Mistletoe and Mr. Right (5 page)

I shove the pie in the fridge, leaving the whipped cream to chill in a separate container, and go for a walk down to the shoreline. Even though it's not the kind of beach that would draw vacationers by the thousands—no sand, only mossy, ancient boulders—it's beautiful and peaceful, which is, at least in some ways, better. The rocks don't provide much comfort as far as my rear but the crashing of the waves and the sight of the sun dipping toward the horizon manage to infect me with a calm acceptance that's hard for me to come by, normally.

There's still time. This might work out and anyway this is the twenty-first century. Maybe I should think about rewriting my plans so that the engagement and marriage are optional boxes. Doing it now feels a little bit like failing, though, and that makes my skin crawl.

The sun slips lower, splaying out on the waves like marmalade on toast. I've stayed away long enough, and every bone in my body feels porous and weak, as though ready to collapse. My eyes feel like there's sand underneath the lids as I make my way over the rocks and through the pasture, taking care to avoid giant piles of poo. Wandering cows and sheep pay me no mind on the way—they must not have heard the scary rumors about me from the goats yet—and the Donnellys' dogs regard me with bored expressions.

Brennan meets me outside the house, pulling me into a hug that knocks the wind out of my lungs. “Hey, chicken, I've been looking for you! Mam wants to drive all the way to Ennistymon for some last-minute bits and bobs. It's a fair bit down the road, so we'll probably be gone for dinner, too.” He checks his watch. “You're invited, of course, but you'd better get in there and change if you're coming.”

“I don't know.” I swallow, not even sure why the negative reply comes out of my mouth. “I'm not feeling my best.”

“Probably jet lag. It can be rough if you're not used to it.” He squeezes me again, dropping a kiss on top of my head. “Go splash some water on your face and get into some dry clothes. See how you feel.”

I nod, gathering another kiss before heading down the hall. A
whooshing
breath falls out of me with the click of the door. The sight of the comfortable, quilted bed pulls me forward and onto my face. It smells like lemons and fresh detergent and I roll over on my back, meaning to get right up and change. Pouting and holing up in my room is no way to convince Brennan I'm the fun, energetic, sexy girl of his dreams, but now that I'm horizontal my eyes droop.

There's always the convincing argument that the less time I spend with the Donnellys, the fewer opportunities I'll have to reinsert my foot into my mouth. But I should get dressed and go, if for no reason other than it's my first time in Ireland, and I should see more of it than one dinky town.

And that my plans are inching back on track.

A knock opens my eyes, which are blurry for having been closed only briefly. “'S open.”

Brennan comes in and closes the door behind him, walking over to the bed and flopping next to me. “Did you fall asleep?”

“No.” I glance at the clock and realize almost an hour has passed since we parted ways. “Oh. Maybe?”

“You are so adorable when you're all rumpled.” He leans in for a kiss, wrapping his arms around me, pulling me tight against his chest.

We deepen the kiss out of habit, out of practice, until my body is on high alert and our tongues are exploring as intently as our hands. Brennan's hand slips under the hem of my sweater and brushes the bare skin of my belly, making me gasp against his mouth. My hands tangle in his hair, tipping his head to give me better access. We're getting carried away when there's a second knock at the door and his mother sticks her head inside without waiting for permission.

No matter how fast we jump apart there's no way she misses me tugging down my shirt or her son patting his hair back into place. She frowns but doesn't comment, thank goodness. Strike thirty-seven.

“Are you ready?” She directs the question at Brennan but can't help eyeing me, who is clearly
not
dressed for public consumption.

“I am,” Brennan says easily, as though embarrassment never entered his mind. “Jessica's not going. Jet lag.”

She waits, her mouth working as though she's dying to say something else, until my boyfriend rolls his eyes. “Go, Mam. I'll be out in a minute.”

He grins at me, but as hard as I try, I can't return it. This trip just won't right itself.

“Oh, chicken.” He cups my jaw between his palms, holding my face steady so there's no way to escape the intensity of his bright gaze. “Mam's feelings won't change mine. She just doesn't know you well enough yet.”

“Yeah, but I sprung this on you before you were ready, and all I've done is embarrass myself and make your family think I'm all wrong for you.” It all tumbles out at once, a tangle of failures breathing between us.

“But you're
not
all wrong for me,” he argues, gentle as he reaches for me again. “They'll get to know you and come to adore all the little quirks about you like I have.”

His reassurance doesn't make me feel better, though I can't put my finger on exactly why, and I nudge him away. “You go. Don't keep them waiting. I'll wrap presents and go to bed early, and we'll try again tomorrow.”

He kisses me lightly, then folds me in a brief hug. “See you later.”

It's not until after he leaves that the reason his pep talk fell flat becomes glaringly obvious—that he considers the things that make me
me
just simple quirks to be overlooked.

*

I wrap the presents I brought with me—mostly TCU gear and some tea Brennan mentioned his mother adores—and think about climbing back into bed. But as much seclusion and comfort as the quaint room offers, the thought of being stuck until tomorrow morning sounds about as good as being trapped in a coal mine without my iPhone.

Maybe I can find the barn. Check on the stupid goat that got my trip off to such a bang-up start.

First I check on my pie, only to find it missing a tiny sliver. Its maimed state would normally irritate me but instead makes me smile. At least one person in this house appreciates my offering.

It's cold outside; a brisk, swirling wind picks up flakes of snow and whips them into little cyclones of white lace against the star-splattered sky. The crunch of the snow under my boots, the chill of the air as it falls into my lungs and rushes out past my numb lips tug my spirits upward, if only a little.

The landscape remains beautiful at night. Now that I've seen the rocky hills and far-flung ocean during the day, they're easier to make out in the moonlight. Outbuildings appear on the five-acre property, and even though I've never lived outside of a city in my entire life, the barn is the biggest of them and not at all hard to find.

Inside, it's warm, a tad overly so after the crispness of the outdoors. There's a smell that's far less pleasant than the other scents that have regaled me so far, and the hay spread out across the floor and baled in the corners and in the loft doesn't look the cleanest. A few sheep
baa
as they nose the brittle stalks, thick bells on their collars jangling as they shuffle about in an attempt to get comfortable for the night. The Donnellys' sleek dogs lounge by the huge entrance doors, as uninterested in me and my movements as they were when I crossed paths with them earlier today.

The cows must still be out and I don't see any horses. I peer into the empty stalls, standing on my tiptoes, then push open the door to the third one when Nanny Goat's dirty coat catches my eye.

At least I think it's Nanny Goat. This goat is white, with a funny beard and little horns, just like the one under my bumper last night.

A crate is buried under some hay toward the back of the stall and I sit down, pulling a bag of carrots from my pocket. I'm hoping they weren't scheduled for Christmas dinner but it wouldn't be right to check on Nanny Goat without a peace offering for last night's faux pas.

“Hey,” I start. The goat looks over at the plastic bag in my hands, slight interest in her black eyes. Sticks of hay hang out of thick lips. “Want some carrots?”

She takes a hesitant step toward me, then another. The slight limp in her foreleg makes me swallow hard, but even though I'm no expert on…well, anything that lives on a farm, it doesn't look too terrible. Not bad enough to get her popped, anyway.

I hold out the carrot, determined to wait her out, and it doesn't take long. A giggle escapes as her soft lips brush my fingers. The carrot disappears and she stares at me with blank eyes. They're deep pools, empty but not without simple beauty, and she takes another carrot without asking.

“Hey!” I scold, but then tip my head, reconsidering. “Okay, fine. I hit you with a car, so take as many carrots as you want.”

She lets me scratch her behind the ears as she munches more carrots. Her fur is wiry instead of soft but affection stirs for the odd little thing all the same.

“You're not so bad,” I observe. “A tad smelly, but it's not much worse than a frat house the morning after a particularly fun after-party.”

The goat makes no comment and we sit in the silence for a while, the only sound the grinding of her teeth and the occasional shuffling from the sheep. My mind wanders over my conversation with Brennan earlier tonight. Over everything that's happened since I showed up in Fanore.

I hear the echo of Chris trying to talk me out of this crazy escapade as we got drunk the last night of finals.

“You're going to scare—” Hiccup. “Scare him off,” Chris finishes, stumbling into our room.

“If I do, then he wasn't the right guy, anyway, right?”

“Haven't you ever been young? Like, just went with the flow? Kicked off your shoes?” She flings one foot out, her flip-flop careening off the mirror and landing on the windowsill.

“Yes.”

“No, you haven't.”

I kick off a flat, but it only bounces two feet before settling right side up inside the closet where it belongs. Chris cracks up and I frown. “I love you, Christina, but you do not get it.”

“Get what? That you're so paranoid you're going to end up like your mother it turns you into a lame lamester who's about to ruin a halfway decent relationship with a totally hot accent? I get
that.”

“The weird thing is,” I tell Nanny Goat, “I don't think I'm missing out on anything. I mean, it's not worth it, flying by the seat of your pants. Not if it means not knowing where I'm going to sleep or where my next meal is coming from, right?” Nanny Goat makes no comment but she does watch me, as though considering what I've said while enjoying her evening snack. Perhaps she has a thing against talking with her mouth full.

“I can still be a world-class news anchor before I turn thirty without a husband, right? Probably even sooner.”

I hadn't expected to pick journalism as a major, but it's called to me since my randomly chosen elective freshman year. There's something so stable and reliable about the news, every night at ten.

“I really am sorry about hitting you last night, Nanny. You were probably so scared, those headlights bearing down on you and a crazy American chick behind the wheel.” I give her another scratch and this time it seems as though she might enjoy it. “Did that mean ol' Grady at least give you some good drugs for the pain? We could wrap up your leg with some ice and a bandage, at least.”

“She'd eat the whole thing inside five minutes.” Grady appears at the stall door, a long piece of straw hanging from his full lips. He rests his arms on the top of the wooden slats, blue eyes sparkling like he swallowed the stars.

I ignore the lurch in my breathing. “How long have you been out there?”

“Long enough to know you talk to goats.” He smirks. “And I wasn't lurking, I was doing my job.”

“Which is what this time? Showing up at inconvenient times?”

He gives me a
look
but the crinkles at the corners of his eyes betray his amusement. “Well, some people would be grateful for the help I gave last night. And this morning. Why'd you bring up the goat incident at breakfast?”

“I
didn't
bring it up. I got backed into a corner.”

“This place has nothing but Jessie-sized corners, seems like.” Grady winks at me, which is infuriating and familiar and startlingly sexy all at once, then enters the stall without asking. He drops a hand to rub Nanny Goat's head and that pisses me off, too, because she seems to like him far more than she cares for me.

I mean, I'm the one who hit her but I also brought carrots. She doesn't seem impressed by my glare but Grady's grinning when I look up. “What?”

“Nothing. It's just . . . you know goats are morons, right? She doesn't remember what happened last night, and in ten minutes she'll have forgotten that you snuck her contraband treats.” He plops on the crate next to mine, a little too close for comfort.

He seems to know he's a little too close for comfort. Which is the only reason I don't put distance between us. Two can play the intimidation game, and even though that's usually not my knee-jerk response, Grady seems to have a knack for expanding my comfort zone.

“Whatever. Maybe I like talking to goats because they don't talk back.”

“Unless you're a couple of pints in, I suppose.” He sobers, watching me with a scrutiny that's too intense. “Are you okay, Jessie? Pregnancy test not go well?”

I grit my teeth but refuse to correct him again regarding the nickname. I'm not so much
okay
but Grady Callaghan doesn't seem like the wisest choice of confidante. “I'm fine. No test needed, thank you very much.”

As though a girl like me doesn't double up on everything, including protection.