Mistletoe Mayhem & Mr. Right Read online

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  “Yes, I, my name is Molly. I, you…” she said babbling gibberish. “Sorry, you had to witness that. Seems Mr. Waters had a little embezzling problem. My new office is right this way. Hunter will get you set up. You’ll need to stop down on the eleventh floor to fill out some paperwork,” he said, barely making eye contact. She followed him down the corridor to his office. Outside sat two desks. A man sat behind a desk tapping his pencil to the beat of his headphones.

  “Hunter, my good man, please set Kelly here up with a desk, then show her around.”

  “Um, it’s Molly,” she interjected quietly.

  Hunter Bentley stood to greet her. His hair, sandy brown, a tousled mess looked like a surfer who just returned from the beach. He was dressed in khakis and a blue button-down, a tad wrinkled, with an orange tie. He gave her a sideways glance. “Sure thing, Mr. T.”

  “Do you moonlight as a chimney sweep?” asked Hunter casually.

  Dusting off the dirt on her shoulder, she pulled a tiny chrysanthemum leaf from her hair.

  “No, Mr. Waters broke his planter and…”

  “Yeah, a lot of drama today, but welcome to Tate and Price, formally known as Waters and Price. Apparently, Mr. Waters will be facing some pretty big charges for embezzlement,” said Hunter.

  “I didn’t know. But I got the job. I got the job. No interview, no resume. It’s a miracle. I need to call my mother and father and sisters and my boyfriend, of course.” She fished out her phone and pecked in Maxie’s number.

  Molly grasped the locket on her neck then shouted into the phone, “I got it. It’s really happening. I’ll call you tonight.”

  “I knew you would. Love you Sweet Potato.”

  “About that, before you start your victory speech you might want to slow down a bit. Not sure what job you think you got, but the one you did get is assistant to Mr. Tate, a.k.a. ‘glorified secretary,’ or in layman's terms ‘Sebastian’s slave’ if you will.”

  A dreamy look washed over her face. She had just finished the second book in the “Love’s Hold” series and although not exactly her cup of tea, somehow the title “Sebastian’s Slave” seemed mildly exciting at the moment.

  “There it is—that look. The goo-goo eyed look that graces the face of every girl in his presence, sorry but you don’t have a chance in hell with him,” said Hunter.

  “You must have misread my face, I have no interest in him at all,” she said as she clawed the hives on her neck. “I’m simply here to advance my career, and besides, I have a boyfriend.”

  “Yes, you did mention that. What’s his name?”

  Hmm, that’s weird, his name escaped her for a moment. It must have been the craziness of the day. She loved him. He was perfect for her. Everyone thought so. A fabulous catch as her mother reminded her daily. After a brief pause, she answered, “Thomas. Yes, that’s it.”

  “You sure about that or do you need a minute to think about it?”

  Frosted lip girl sauntered up just as Mr. Tate appeared from his office.

  “Hi, Mr. Tate,” she purred. “I heard you were interviewing a new hire, so I took the time to bring the human resource paperwork up for you.”

  “Wow, that was thoughtful of you. What’s your name again?”

  “Chrissie,” she said, batting her spider-like lashes.

  “Right, thanks again, Chrissie.”

  After he disappeared down the hall, Chrissie dropped the papers on Hunter’s desk.

  “Here,” she said before slinking away.

  “What’s her story?” asked Molly.

  “Check the book.”

  “The book?” she asked tilting her head pinching her eyebrows together.

  “Mr. Tate has a little black book. Although in this case, it’s more like a big black book. You’ll become very familiar with it. Chrissie, let’s see if we can find her,” said Hunter, opening the drawer of the desk in from his. A red rumpled tie peeked from the draw along with an orange peel and a paper airplane. “There it is,” he said pulling out a black leather-bound book. He flipped through the pages and said, “Tate spent quite a bit of time with her when he was a consultant. I’m fairly sure she didn’t slip by his radar.”

  Thumbing through the pages he stopped on Chrissie. “Let’s see. She’s filed under ‘Airhead from HR.’ It comes with helpful notes, like a check if she is worth calling or an x if she’s a definite no go.”

  “You mean he takes notes on his girlfriends?”

  “You could say that. He uses the book if he needs an impromptu date for a work function. He’ll say call Anna or Jackie, good dates.”

  “You mean good arm candy?” asked Molly.

  “That would be unfair to say since they’re all good arm candy. The man has run through most of the city. Mr. Tate has dated every woman in New York area except my mother, Big Ethel, you know the lady who sells fish fry on the corner, whose legs are worse than a Sherpa, and I’m guessing you?”

  “That’s all very disturbing.”

  “Not really. Some chicks are better dates. They don’t get too drunk or start making fools of themselves. You know, the man has to set some standards.”

  “No, I mean the whole rating system.”

  “Yeah, well get used to it. And welcome to Tate and Price.”

  “One more question. Where are all the Christmas decorations?” Molly asked surveying the office.

  “Don’t know, never been any in the two years I’ve been here.”

  “Sad, we’ll have to change that.”

  “Now let’s get your golden career rolling,” said Hunter.

  “Your right, I better get those papers down to HR. I don’t care what you say, this job will advance my career. It’s a stepping stone. A year tops and I’ll be in that ad exec position.”

  Chapter Two

  Three years later, Thanksgiving weekend

  The Thanksgiving holiday was a few days away. Hunter carried three bags to down to the street. “Woman it’s only a weekend? How much do you need to survive three days? Here’s your bags and Henry’s bed. I’ve packed protein bars, granola, chocolate, an eighties dance party CD, Henry’s dog food and his toys,” said Hunter, packing the last of Molly’s things into her vintage red Volkswagen bug.

  “You’re a lifesaver, Hunter. What would I do without you? Molly answered, stuffing her bags into the backseat.

  “Suffer, which is probably what you are going to do for the next seventy-two hours,” he said with a sigh.

  “Please don’t remind me. Promise you’ll have hot cocoa and mini marshmallows with our first Christmas CD of the season waiting for me as I try and forget my awful trip.”

  “Your wish is my command Ah, one more thing, “he said before grabbing a Christmas wreath to hang on the back trunk of her beetle.

  “You spoil me, Bestie,” she smiled, throwing her arms around him. “It’s perfect!”

  “I think ‘Bestie’ is reserved for your girlfriends.”

  “Nope, you’re my Bestie, kisses,” she said, waving as she crawled into her car. “Are you sure you can’t come? You know how much Benadryl is required to make it through a family weekend with Silvia.”

  “Sorry Red, Kyle and I are preparing a feast, and I packed you two extra bottles of Benadryl for those pesky nerve hives. Mittens, I should have packed your mittens to keep the clawing down to a minimum.”

  “Again, I simply would be a mess without you. If you must leave me to deal with her by myself, you better rest. I’m going to need Christmas decoration rehab when I return. I picked up a ton for work this year.”

  “Of course, you did.”

  In the years that followed her joining the firm, Hunter had become her best friend, confidant, eighties dance party partner and Monday night football buddy. He knew her strengths, weaknesses, fears, insecurities, allergies, and above all, how to calm her down when the hives erupted. He made her laugh, comforted her tears and had become her family in New York.

  Hunter knew her hopes and dreams and allowed h
er to believe she could someday catch the man of her dreams, Sebastian Tate. Catching a man like Sebastian would be no easy task, and the fact that he still didn’t remember her name after three years, might have discouraged some, but not Molly. She knew the importance of patience. She would wait for Sebastian until he was ready or at least until he realized she was alive. She knew it wouldn’t be long before he recognized her full potential and gave her that promotion, and then they’d fall madly, hopelessly in love. All she needed was to get him under her mistletoe. When their lips met, the magic would happen. She was sure he’d feel it too. This part of her plan, however, was proving to be trickier than she had imagined.

  Molly turned her attention to the disastrous driving conditions, which had now escalated due to a heavy pocket of rain she had entered. However, driving in torrential downpours on the busiest travel day of the year seemed to pale in comparison to this Thanksgiving holiday for Molly McKenna. Going home is a gift according to Nana B.

  Bunny McKenna made sure the clan never forgot the importance of family. Her Irish heart was larger than any pot of gold that may wait at the end of a rainbow. However, Nana was ninety nine percent sweet, but it was the one percent of her Irish temper that you needed to fear. Heaven help the soul who attempted to hurt one of her beloved family. Molly adored her Nana. Bunny was the great reutilizer for family tensions. It had been two years since she left for Ireland. Oh, how Molly wished she would be there to buff the storm that waited for her.

  Molly did love the craziness that surrounded the McKenna clan during the holidays, it was the endless grilling about her life she could live without. Numerous scenarios of painstaking conversation with her mother, Silvia played in her head. “You’re twenty-five years old, which is practically thirty. You’re sailing right through your baby-making years. Thirty, for God’s sake, you might as well join a convent. Then you’ll never give me grandchildren. Who am I kidding, what are the chances of you marrying and bearing children before forty? Are there no men in New York? Are you having confusing thoughts about your orientation? We have people for that.”

  “Why do I put myself through this agony year after year?” she moaned. The whole point of leaving Connecticut was to free herself of the constant judging, the need to keep up pretenses for the family name. Here she could finally prove to Silvia she was good enough, if such a thing existed. “For God’s sake you’d think I’m a leper the way she treats me,” Molly said to Henry, her faithful dog. Slobbering a long-wet pile of drool on her lap, brought her back to reality.

  “Thank you, Henry, for acknowledging I’m not a leper,” she said as she patted her pleasantly plump Pug on the head. Henry, not exactly a looker, sported a rather severe underbite. His short legs caused his belly to almost skim the floor. Silvia hated Henry, just another perk of bringing a girl’s best friend along. Henry would limit her time alone with Silvia.

  “Yes, with any luck the traffic will detain us for several hours before we face the interrogation squad.”

  B101 had started playing its annual homage to Christmas with twenty-four hours of holiday music. Singing along to “Santa Baby,” she thought about Sebastian, his dreamy smile, those piercing eyes, and that body, not to mention the Australian accent. “Hmmm,” she sighed.

  Yes, it was true. Her boss of three years barely knew she existed with the exception of the two seconds of eye contact they shared each morning. Pathetic, she reminded herself. A two-second flirtation five days a week with a man who was she was slightly oblivious to acted as the only relationship of substance she had since Thomas left her for Carey White nearly three years ago. Okay, maybe not exactly a flirtation, but acknowledgment, definitely acknowledgment. There’s no chance of a broken heart when you steer the ship. Yes, she was in control of those two seconds. She could count on them. “When you say it out loud, it does sound sort of pathetic,” she said to Henry, who gave her a long pitiful gaze, showing the whites of his eyes in agreement.

  Perhaps that was exactly why she remained secretly content with having a lusty affair with Sebastian silently in her head. Who needed men?

  Thomas Landon III made that perfectly clear that fateful Christmas Eve—Eve. He and Carey White were caught making out backstage when the curtain accidentally fell at the annual Miss Winter pageant. Just like that, Molly lost her boyfriend, her dreams and her dignity, all in front of the entire town. Silvia’s first concern was not for her humiliated daughter Molly, but rather that the unfortunate debacle would somehow overshadow the crowning of Megan, Molly’s oldest sister, who was about to become Ms. Winter for the second year running.

  Molly’s two older sisters took after their mother with long dark hair, curves in all the right places. They shared their mother’s olive complexion with eyes the color of a rich mocha latte. They could easily have hailed from the Kardashian clan. Silvia never missed an opportunity to remind Molly that she had drawn the short straw in the gene pool. Molly was petite and had inherited her father’s Irish genes, with a thick head of corkscrew curls in burnt orange, fair skin with a dusting of freckles squarely across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes of green would be the envy of even a leprechaun.

  The sound of a horn blaring as an SUV passed her with the driver flipping her the finger, interrupted her self-loathing.

  “Why do I do this horrible drive each year?”

  Henry responded with a snarl and blob of drool. “I’m going to need to get you a Lobster bib if you continue soaking my seat,” Molly said to the plump pup. The drive which should’ve taken a little over an hour and a half, now entered its fourth hour. Exhausted, she finally turned into the spiral-shaped driveway that led to the massive house on Winthrop Lane. She stopped the car and took a deep breath. Black shutters hung on a stark white house, that was nothing short of a mansion. It boasted four large columns in the front, flanking massive double Cherry wood doors which sat squarely under a five-foot semicircular window.

  “How bad could it be? After all, they’re my family, right? Just hold your head up high. Embrace your single lady status. Be proud you don’t need a man. Yes, I can do this. It’s no one’s business but my own whether or not I choose to date, right Henry? You’re the only man I need in my life, period. We got this,” she said as she patted the dog’s head and fixed her pink glasses.

  She gathered Henry and her suitcase and headed toward the heavy doors. Inside she put down her suitcase and heard the echo of marble in the hollow foyer. Ah home, cold, impersonal, beautifully decorated. Yes, its message screamed, model home, staged for sale, not comfort. Come in, sit down—but not too comfortably—rather take your shoes off, God forbid anything gets on the white rugs. Sit down, but don’t mess the pillows— again, they’re staged perfectly. Have a drink, but for heaven’s sake use a coaster. Yes, home sweet home. She was distracted by a tiny voice, yelling to her from down the hallway, and the pitter-patter of small bare feet on the marble.

  “Molly’s here,” yelled Sophie, her four-year-old niece, rushing to the door to greet her. With her thick black hair and large doe eyes, she looked like the poster child for Burberry Kids. The two hugged and the little girl snuggled Henry.

  That went well, thought Molly remembering being single is a thing. She began humming, “All the Single Ladies.”

  Alright, maybe she doesn’t count as a member of the firing squad, but I’m in the door, step one.

  A flood of McKenna's stormed the foyer.

  “Molly-O-Golly,” yelled Megan, her oldest sister. At five foot nine, she towered over the crowd.

  “Sweet Potato, Henry, you made it,” said Maxie, her middle sister. Maxie, equally striking, was her high school homecoming queen and a shoo-in for this year’s Ms. Winter.

  “Baby Doll you made it,” said her father, coming in for a bear hug. “How was the drive?”

  So far, so good, here she comes, take a breath. Molly hummed the refrain of “All the Single Ladies” over and over. It had proved to be an independent woman’s anthem, as well as a remarkable distractio
n. She felt strong, fierce, independent.

  Silvia did a long once-over before going in for the kill. “Molly, you look so pale. Have you lost weight? You do know weight comes off your chest first, right? God knows you don’t need that. They make wonderfully padded bras for those who are cup challenged. And why do you always wear those God-awful sheep hunting shoes?”

  “They’re Uggs, Mom. They’re made of shearling, not used for sheep hunting.”

  Silvia spoke rapid fire, barely gasping for a breath, “Awfully testy, dear. Are you still driving that death trap? Don’t they pay you enough to buy a real car? You know, if you had a man in your life you would be much happier. If you took your hair out of that ballerina bun and for heaven's sake why haven’t you tried contacts yet? You know I have a doctor who’ll perform that eye surgery and get rid of those awful schoolmarm glasses. Maybe your sisters could help you with some makeup tricks.”

  Molly pushed back her glasses and stuffed a few loose strands back in her bun, pushed out her 32B chest and reminded herself it was just seventy-two hours.

  “Mom, that’s enough,” said Megan. “Molly’s beautiful just the way she is. Maybe she doesn’t want a man.” She picked up Olivia, her two-year-old who just wandered in.

  “Please don’t tell me she’s considering being one of those independent women who doesn’t ever ‘need’ a man? Oh, for heaven’s sake are you saying you’re not interested in men?” Silvia whispered.

  “Mom,” Molly said.

  “Dear, if you are, I’m not saying we wouldn’t be disappointed and it would require my doing some major damage control at the country club, but we would get you help.”

  “Help? I don’t need help. Even if I wasn’t interested in men, I wouldn’t need help,” shouted Molly, whose Irish temper had run dangerously close to its boiling point.

  “Defense mechanism, that right there, that’s what that is. Molly, we have always known you were different…” Silvia started.

  “For your information Mom, I do have a boyfriend if you must know,” Molly blurted out. It just sort of rolled off her tongue. What happened to being a single lady, embracing my independence? She broke under the pressure.