Free Mistletoe and Mr. Right by Lyla Payne

my stool as well, rinsing my mug in the sink.
    â€œI’m going to go make myself presentable,” she announces, smoothing her near-perfect bed hair. “I didn’t expect to meet anyone else in the kitchen so early.”
    â€œOkay. I think I’ll make breakfast. Try to ingratiate myself.”
    â€œDon’t try too hard. The Irish hate that,” she replies with a sour smile before sweeping out of the room.
    Hmm.
Whatever I make is going to have to be easy because too much of my brainpower is mulling over this morning’s conversation with Katie. I’d be inclined to like her if she didn’t have obvious plans to end up with my boyfriend.
    Waffles. Everyone has the ingredients in their kitchen cabinets and the Donnellys are no different. I don’t know if Irish people eat waffles, but it’s batter and syrup. Who doesn’t like that?

Chapter Six
    The answer is the Donnellys, apparently. Brennan and his grandfather seem to feel different, at least managing to get forkfuls of breakfast past their lips. Mr. and Mrs. Donnelly pick at the pastries, which admittedly would have been better if they’d had syrup in the cupboards—or the
press
, as I’ve learned. I didn’t think about that, but with fruit, whipping cream that no longer has a pie to call home, and fresh honey as choices they aren’t terrible.
    â€œThese are delicious, Jessica!” Katie exclaims a little too forcefully. “I swear, sweet breakfasts were always one of my favorite things about the States.”
    â€œThey’d be better with syrup.” I’m trying not to be grouchy, but whatever.
    â€œYeah. Sadly that’s never hopped its way over here.” She gives me another maybe-fake encouraging smile and chews another bite.
    â€œI’m going to bring some back the next time I come.” Brennan leans over and kisses my cheek, sweet support warping around me. “To have on hand.”
    The insinuation that he’s thinking I might be here to make waffles again some day doesn’t have the desired effect. I’m not sure what’s changed since I walked through the Donnellys front door. It’s a combination of things, really—his parents not approving, all of my little “quirks” that make me unacceptable, meeting his literal hero of an ex-girlfriend.
    And talking with Grady
, a small voice whispers from the back of my mind.
    No. Grady might be pushing my boundaries, making me think a little differently for the first time in a long time, but it’s not like he can take Brennan’s place in my future.
    I cast a glance at my boyfriend, my doubts a towering stack of pebbles now. Maybe the place beside me in the future doesn’t fit him, either.
    Except it
should.
There’s no reason for my worries.
    I need time to think, to separate my frustration from clear thought, but with Christmas Eve tomorrow and my flight out not scheduled until the twenty-sixth, I’m stuck. In a situation of my own making.
    The downward spiral of my emotions roars in my ears, louder than the reluctant chewing around the table, when Grady appears through the door to the kitchen.
    The guy seems to have some kind of Jessie in Distress radar.
    Ugh, Now I’m calling
myself
Jessie. No one has called me that since my father died, over ten years ago now. More proof the handsome, irritating, fascinating farmhand is getting under my skin.
    â€œGood morning!” he bellows at the family before squinting at our plates. “What in the
hell
are you eating?”
    Mrs. Donnelly gives him an admonishing look that seems to confuse Grady further. “They’re waffles. An American tradition, you know, and Jessica made them for us.”
    â€œLovely things, waffles,” Mr. Donnelly adds, then frowns as Grady gives his plate, which still holds the majority of his breakfast, a pointed stare.
    â€œWaffles, right,” Grady furrows his brow. “Don’t the