Mistletoe and Mr. Right Read Online Free Page B

on his bald head. He peers up at me through giant owl-like glasses with a skeptical expression, as though maybe I’m a cantaloupe he can’t quite decide on buying based on smell.
    â€œThis the Scottish girl?” he grunts.
    â€œGranddad, Jaysus!” Molly’s cheeks go pink.
    At least now it’s clear why she choked last night at the mention of my last name.
    â€œI’m not Scottish, I’m American. My father never even mentioned it.” Not that I remember much before my ninth birthday, when he died. But it seems like a fair protest.
    â€œYou’ve got the blue eyes and the stature. Can’t breed that out.” The old man waves a dismissive hand. “You’d probably walk two miles out of your way to pick up a penny, too.”
    â€œDad, seriously.” Mr. Donnelly reaches for a piece of flat oatmeal-colored bread. “Knock it off. We’re supposed to pretend to like the Scots now, and that guy who stole your girlfriend at university died ten years ago. Give up the fight.”
    â€œTen years too late,” he grunts, still giving me a look like he’s wondering what crimes—real or imagined—I’ve committed. “You’re pretty, though. So that’s something.”
    Brennan shoots me an apologetic look and pulls out a chair next to the old man. Mortification heats my face even though it’s ridiculous to feel embarrassed about my last name. I didn’t choose it and it doesn’t mean anything—not to what’s left of my family, anyhow.
    I stick out my hand. “I’m Jessica.”
    He looks down at my hand, then gives me a gap-toothed smile without shaking it. “Michael Donnelly.”
    â€œCan we eat now?” Mrs. Donnelly raises her eyebrows at her family as though daring any of them to say no. “Good.”
    I join the others in filling my plate with yogurt, granola, fruit, some scrambled eggs, and a sausage patty. Brennan holds out a plate of bread and scones, nudging the thick oatmeal loaf toward me with a finger.
    â€œIt’s soda bread. A tradition around here.”
    â€œSure.” I take a slice and doctor it up with butter and jam, then take a bite. It’s delicious, with an interesting flavor and texture that’s like bread, but not. “Yum. I like it.”
    â€œâ€™Course you like it. Anything’s better than haggis and porridge.” Granddad says, talking around a mouthful of yogurt.
    â€œWhat’s haggis?” I ask in my best innocent voice.
    â€œMam makes the best soda bread in town.” Brennan informs me, intercepting his grandfather’s reply.
    â€œThat’s a beautiful picture,” I comment, nodding toward a black-and-white photograph hanging on the wall. It captures a moment in time—a woman on the beach, her back to the camera as her dark hair blows in the wind, teasing the hem of her dress out toward the crashing gray waves. Mossy rocks frame the scene, a perfect, jagged addition to the fierce image. “Did one of you take it? Or a local photographer?”
    â€œOh, our farmhand Grady took it—he’s always snapping photos with that camera of his,” Mrs. Donnelly adds, an indulgent smile turning up her lips. “Quite good at it, too.”
    â€œHuh.” It’s all I can manage, my mind trying to reconcile the gruff, off-putting guy from last night as the kind of artist who could see the unique beauty in that photo.
    â€œDid anyone see Nanny Goat this morning?” Molly changes the subject, picking at her eggs. “She’s got a fierce limp.”
    My heart pounds to a stop. The silence in the room rushes in my ears like static and the world slows down, as though we’re under water.
Shit.
    â€œI saw her yesterday and she was fine. Feisty as ever.” Mrs. Donnelly refreshes my tea, even though I’ve only sipped twice. “Tried to bite me.”
    I don’t have to say anything. As long as