Mistletoe and Mr. Right (4 page)

“You checked her out?” Mrs. Donnelly looks worried, as though I hit Molly and not a biting goat.

“I saw her last night right after it happened. She was a little stunned. A wee bruise on her left foreleg, nothing more.” He casts me another glance, and I do my best to look thankful for his support.

I
am
grateful he stepped in because the family is going to trust his opinion over mine when it comes to a goat, but he doesn't have to be so
ugh
and smug about it.

“I didn't say anything last night because I was embarrassed.” My face flames, adding credence to my story. “And Grady said the goat was fine. I should have told you, though.”

“Did you get some breakfast, son?” Mrs. Donnelly asks Grady, ignoring my apology.

Her husband returns his attention to breakfast, but a frown pinches his lips, replacing the perpetual almost-smile. Grandpa Donnelly
tsks
in my direction, dancing eyes more than a tad amused. Even though Brennan squeezes my knee under the table he seems out of sorts, at a loss as to whether to defend me.

“I did, ma'am, thank you.” Grady smiles at her, as sweet as pie. “I just popped in to say I'm running to town. Does anyone need anything?”

“No. Well, maybe some cranberries?” Mrs. Donnelly nods. “And you're joining us for Christmas dinner, yeah?”

“Sure look it,” he replies, nodding.

The nodding makes me think he's answering in the affirmative even though the phrase means nothing to me. Brennan utters it all the time and it seems to be applicable in response to absolutely anything under the sun.

The Donnellys' farmhand clomps back toward the kitchen in his work boots and I feel a tap on my hand. Grandpa Donnelly grins at me again, a conspiratorial glint in his rheumy eyes. “Why don't you go grab a bottle of brandy outta the press? You look like you could use a drop in your tea.”

Press? Do they make their own brandy?

I shake my head as Mrs. Donnelly cuts in. “I wouldn't mind, either, dear. I've got a bone-deep chill I can't seem to shake.”

Here we go with another awkward conversation. “I actually don't drink.”

It comes out of my mouth like an apology, one I've been making for a year and a half at school, but it's easier to joke my way out of it when I can use inappropriate euphemisms and profanity.

“You don't
what
?” Grandpa Donnelly squints at me. I'm the potentially bad melon again.

“She doesn't like the way it makes her feel,” Brennan explains. He's trying to be helpful, which is sweet, but he's making me sound like a high-maintenance bundle of anxiety.

“Are you, like, that one weird religion? Mormon?” Molly's eyes pop huge, as though a movie star just sat down across from her. “Like John Travolta?”

No matter how hard I kick my feet and claw at the surface, this conversation is going to drown me. “Those are Scientologists. And I'm not Mormon; it's just a personal decision that works for me. I like to feel like myself.”

“It's just one drink, girl.” Grandpa interrupts. “Even Jesus drank wine!”

“Well, Jesus didn't have to worry about date rape drugs,” I quip, wondering at the last minute whether jokes about Jesus are allowed. Personally, I'm sure the guy had a sense of humor, but the Donnellys seem pretty damn serious about the whole shebang.

It shouldn't surprise me that not drinking would be a big deal in Ireland. Brennan drinks with almost every meal—not to the point where he's an alcoholic or I'm worried about it; it's part of his lifestyle.

My choice is a
thing
at college, too, but I care less about impressing those people.

Instead of taking a chance on making things worse by talking, I stuff a giant bite of sausage in my mouth. My tongue works it around, surprised by the texture and flavor—it's not like any regular sausage. The taste isn't bad, exactly, but my stomach isn't sure about keeping it, either.

“What kind of sausage is this?” I ask after managing to swallow the first bite. I'm sorry it was such a big one, although it still tastes better than my foot, and that's been in my mouth pretty much since I arrived.

No one answers right away so I look up to find my boyfriend watching me with a mixture of amusement and worry etched on his handsome features.

Dread mixes with the mystery meat, making me sweat. “What?”

“It's not sausage. It's called black pudding.”

“This is pudding?” I prod the dry clump with my fork, trying not to sound like too much of a clueless American. “It doesn't look like pudding.”

“That's because it's not made with milk,” he explains, his fingers gentle on my leg now.

“What's it made with?”

“Well, some pork fat.” He pauses, flicking a glance toward his mother, following that up with a grimace. “But it's mostly curdled pig's blood.”

I can't even respond. By the time the words get from my ears to my brain my breakfast is shooting up my esophagus. There's no time to apologize or attempt to look less horror-struck, because I need to
not
throw up on Mrs. Donnelly's dining room table.

Brennan starts to stand but I fling out a hand, shaking my head as hard as I dare. “No. Stay.”

I flee outside because it's far closer than my bathroom. Even so, I barely make it to my knees in a fresh patch of snow before refunding my entire breakfast back into the earth. I gag for another couple of minutes, my brain refusing to stop repeating the phrase
curdled pig's blood.

“You seriously couldn't make it to the jacks?”

I groan, already able to recognize Grady's voice. Largely because it keeps popping up whenever I
don't
want an audience. The glinting sunshine makes my eyes water as I look up to find him towering over me, a grossed-out grimace on his rugged face. “What's a jacks?”

“The toilet? Bathroom, whatever you Americans call it?”

“No, as a matter of fact. I could not make it to the
jacks.
” I wipe my chin with a handful of snow and put more in my mouth for a rinse. It's a nasty thing to do in front of someone else, but for some reason it doesn't bother me.

“You got some on your jumper.”

That term I know, because like every self-respecting girl, I'm obsessed with
Bridget Jones's Diary.
Although why people in the UK insist on calling sweaters
jumpers
is beyond me. If this is even the UK.

I've got to look that up again.

“Thanks for noticing.” Tears gather in my eyes, because pretty much nothing has gone right since my plane touched down in Shannon. Brennan's parents hate me, and worst of all, I can't shake the feeling that he'd rather I hadn't come all this way.

Or maybe it's the sinking feeling of truth—he's not the one.

My tears fall faster, keeping time with the sound of my unraveling plan inching me closer and closer to the kind of uneven life littered with land mines I swore I'd never accept again.

“Aw, come on. It can't be that bad, Jessie.”

“It's
Jessica,
” I snap, grinding my teeth and climbing to my feet. He's so much taller than I am that I still have to tilt my head back to look him in the eye, and when I do there's something there that makes my stomach dip and twirl and my heart pick up its pace. Honesty. Appreciation. A touch of eagerness.

It's gone so fast I might have imagined it, but my puzzling reaction to his kindness lingers.

“And it
is
that bad, but it's not your problem.”

“No, you're not a Jessica. Jessicas are stuffy, uptight school librarians or mams who manage their stress by mixing pills and wine. You're definitely a Jessie. Or a Jess?”

“I can't thank you enough for the opinions, which you seem to have a wealth of, but you really don't know anything about me.” I stalk off toward the house, shivering with wet pants and shaking hands. He shouldn't be able to get to me with so little effort.

“There's no shame in barfing up black pudding, you know! It's not for the weak!” He bellows after me, dissolving into throaty laughter that coats the air like fresh honey.

Responding would only make things worse. Guys like Grady, who amuse themselves far more than they amuse others, never learn. I have enough problems to solve without trying to figure out a guy I'm never going to see again after Christmas. There's certainly no point in acknowledging the way my stomach fluttered when our eyes met. The way it seemed, just for a moment, that we have something in common. How the moment I insisted he didn't know anything about me a small voice in the back of my mind whispered,
Are you sure?

“Wait.” I turn around, shading my eyes from the glaring sun, to find Grady watching me with an indecipherable expression that renews the tremor though my blood. “Um, could you get me a few things at the store?”

“Sure look it,” he nods. “Whatcha need? Pregnancy test?”

“You're hilarious. Are you a comedian in addition to being a farmhand and a photographer?”

“Don't forget goat rescuer. Just added that one to my résumé.”

“Well, make sure and include professional pain in the ass,” I grumble, fighting a smile. I give him a short list of items that have at least the potential to put me back in the Donnellys' good graces. If they like pumpkin pie.

Part of me—a part that scares me, because it's the one that reminds me too much of my parents—wants to stay out here trading barbs with Grady. It's hanging a smile on my face, a lightheartedness in my soul that rebukes the annoyance I want to cling to, but there's no room in my life for unknowns. Anomalies. Everything has a place, a purpose, and flirting with an aimless artsy type halfway around the world doesn't fit.

I sweep away my odd attraction to Grady along with the dusting of snow still clinging to my jumper and step back over the threshold toward my proper future.

*

The dining room sits empty, most of the dishes and breakfast foods carted off into the kitchen. A peek into the front room reveals Granddad Donnelly in front of a news program. Clinks and the rush of running water from the kitchen draw me in that direction, but the low murmur of voices, one of which belongs to my boyfriend, slows my steps. Maybe eavesdropping isn't the best way to turn this trip around but knowledge is power or whatever.

“Can't you just give her a chance? You haven't gotten to know her at all.”

“I don't dislike the girl,” Mrs. Donnelly's voice rises above the
clank
of pots being washed. “But how will someone of Scottish descent who doesn't drink fit into this family?”

“We're dating, Mam, not getting married. It's one holiday.”

My heart sinks, forcing me to swallow hard.

“You're not a boy, Brennan. Every relationship has to be evaluated this way because it could happen.” Her tone softens. “I see the way she looks at you, like you're exactly what she thinks she's been waiting for, and who can blame her? But between the things we've mentioned, plus our religious differences . . . be smart, kid.”

“I am, Mam. Don't worry about me.”

“I'll never stop,” the woman replies, and the smack of a loud kiss waltzes into the hallway.

To hear that Mrs. Donnelly doesn't think I'm a good match for her son, and that Brennan wasn't thinking of me in those terms in the first place, sucks the air out of me like I'm a deflating balloon. I lay flat and sad for a count of five, then I breathe in and clench my fists.

Because damn if Jessica Anne MacFarlane is going to let a few stumbling blocks get in her way.

Instead of confronting him and making an even bigger mess of things, I do my best to make myself useful the rest of the morning—wrapping presents for Brennan's mother, reading quietly in the sunroom while the men go out to butcher a turkey for Christmas dinner and Molly and Mrs. Donnelly head next door to exchange gifts with the neighbors.

The sound of the mudroom door and stomping footsteps from the kitchen make me think Grady's back with the groceries, which will at least give me something to do. I find overflowing bags on the counter and locate the one filled with the makings of a crust, pumpkin filling, and whipping cream.

And a pregnancy test. Hilarious.

I toss it on the counter and unpack the rest of my goods, getting to work. Kneading dough, measuring ingredients, and the soothing motion of the rolling pin ease the tension from my neck and back. The snowy Irish landscape charms me through the farmhouse windows, the scent of cinnamon and cloves races and tumbles around the kitchen, and the warmth of the wood stove mingles with Granddad Donnelly's snores from the other room. It's nice. Like the way family should be, even if they're not mine.

Yet.

The holidays have never meant quite the same thing to me since my parents lost their home the December I was in first grade, but it's hard not to believe this year could be different. That my
life
could be different.

Hope washes over me, and the task of baking a pie is mindless enough to let my thoughts roam over the boxes that still need to be checked off: finish college, get engaged, find a fantastic job at a local news station with tons of potential for moving up the ladder, get married, get the fabulous promotion, start investing, buy a house, have the first kid.

That's the ten-year plan. One that leaves no room for living on the street, holding a handmade cardboard sign outside the local McDonald's. No chance of an empty belly or an empty cup that never filled up quite enough to afford a Happy Meal.

Regardless of where Brennan's at or what his mother thinks, he's kind and stable and has a good head on his shoulders. Finding the right guy means consistency, and that means never having to be afraid of what each new day will bring.

And I don't think that's too much to ask.