My Christmas Goose Is Almost Cooked Page 2

  “Nice.” Rachel nodded, clearly impressed.

  I gave Finn an apologetic smile. “I’m only in town two more days, and I have to work tomorrow night. Maybe Bernice and Gracie could take my place.”

  “You can have off,” Rachel said. “There’s not much going on.”

  Since when?

  “Grand.” Finn handed me his business card. “Ring me tomorrow, and I’ll give you the details.”

  Bernice held up her empty cup. “We’ll be by your restaurant’s stand for more wine.”

  Finn paused briefly for a picture with two patiently waiting fans, then strode off, a trail of women casually stalking him.

  “We need to go also.” Gracie snatched her Santa cap from my head. “Don’t want to be late for our dates.”

  “He isn’t a date,” I yelled out as the ladies left. I turned to Rachel and Declan. “I didn’t bid on this guy. Gracie and Bernice did, in memory of their sister, and put my name on it. I have no clue who he is.”

  “His family owns O’Brien’s restaurants,” Declan said.

  Rachel’s blue eyes widened. “As in James O’Brien?”

  Declan nodded reluctantly. “His dad.”

  Rachel bubbled with enthusiasm. She was so not the bubbly type. “Excellent. Finn O’Brien has grown their family business to ten restaurants in Ireland. They don’t carry Brecker Dark, only Flanagan’s cider ale. This is a great opportunity to get Brecker in there.”

  My gaze narrowed. “So you’re pimping me out to get more business?”

  “He’s doing this for the publicity, not to find a woman.”

  “He’s doing it for both, as usual,” Declan said.

  “It’s business,” Rachel said. “And it couldn’t have worked out better if I’d planned it.”

  Rachel hadn’t planned it, had she? This was precisely something Rachel would do to land more business and earn brownie points with Brecker’s CEO, Tom Reynolds. However, she looked genuinely surprised about Finn’s identity.

  “What am I supposed to do? If he asks if I’d like a drink, I request Brecker Dark? Then when he says they don’t have it, I whip out your business card? That won’t be obvious at all.”

  “Just casually mention why you’re in town and segue into it. This is even better than your pub-crawl idea.”

  In Paris, I’d given an Irish pub’s bartender Rachel’s card. The place now carried Brecker Dark. This had inspired me to pub hop in Dublin, ordering Brecker Dark and recommending the beer if the pub didn’t carry it. An added bonus, Declan and I could sneak off to out-of-the-way pubs and make out like a normal couple, without being paranoid about Rachel catching us.

  Developing the marketing plan on my own had been a pivotal point in my career, giving me a glimmer of hope that I might have a career after being fired from my office job six months ago.

  “I can’t cook,” I said. “The kitchen is not my friend.”

  “You were like twelve when you went to the emergency room over that bagel incident.”

  I hadn’t even remembered I’d sliced my finger cutting a bagel! I massaged the faint scar on my thumb.

  Dressing in an apron could prove even more embarrassing than dressing up like a sausage. I had to draw the line at cooking. However, that line was hazy and getting even blurrier the less work I had. The instability of this job was nerve-racking, especially when self-employment taxes were looming in my financially bleak future.

  Just how far would I have to go to keep this job?

  Chapter Two

  Rachel disappeared into the crowd, and Declan snatched Finn’s card from my hand. “I can’t believe that wanker kissed you, playing to the crowd.”

  “It was on the hand and for a good cause.” I grabbed the card back.

  “Yeah, to feed his ego. He shags every woman who walks into his restaurant. And the food’s total rubbish.”

  “You think I’d let this guy shag me?”

  Declan hadn’t even shagged me. By my choice.

  “No…of course not.”

  What was with the hesitation? I should be the one not trusting him. God only knew how many women Declan had slept with since his wife, Shauna, had died three years ago.

  I’d nicknamed his women Guinness Girls because alcohol had likely played a role with several. However, I trusted that he hadn’t slept with anyone since our first kiss.

  Declan grasped hold of my hand. Just shy of kissing it, he peered at me through thick lashes, a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. “I want more than your hand.”

  He whisked me into the dark shadows behind the stands and warmed my lips with his. I returned his kiss and melted against him, letting out a faint moan. Declan was only a half foot taller than me, around five feet nine inches, so our bodies molded perfectly together. I curled my fingers into his soft blue wool sweater, wanting to run them through his hair so his rain-scented shampoo would linger on my skin…

  I finally mustered up the resistance and drew back, breathing heavily, puffs of steam floating from my mouth. I glanced around.

  Declan’s smile faded. “Don’t worry. Rachel’s gone.”

  “I don’t want us to lose work because she’s afraid us dating will get in the way of our jobs. We need to prove it won’t before I tell her. Not just because of the money, but I’d never see you.” Declan was booked solid until the end of February. Between trips, he planned to pop over to Venice for a day so we could squeeze in a romantic dinner and gondola ride. “And I’ve been killing myself to prove to Rachel I can handle this job. No way can I not do this cooking gig.”

  And Rachel thinks you’re a total player.

  Declan released my hand, and it slipped from his, dropping to my side. “You’re right. You need to do it. You’ll be grand.”

  Seriously? He hadn’t put up much of a fuss.

  A fact I should appreciate, since I’d overreacted a few times when his actions had reminded me of Andy’s controlling behavior. However, I hadn’t had a distressing Andy flashback since Declan and I kissed. My thoughts had been focused on Declan. The only reason I’d gone to see my counselor, Martha, after Paris was to tell her about the kiss and prove that I was starting to recover from post-traumatic stress disorder. I hadn’t felt this positive about myself or a guy in a long time.

  Declan held my gaze, an intense look in his eyes. “I trust you. The wanker just rubs me the wrong way.”

  And maybe Declan was a tad jealous? It was a flattering kind of jealousy, not a scary one, like Andy’s had been.

  He gave me a fleeting kiss, then stepped from the shadows, strolling over to a mulled wine stand. “My parents are mad about this stuff. I should get them some for Christmas.”

  That was the first thing I knew about Declan’s parents. I knew more about Finn O’Brien’s dad than I did Declan’s.

  Did his parents know anything about me?

  Declan bought two cups of mulled wine. The steam warmed my cheeks, and the scent of cinnamon filled my nose. I took a sip. Delish. At least his parents and I shared a love for mulled wine. Declan bought a few bottles, and we headed to a gingerbread stand.

  “Maybe I should bring Sadie Collentine a gingerbread house. Our family photo and the letters her mom wrote my grandma aren’t really a gift.”

  Following this program, Rachel and I were going to meet our newfound rellie in Killybog, County Westmeath. Until recently, I hadn’t known that Grandma Brunetti, née Coffey, had been from Ireland. Sadie’s response to my letter had been vague. I was hoping she could provide answers to Grandma’s mysterious past. Like the fact that she might have been previously married in Ireland before immigrating to the US in 1936.

  I admired the fancy gingerbread houses decorated in red and white icing. “They look too perfect to eat.”

  “My granny’s gingerbread houses looked more like deserted Irish dwellings. Slanted walls, crooked roofs, and a bit dilapidated. Drinking her homemade cider while constructing them didn’t help. One year, the top blew off an unopened bottle, spraying t
he gingerbread houses and kitchen with sticky apple cider. It was a bloody mess, but my granny kept on decorating. The houses tasted brilliant, and everyone wanted her recipe. I was the only one who knew her secret.”

  As usual, Declan’s story had me giggling.

  “Which grandma?” I asked.

  “Granny Byrnes, my mum’s mum, who passed away last year. The one whose father ran off with the pastor’s wife and I sent postcards to when traveling.”

  Outside of Declan’s grandma, I knew little about his family. Except that they lived a half hour from my rellie Sadie Collentine in Killybog, and his parents were currently visiting his mom’s sister in Waterford. Also, his sister, Zoe, loved Halloween, and she’d once gotten a splinter in her butt while sliding down a wooden banister. I was Facebook friends with her, but she rarely posted. She commented on Declan’s posts, but he’d avoided Facebook since I’d tagged him in Paris and a psycho ex-Guinness Girl had stalked us.

  “Is your grandma Grady still alive?”

  He nodded.

  Did she live near his parents? With his parents? How was her health? He always gave the briefest answers possible when it came to his personal life, unless it entailed a humorous story of his past shenanigans or work mishaps. Declan admitting he’d been avoiding his feelings since Shauna’s death had prompted our kiss in Paris. I’d hoped he’d continue opening up. If not about Shauna, about his family.

  A narcissistic jerk demeaning his wife at the Palace of Versailles had forced me to confront my demons and to slowly start confiding in Declan about Andy.

  I had to be patient. At least he hadn’t claimed his entire family was dead to avoid discussing them, like Grandma Brunetti had. I was likely the first “steady” girlfriend he’d had since Shauna. I didn’t expect him to forget about Shauna or to stop wearing his bracelet—a braided brown leather band with a silver Celtic design of interloping knots symbolizing everlasting love. His love for Shauna, no doubt. Our relationship was a big step forward for Declan. A big step for me. After my brutal breakup with Andy six months ago, I never thought I’d ever even kiss another guy. The only reason I hadn’t done more than kiss Declan was that I needed to know where our relationship was going. The fact that Declan respected this made me respect him even more.

  * * *

  Declan and I entered the Connelly Court Hotel, greeted by a towering tree with twinkling red lights in the middle of the marble-floored lobby. A lively Celtic Christmas tune made me want to step dance despite not having international health insurance to cover a broken ankle. The aroma of warm cedarwood with a hint of cinnamon replaced the hotel’s signature vanilla lavender scent. The gift shop sold the calming scent in the forms of a candle, diffuser, or spray so you could enjoy it at home. I didn’t see how waking up to a reminder of the Connelly Court Hotel would reduce my stress. My first meeting here had been one mortifying mishap after another—pilfering items from an expensive gift basket I’d thought was mine and falling flat on my face in front of Brecker’s CEO.

  Evergreen boughs with red bows framed the elevator doors. We stepped into one with an older couple dressed in elegant evening attire. The lady admired Sadie’s gingerbread house while her husband pushed the button for floor three. Declan pushed twelve. Neither of our rooms were located on floor twelve. I gave him a questioning glance. He responded with a sly grin. The couple exited on the next floor, and the doors slid shut. Declan slipped his arms around my waist, drawing me snugly against him, planting his lips on mine. When we reached the twelfth floor, I was out of breath, my body on fire. Nobody joined us, so Declan sent the elevator back down. The doors closed, and we were once again all over each other.

  It was late. We could probably ride the elevator alone until I got motion sickness. Or we could go to one of our rooms. I’d been in Declan’s room several times prior to our first kiss, but not since then. That was how I’d learned his travel tips—whiskey was the best glass sanitizer and always store your TV remote in a plastic baggie.

  Declan’s phone vibrated against our waists, sending a tingling sensation throughout my thighs. Maybe I was ready for a physical relationship with Declan…

  He grabbed his phone with an annoyed groan.

  “Who’s Aidan?” I couldn’t help but see the name displayed on the screen.

  “My brother in London.”

  I’d known about a brother in London but hadn’t known his name.

  Declan pushed floor six. “He’s left several messages, making sure I’ll be home for Christmas. I better ring him back.”

  Declan hadn’t visited his family since Easter. Had he not gone home last Christmas?

  The doors slid open, and Declan poked his head out. Coast clear, he ducked back in and gave me a quick kiss good night. He stepped out, holding the door. “Did I ever tell ya about the time I got stuck in a lift with a claustrophobic client?” He wore a teasing smile as the doors slid closed.

  I couldn’t believe he’d left me hanging!

  Wearing a goofy grin, I inhaled the faint woodsy scent of Declan’s cologne lingering in the air and on my Brecker scarf. I buried my nose in the knit fabric, relaxing against the wall.

  Back in my room, I slipped the keycard in the slot by the door to activate the lights. After one last whiff, I tossed my scarf on the red throw draped across the bed’s crisp white sheets. I’d stored the white duvet in the closet, unsure when it was last washed and afraid it might be a bit dodgy. Another Declan travel tip. A stuffed snowman with a shamrock on his red sweater—a gift from Rachel—sat on the nightstand next to the framed photo of Grandma and her sister Theresa—Sadie Collentine’s mother. The photo was from 1935, the same era as a black-and-white Dublin street scene hanging over the headboard. I set Sadie’s gingerbread house next to Grandma’s picture.

  Browsing through the Christmas market hadn’t inspired any gift ideas for Declan. At least I had money to buy presents, thanks to sixty-hour workweeks at Cheesey Eddie’s and a hefty check from my Paris program. I’d made a nice dent in my major credit card. Upon paying off my department store cards, I had cut them up in celebration. I still didn’t have my own place to live, a car, or income taxes paid, and my student loan would be kicking in next month. My massive debt was another sad reminder of trying to live up to Andy’s unrealistic expectations and flashy lifestyle.

  Christmas was a time of perpetual hope.

  Hopefully, I got some work pronto.

  I pulled up my résumé on my laptop and added Developing program marketing strategies. It would likely be the only new update, since this was a no-brainer program. Not ideal when I needed to learn my job. However, I could now boast having worked consumer promotions in addition to VIP meetings and sales incentives.

  I could also boast being a seasoned packer. Unlike previous trips, I hadn’t forgotten socks, undies, or jammies. I threw on my pj’s—an oversized green Coffey’s Pub T-shirt—and red-and-green plaid leggings. Last trip, Gerry Coffey, a Dublin bartender, had kindly given me the shirt off his back thanks to Rachel shamelessly flirting with him. She’d surprised us with dinner at our surname pub. His Coffey family tree was deeply rooted in County Cork, ours in County Westmeath. But who knew—maybe we were third cousins five times removed.

  I propped my pillow against the headboard and slipped into bed with my travel journal. I opened to my list of firsts and added that I’d won my first guy in an auction and would have my first cooking experience with the famous chef. I’d started the list two months ago on my first trip abroad, with my first Guinness and my first castle, Malahide Castle. Thanks to the stupid cooking gig my final night in town, I could forget about crossing Dublin Castle off my bucket list.

  My cell phone rang. Mom. I’d found an international calling plan within Brecker’s allowable budget, so I answered my phone without freakin’ over the cost.

  “Should we have pigs in a blanket and bacon-wrapped wienies?” Mom asked. “I’m making out the grocery list.”

  I hadn’t helped plan our annual Christmas
Eve party the past two years. Last year I’d shown up with Andy and snooty catered appetizers, including liver pâté, which Uncle Benny had fed to a feral cat on our patio, thinking it was pet food. Furious, Andy had maintained his unflappable composure by popping the cork on a $137 bottle of champagne and bragging about the price. I’d been too brainwashed to be mortified by his arrogance. I was determined to make it up to Mom this year. I’d be arriving home the morning of the twenty-third, plenty of time to grocery shop and prepare food.

  “Both sound delish,” I said.

  “I’ll e-mail you the menu to see if I’m missing anything. And of course we’ll have your delicious cheese balls, dip, and curds. Who knew Cheesey Eddie’s sold so many varieties of curds. Only in Wisconsin. Of course, your father has already polished off the beer-flavored ones, so I scratched those from the list.”

  I about gagged at the thought of all that cheese. My temp job might have ruined cheese for me for life.

  I didn’t plan to tell Mom I might pick up some cooking tips from Finn O’Brien. She would fret about my past kitchen mishaps and make me even more nervous about it.

  “Aunt Teri’s baking your grandma’s cookies this year.”

  Grandma Brunetti’s Italian Pizzelle cookies were the best.

  “I wonder if any of her cookies were Irish recipes,” I said. “Maybe we’ve been carrying on a family tradition without even knowing.”

  Mom wasn’t aware that Grandma’s Ellis Island record noted her last name as Daly. I needed to confirm that the certificate I’d found online for a Bridget Coffey and Michael Daly, married in England, was indeed Grandma’s. Not that Mom would care he’d been Protestant and not Catholic, though their families had likely cared a great deal. Mom cared that Grandma had been writing letters her entire life to her supposed dead sister in Ireland. I wanted Mom to have closure with her mother. However, I was beginning to fear my discoveries might make her resent her mother even more. The more I learned about the woman who’d died when I was only seven, the more I aspired to be like her. I admired her sense of courage and adventure. I wanted Mom to feel this same connection. I’d wait and see what Rachel and I uncovered in Killybog and drop the entire bomb at once.