Mistletoe and Mr. Right (2 page)

“Well, I never thought I'd see this in a donkey's years,” a deep baritone sways from the darkness. It startles a squeak from my throat and I slip in the mud trying to stand up. “Here I've been swearing that old goat wasn't ever going to die.”

I make it upright on a second try, tottering on cramped knees while I try to make out the stranger's face through the messy night. He's tall—taller than Brennan by at least a couple of inches—maybe about six foot five, but no one could describe him as skinny. Even bundled up in a thick canvas coat and an askew wool cap, it's no secret this guy takes care of himself. The rain plasters escaped chunks of dark hair against his head, and bright blue eyes reach out and grab me. They brim with concern and something that resembles contempt, with a side of amusement.

The combination makes me bristle even though I've done what he's accusing me of at the moment. “I don't think I've
killed
her.”

Yet.

“Yet,” he grunts, echoing my thought as he crouches near the ailing goat.

I grind my teeth together and try my damnedest not to cry. My tears tend to show up most often when I'm frustrated or embarrassed—or one of my well-laid plans has gone awry—as opposed to signaling actual sadness, and there's nothing more annoying than having people offer comfort just when I feel like punching them.

The goat bleats again and my heart twists. My own pitiful problems climb into the backseat. Where they belong, given that they don't include being mowed down by a vehicle that would be mercilessly bullied on the Texas playground of giant trucks and expensive SUVs.

I shouldn't make fun of the thing. If I'd been driving my ancient “Ford Exploder,” this goat would be toast.

“Is she going to be okay?” I ask, shuffling up behind the guy and chancing a peek over his shoulder.

He doesn't answer but reaches down, prodding her with one hand and lifting with the other until she gets her legs underneath her and crawls to her feet. The goat gives a quick shake, spraying dirty water all over my jeans and the mystery man's olive-green jacket, then hops off into the grass.

“Is she limping?”

“Probably. She just got ran over by a car.” He stands up, using the hem of his jacket to wipe clean the fancy camera hanging around his neck.

I take a deep breath and count to four. Five would have been too many, since the guy has turned to go. “Hey! Thank you. I mean . . . what's your name? I really owe you one.”

“No, the
goat
owes me one. I didn't help her for your sake.” He shakes his head at me, clearly peeved. Maybe she's his favorite goat or something. “You should be more careful. There are sheep in the road more often than not, and the visibility is shit in this weather.”

“I guess that makes it ideal for photography, then?” I snap, unable to stop myself.

The guy—who might be Batman the way he's safeguarding his identity—gives me an appraising look, as though he's just admitted to himself there might be a working brain between my ears. “What are you doing out here, anyway? Don't get many strangers.”

I lift my chin. “Not that it's any of your business, but I'm surprising my boyfriend for Christmas.”

“So, you just thought you'd pop in, huh? That's a great plan. Guys love that.” He grins at me as if he's made a hilarious joke. “Who's your boyfriend?”

I hesitate, because I don't even know why I'm even talking to this stranger. In the rain. To a guy who has just derided my brilliant plan. But ignoring him goes against my Midwestern programming.

“Brennan Donnelly. Do you know him?”

Something flickers across his face—a shadow, gone before its source is revealed. “I know him. Less than two hundred people live in this town, plus I work for the Donnellys.”

He works for the Donnellys? That's awkward.

I swipe my bangs back, squinting through the rain. “Oh? So you're not a full-time photographer of nighttime rainstorms, then? I'm not surprised.”

Except I am sort of surprised. My thoughts turn, as usual, to trying to solve the puzzle in front of me. Like why a guy who appears to be about my age would work on a farm instead of choosing university or a trade.

Stop. Not everyone is smart enough to realize the value of planning things out in advance.

“You're the one
driving
in this mess, with a plan that's going arseways fast,” he shoots back, then closes his eyes as though he's counting to five before sticking out a gloved hand. “I'm Grady Callaghan.”

We're both standing out here getting soaked, so I decide against playing the petulant sorority girl and shake his hand before climbing back into the car, reveling in the dry heat pouring from the vents.

Specks of cold rainwater fly off my coat and splatter on the dash. The goat has disappeared into the dark. Through the streaked windshield I watch Grady Callaghan's retreating form follow suit, and I fight off the worry that he might throw an untimely wrench into the spokes of my brilliant plan.

*

The rest of the two-minute drive to the farmhouse passes without incident, but my neurotic brain won't let go of the idea that Brennan's family is going to find out what just happened and hate me forever. All I can do is hope one surly Grady Callaghan keeps his mouth shut about his goat heroics.

Based on his lack of interest in niceties or friendliness in general, I'm guessing I shouldn't hold my breath, which is a shame because now that the drive is behind me, my plan is otherwise back on track and solid as ever.

If anything has ever looked as good as the warm glow from the white farmhouse's windows, I can't recall it. My nerves return, working on perfecting their cha-cha now, and all the deep breaths in the world aren't going to convince them to take a water break. A glance in the rearview mirror reveals a complete and utter mess—my hair hangs like wet strands of linguini, mascara smudges charcoal half-moons under my eyes, and dirt streaks my forehead and cheeks like pale stripes on a tiger. Add all that to the effects of an eight-hour transatlantic flight, which has graced me with red veins through the whites of my eyes and wrinkled my clothes all to hell, and I can only assume my introduction will be less than stellar. I look more like an overworked hooker who specializes in outdoor sex than a proper girlfriend.

But Brennan will be happy to see me at least.

I pull some face wipes from my toiletry case in the backseat and get rid of the dirt, shed my mud-splattered coat, and pull my hair back into a single braid that immediately starts dripping water on my shoulder. My jeans are still wet and gross, but this is as presentable as it's going to get, so instead of stressing about it I remind myself why I'm here—to find out whether to push in all my chips or fold this relationship now—and race through the rain for the cover of the front porch.

The house, or bed-and-breakfast, stands two stories high, with dingy white siding and stark black shutters. Light spills from the windows and onto the wide wooden porch, warming my blood even though the sharp bite of the wind and rain continue to slap at my back. My hand shakes as I knock on the door, but as with most things, once the task is complete and there's no turning back, most of the fear dances off into the ether.

A middle-aged woman swings open the door, making the pretty wreath of fresh holly bang in the process. She stands at least two inches shorter than my five-foot-seven—she's rounder than I am, too, but not in an unattractive way. Her blue eyes study me with more than a little suspicion as she swipes at a stray chunk of gray-streaked auburn hair.

“Yes?” She demands, looking me up and down with a frown that reveals lines around her mouth.

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth because somehow, in all of my daydreams and planning, I hadn't consider what I would do if Brennan didn't answer the door.

“I, um.”
Articulate, Jessica.
“Is Brennan home?”

The question pops her eyes open wide, making room for curiosity to join the annoyance. I suppose visitors aren't welcome two days before Christmas, but friends of her son's at least have a chance.

“Yes, he's—”

“Jessica?” Shock nudges my boyfriend's voice a few ticks higher than normal as he peers around the corner of the entryway. My heart still thuds at the sight of him—he really is stupidly handsome, with his mahogany hair, strong jaw that's sporting the right amount of stubble at the moment, and broad shoulders that fill out every last inch of his flannel shirt.

Brennan's stunned expression loses out to dismay, then the same sort of irritation I'd glimpsed on his mother's face a moment ago before settling on a smile that's a little suspect. It's at least ten breaths before he moves toward me to grab me in a hug.

My blood feels icy and slick despite the eventual greeting, but I shove the bad juju down and squeeze him back, deciding my surprise had been enough to make him forget how much fun we'll have during an Irish Christmas. How much fun we always have.

“What are you doing here?” He murmurs against my ear, lips brushing my skin in a way that sends tingles down my spine.

I pull away, light-headed and buoyed by the happy, almost genuine light in his eyes. He's still pale, almost woozy, as though he's seen a ghost—though whether I'm the ghost of Christmas past or present with an option for future remains to be seen.

“Surprise!” I spread my arms with a grin, just like I practiced. “I missed you and didn't have plans for the holidays, and you know I've always wanted to visit Ireland.” The whole spiel sounds kind of lame now, much worse than through all of my rounds with the mirror.

Brennan shakes his head and it's impossible to tell whether he's amazed or flabbergasted—in a bad way. The confusion isn't new to us, though, and he recovers nicely, slipping an arm around my waist. “Mam, this is my girlfriend, Jessica. Jessica, this is Maeve Donnelly, my mother.”

“It's so nice to meet you,” I gush, giving her my best interviewee smile.

She returns it with less enthusiasm, cutting another irritated glance toward her son. “A pleasure, although I must say this comes as a bit of a surprise, since we weren't aware Brennan was dating anyone seriously.”

My heart sinks, landing somewhere around my stomach. He never told his parents about me?

I'm saved from the oppressive, choking amount of awkwardness spewing out onto the porch when a man who has to be Brennan's father wanders up, probably to see where all the cold air is coming from. He looks so like my boyfriend—same reddish-brown hair, same grass-green eyes, same freckles. Same easy smile, as though there could never be a reason in the whole world for worry. A teenage girl trails behind him, her arms crossed and curiosity plain on her freckled face.

“We have a guest!” Mr. Donnelly sticks out a hand, greeting me in a rich brogue much harder to understand than his son's. “Colin Donnelly.”

“Jessica.”

“Nice to meet you, Jessie.”

My hand disappears into his weathered one. Calluses that could tell stories of baling hay and clearing land and probably birthing litters for the goat I nearly killed scrape my palm. “It's Jessica, if it's not too much trouble. And likewise.”

“I'm Molly,” the girl chimes in, pinching Brennan's bicep so hard he yelps. “His sister.”

Brennan recovers and looks me over, seeming to notice for the first time that I'm not as put together as I am pretty much always. “You look wrecked, chicken.”

“Yeah, it's raining.”

“Been pissing like a hellhound all day,” Mr. Donnelly nods, nudging his wife out of the way. “Come on in out of the chill, why don't you?”

Warmth and light gush over me, around me, comforting the way I've always imagined a mother's touch. It improves my mood in an instant, especially when Mr. Donnelly swings the door shut on the storm. Being in the house is like being wrapped in cotton.

Catholic markers hang everywhere, along with crucifixes and little shrines to the Virgin Mary and . . . some other saints that aren't familiar to my untrained eyes. Even though I researched Ireland and its history for days before leaving, my brain refuses to recall facts about the struggles of the people, the reason behind the wars that ripped it in two, or even which country belongs to the United Kingdom. It has something to do with the split of the Catholic and Protestant Churches. Maybe.

What good is being anal if it leaves me at the least opportune moment?

Family pictures and religious sayings decorate the walls, and the former brings a slight smile to my face. Brennan hasn't changed much in the past fifteen years if the photos are any indication. The easy smiles on the family's faces, the way they touch each other without thinking about whether it will be awkward, stabs my heart with a sliver of envy. If I took it out and examined it, the real true reason for my plan, for coming here, would glint in my palm, but that's a hundred percent off-limits.

Mrs. Donnelly, apparently recovered from the shock of my arrival, nudges us toward the kitchen. “Come in, come in. We were just about to have an evening snack to warm us up before bed.”

A pot of tea steams in a knitted cozy in the center of an ancient oak table, delicate painted cups and saucers set out in a circle. There are tarts and cakes, some cookies—or biscuits, as Brennan calls them—arranged on a pretty Christmas-themed platter.

It's like something off a
Christmas in Ireland
greeting card. All of the charm and intrigue that drew me into Brennan's life fills the room, snuggling around me. The strong, aching desire to know more, to understand enough to be able to at least pretend to be a part of their family, escapes without my permission. I blink back the tears that prick my tired eyes, more sure than ever that coming here was the right move for us.

Slow down, Jessica. You've been here five minutes. You're not allowed to reveal the freak for a few days.