Mistletoe & Molly
Thank you for purchasing this Wild Rose Press publication.
& Molly
by
Jennifer Snow
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Mistletoe & Molly
COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Jennifer Snow
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Rae Monet, Inc. Design
The Wild Rose Press
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Champagne Rose Edition, 2012
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-153-1
Published in the United States of America
For my parents—Annie and Robert O'Reilly
Chapter One
“I wish it would snow.”
“Bite your tongue.” Molly Bishop sat next to her friend and co-worker, looking out the large frost covered window facing Fifth Avenue. The lunch rush was over, and the café was quiet. “I need winter tires for the Jeep, and I have forty-seven dollars in my bank account. I can’t afford snow right now.” She took a gulp of her lukewarm coffee.
“I can loan you the money.” Cameron removed her apron and hung it over the back of the chair.
“No way. I couldn’t let you do that.” Molly bit into a stale chocolate biscotti, the first thing she’d eaten so far that day. “I’ll come up with something.” She toyed with the edge of the cookie wrapper.
“Forgive me for suggesting this, but…why don’t you just ask your dad for the money?” Cameron placed her hands over her face and waited for her friend’s verbal attack.
“You know I can’t do that. Not after last month’s speech about how I no longer need his advice
or
his money. No, owing my father money gives him the right to a say in my life. No thanks.” Not that she’d been doing a great job of running her life since moving to the city. Her degree in public relations went unused as she searched for a job in her field with no luck. Everyone in New York needing publicity already had a publicist. At twenty-seven, her resume consisted of coffee shops and bookstores and a three day stint as a pretzel sample girl at the mall.
“What about a bank loan?” Cameron dipped her chocolate chip cookie into her cinnamon latte.
“I tried, but without a co-signer I couldn’t qualify.” Molly lowered her voice. The only other person in the café was in earshot. A regular. Tall, handsome, Wall Street kind of guy. A man just like her father. Powerful, successful, and arrogant. Every day he wore a different designer suit, and the Rolex on his arm was worth more than Molly made in a year working at the café. He ate a turkey sandwich with lettuce and tomato every day for lunch.
“So what do you think you’re going to do?” Cameron fixed a strand of white Christmas lights drooping from the corner of the window.
“I have no idea…” Molly examined her chipped nail polish. “Do they still have those paid medical studies at the university? I don’t need two kidneys do I?” She dusted biscotti crumbs off of the table onto her hand and stood. The oven timer rang, signaling the pastries were done.
“Don’t be silly… What about another job? How’s your search for a P.R. job?” Cameron turned on the radio. The sound of Mariah Carey singing
All I Want for Christmas is You
filled the café.
“Still nothing. I sent out a bunch of resumes this week, so keep your fingers crossed for me.” Molly opened the oven door. “Actually there was one opportunity, an unpaid internship at Rollins and Clark, but who can afford to take one of those?” She shrugged and grabbed a tray of apple turnovers to refill it with pastries fresh from the oven.
You can
.
If you’d swallow your pride and accept money from your father.
She dismissed the thought and approached the cash register where Mr. Wall Street waited to pay his bill.
The phone behind the counter rang.
“Cameron can you grab that?” she called through the kitchen door.
“Can’t.” Cameron waved her hands full of dough through the window in the door.
Molly hesitated.
“Go ahead, and answer it. I’ll just leave the cash next to the register.” The man waved a twenty and slid the cash under the tip jar on the counter.
Molly smiled, gave a quick wave, and reached for the phone. “Fifth Avenue Café.”
“Molly, it’s Lana.”
The unreliable employee
.
“I’m not feeling great.” The girl coughed. “I won’t be making it in tonight. Can you cover my shift?”
Forty-seven dollars in your bank account
. “Sure, Lana, no problem. Feel better soon.” Molly replaced the receiver and sighed. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. This would be her third overtime shift that week. So much for a relaxing evening at home with a tub of Ben and Jerry’s—one of the few remaining items in her refrigerator.
“Let me guess…Lana’s sick.” Cameron poked her head out from the kitchen and rolled her eyes.
“Yes, but I could use the extra shift anyway.” Molly went to the cash register to ring in Mr. Wall Street’s lunch. She took the cash out from under the tip jar and gasped. A hundred dollar bill was wrapped around his business card.
Aiden Ford, Consultant
. He’d written something on the back.
Call Bob about your tires, he’ll take care of you.
A phone number was scribbled underneath.
“What’s that?” Cameron came through the swinging screen door from the kitchen, carrying a turtle cheesecake. The smell of dark chocolate and caramel filled the air. She slid the cake into the display case and turned her attention to Molly.
Molly handed her the card and the hundred-dollar bill.
Cameron let out a low whistle. “That was generous of him.”
“He eavesdropped on our conversation.” Molly punched the numbers into the till.
“We weren’t exactly whispering, Molly,” Cameron pointed out, handing her the bill to deposit into the open register.
Molly removed eighty-seven dollars and huffed. “He didn’t have to listen. I’ll run after him. Be right back.” She dashed through the door, not pausing for her coat.
“At least take a thirty percent tip!” Cameron shouted through the open door and shook her head.
Molly wrapped her arms around her thin frame and jogged through the puddles of slush on the busy sidewalk.
Where had he gone so fast?
She spotted him at the corner, waiting on the light. “Mr. Ford!”
He turned at the sound of his name, but didn’t move toward her.
Breathless, she reached him a moment later. “Thanks for meeting me halfway…” She placed a hand under her ribs and took a deep breath. “Here, you left your change.” She extended the money toward him.
“Yes, I know.” The light turned to walk, and he stepped off the curb.
Frustrated, she followed. “Thank you, but I can’t accept this or your help with the tires.” She thrust the handful of bills in his direction and stepped over a dark pile of slush on the street.
He ignored her and kept walking. He stopped once they reached the opposite corner and turned. “Holly, is it?”
“Molly,” she corrected, her teeth chattering.
Why won’t he just take the money so I can go back inside?
The wind whipped through her thin white V-neck sweater, and she shivered. People moved around them, shooting them looks that suggested they take their conversation inside and quit blocking the passageway.
“Okay, Molly, here’s the thing. I make that in about seven minutes, so it’s really nothing. Waiting for you to get off the phone would have cost me just as much.” He looked at his Rolex. “This conversation is costing me, so if you’ll excuse me, this is my building.” He ignored the money in her outstretched hand and her open-mouthed expression. He opened the door to the building and turned back. “Look, I’m a personal consultant. It’s my job to fix people’s lives when they can’t.”
Too stunned by his rudeness to speak, Molly stepped aside as delivery men carried heavy crates of vegetables into the market.
“And call Bob. There’s snow on the way.” He gave a quick, dismissive wave and disappeared inside the skyscraper.
Like hell she’d call Bob. What a rude man! Fix her life? Her life did not need fixing. Her life needed a good paying P.R. job. It needed a small bank loan to put new winter tires on her Jeep. And it needed a good excuse for missing Christmas at their family home this year, an ordeal she didn’t think she could handle, but nothing needed fixing. Especially not by Aiden Ford.
She jogged in the direction of the café and cringed as her foot landed in a deep puddle on the sidewalk.
Okay, and now I need dry socks before I start the night shift
.
****
“I make that amount in seven minutes? Could I have sounded any more arrogant?” Aiden tossed his briefcase onto the empty chair in his office and slumped onto the leather sofa. He raked a hand through his hair and stood near the large window above the busy Manhattan streets. And he’d called her
Holly
? He knew damn well what her name was. Too well. He knew too much about her and hated to admit he liked everything he knew. Smart and independent. He suspected she was the daughter of Mel Bishop, one of the most well respected men working in commercial real estate in the city. With her dark hair the color of chocolate, and her deep set emerald eyes, she looked just like her father. Her lips were full and rosy, and when she smiled… He shook the image of the woman from his head.
Over the last few weeks, he’d heard about her search for a job in public relations and her refusal to accept her father’s help. He admired her determination, but he wanted to shake her. Forty-seven dollars in the bank, and she wanted to return his money?
His receptionist buzzed a moment later. “Mr. Ford, your two o’clock appointment is waiting in the lobby.”
He hit the intercom button. “Okay, Lynn, send her in, in two minutes.” He removed his overcoat and straightened his tie. Tomorrow, he would apologize to Molly for his rudeness and convince her to go see Bob.
Opening his laptop, he skimmed through the profile of the client waiting in the lobby.
Oh, this one is going to need work…and lots of it.
****
Stretching four hours later, Aiden stood and closed his laptop. He grabbed his coat from the hook on the door and shut the blinds to the office window. It was dark outside, and the forecasted snow covered the ground. The Christmas lights from the surrounding buildings created a warm glow on the city, and he looked forward to an evening in front of the fireplace with a glass of wine.
Beeep!
The building’s buzzer rang.
Who was that? Lynn had already left for the day. He had no more appointments that evening. “Hello?”
“Delivery for A. Ford,” a gruff voice announced through the building’s intercom.
Delivery? “Come on in.” Aiden glanced at his watch. His favorite television show started in twenty minutes. This better not take long. He opened the door and waited in the hallway for the delivery man. He locked the door and turned. The man approaching him carried a brown cardboard box with the words
Pet Adoption Center
written
on the side. Must have the wrong A. Ford.
“Aiden Ford?”
“Yes.”
“Sign here, please.” The man handed Aiden a delivery pad and pen. He motioned to the signature box.
Aiden studied the slip, a frown forming on his face.
A loud bark came from inside the box.
“There’s been a mistake. I didn’t order a dog.” Aiden handed back the pad.
The driver refused to take it, shaking his head. “You Aiden Ford?”
“Yes, but…”
“Then the pooch is yours…” He flipped through a notebook he carried and nodded. “Yup, says here a Miss Molly Bishop placed the order. Must be an early Christmas present,” he insisted as the box struggled and wiggled next to their feet.