Mistletoe and Mr. Right Read online

  To Mary McCormack and her family, proprietors of the Donour Lodge in Fanore, Ireland, who played wonderful, warm hosts (and tour guide and chef and book recommender!) to my friend and me on our trip last summer. Your enthusiasm and humor and beauty are rivaled only by the Burren itself.

  Your little piece of Ireland stole my heart.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Lyla Payne

  About the Author

  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. “Jessica 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 s
o 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.

  Chapter Two

  I throw open the door, not bothering to grab an umbrella. Time could be of the essence, though what on God’s green earth I’m going to do for a mortally injured animal is anyone’s guess.

  A goat lies under the front bumper, its legs hidden beneath the car. I don’t see any blood, but the road is a mess of mud and water that could easily hide whole body parts, so that doesn’t mean much.

  The goat peers up at me with a bewildered expression and bleats.

  At least it’s alive.

  My chest tightens and my stomach clenches as I squat in the mud, cringing over ruining my best pair of jeans and hating myself for it at the same time. “Oh, I am so sorry. Don’t die, okay? Please? I just really can’t handle the drama right now.”

  True to form, my brain handles emergency situations by babbling. To a goat, no less.

  Get a grip, Jessica. Think.

  Moving the goat could be bad, like jostling a person that’s been in an accident. Based on my pop-culture knowledge of life in the country, I’m pretty sure paralyzed animals get bullets to the head as opposed to motorized scooters.

  Pouring rain sticks my hair to my forehead, dripping in my eyes and down my cheeks like tears, but I’m far too gone to panic and indecision to care. The fear that I’ve just murdered a goat aches in my belly, and worse than that, this is going to be my introduction to Brennan’s family.

  Hi, I’m hoping to be your soggy, psychotic daughter-in-law one day. Love me?

  “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, the
n? 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.