and the wicked grin he gives me in return makes me think I could love this man with everything I’m worth until the end of my days.

  “Ah, yes. Nanny Goat. She was looking a bit off, now that I really think about it.” He grabs my hand, tugging me along. “I’ll need your help, of course.”

  I trot along beside him, happiness shooting out from my smile and my chest and out the ends of my fingers. There’s no way my body can contain it all, and if happiness were made of real energy, the whole town of Fanore would experience a power surge.

  Grady tugs the barn door shut behind us and grabs me in his arms, twirling me around until my feet lift off the ground and, once again, the complete turnaround my life has taken in a year makes me want to stop and stare. Touch it to make sure it’s real.

  “I just realized I’ve never showed you how soft the clean hay in the loft can be,” he muses, setting me on my feet. “We should try it.”

  I lean in and kiss him with everything I’ve got, tasting and teasing and trying to understand every last bit of Grady Callaghan, even though we’ve got all the time in the world to do just that.

  I pull away, his shirt fisted in my hands, and give him my most serious nod. “We should try everything.”

  Acknowledgements

  I am so grateful to everyone who helped this novella become a reality in a very short period of time—starting with County Clare, Ireland, itself for the inspiration. The people there (particularly the McCormacks, who hosted us at their B&B, the Donour Lodge) run a close second. Everyone was friendly, quick with a smile, and so proud to share facts and secrets about the land they call home. I’ll never forget it.

  Second, my agent Kathleen Rushall, who fleshed out more than one little idea with me before we landed on a few that might work. She’s fast—her mind, her e-mail responses, her wit—and I stop on a regular basis to appreciate how much she’s brought to both my writing and my career. Thank you for taking a chance on us a year and half ago.

  Meredith Rich, my editor at Bloomsbury Spark—this is our first project together and we already know it won’t be our last (!). After seeing how your notes and thoughts and improvements turned this novella into something more than it could have been without you, I couldn’t be happier about that fact. Thank you for believing in me!

  I also want to thank everyone else at Bloomsbury whom I have yet to “meet” but know worked hard to put this book into reader’s hands—cover designers, assistants, formatters, editors—thank you for your hard work. As someone who has done it all herself for over two years, I know how much of your precious time has been given to me.

  Thank you to my family, as always, for asking when my next book is coming out, for wanting to know how things are going even when all I do is mumble at you from behind dirty curtain
s of hair while not looking up from my laptop—even on vacation. To my dear, dear friends and critique partners, Leigh Ann Kopans and Denise Grover Swank, who are involved and much loved, even when they’re not so involved or much loved.

  Last but never least, thank you, Paul, for cleaning the kitchen when I’ve let it sit, for making me dinners (that you’ve sometimes foraged yourself), and for your ever-so-polite reminders that perhaps a shower might be in order. Even I have to admit that you’re sometimes right about that.

  Also By Lyla Payne

  Not Quite Dead

  Not Quite Cold

  Going for Broke (published in Fifty First Times: A New Adult Anthology)

  Broken at Love (USA Today Bestseller)

  By Referral Only

  Be My Downfall

  Staying On Top

  To find out where you can purchase these titles, please visit

  http://lylapayne.com/books/

  About the Author

  Lyla Payne has been publishing New Adult romance novels for a little over a year, starting with Broken at Love and continuing with the rest of the Whitman University series. She loves telling stories, discovering the little reasons people fall in love, and uncovering hidden truths in the world around us – past and present. In her spare time she cuddles her two dogs, pretends to enjoy exercising so that she can eat as much Chipotle as she wants, and harbors a deep and abiding hope that Zac Efron likes older women. She loves reading, of course, along with movies, traveling, and Irish whiskey. Lyla’s hard at work, ALWAYS, and hopes to bring you more Whitman University antics and at least one more Lowcountry Ghost tale before the end of the year.

  If you want to know more, please visit http://lylapayne.com

  If you’re a fan of Young Adult fiction—science fiction or otherwise—please check out her work that’s published under the name Trisha Leigh. http://trishaleigh.com

  Bloomsbury Publishing, London, New Delhi, New York and Sydney

  Copyright © 2014 by Lyla Payne

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce, or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means, (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  First published in November 2014

  by Bloomsbury Spark, an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing, Inc.

  www.bloomsbury.com

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Bloomsbury Spark, 1385 Broadway, New York, New York 10018

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  available upon request

  ISBN 978-1-61963-817-4

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  Cover design by Ashley Poston