The Naughty List Bundle with The Night Before Christmas & Yule Be Mine. Fern Michaels
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replied directly, opting to treat her question in the serious manner he would have those of the executives. “Perhaps you should consider that your business in particular would be one almost guaranteed an enormous boost in revenue. And that’s just for this location. There would be quid pro quo opportunities for you abroad, and you are poised to capitalize on a rather attractive niche market that would likely straddle both worlds.”
“I’ll take that as a yes, then?”
So serious for a cupcake baker. “Aye, I believe you could.”
She deftly snagged the cup of coffee right out of his hand, then slipped out of the narrow space between him and the counter. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gallagher. No disrespect to your extended family here in the States, whom I adore, especially your…cousin? I suppose that’s what Sean would be to you. I hope they will understand, though I don’t much care if you do. You’re not welcome in this establishment. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave now.”
If he hadn’t been so bereft at the sudden loss of his much-needed coffee—so close!—he might have been more amused by her combative attitude. He’d won over his share of hardened battle veterans and might have even enjoyed the challenge. At the moment, she was not his utmost concern. Not individually, anyway. He had a whole town of small business owners to win over. Better to absorb the loss of one to spare himself the time he needed to win over the many. “Hardly the spirit of the holiday season,” he said, sending a longing look at the cup in her hand, steam wafting from the hole in the lid.
“Oh, I can be quite spirited, rest assured.”
His gaze skipped right back to hers. Oh, how well he could imagine that. Far too clearly, in fact. And in great detail, if given the time. He held his long wool coat closed in front of him. “Surely you wouldn’t be so heartless as to toss me out into the bitter cold without so much as a sip—”
She rolled her eyes. “For heaven’s sake. Here.” She shoved the coffee into his hands. “Stupid accent,” she muttered under her breath.
“I beg your pardon?”
“No, I believe you begged for coffee—which you now have. So, if you would be so kind”—she gestured to the door—“I have cupcakes to remake.”
“You have a weakness for accents, do you?” He grinned, then took a very quick sip when her scowl darkened.
“Mr. Gallagher—”
“Taking my leave, not to worry.” He sketched a short bow, then as the flavor burst on his tongue, he lifted the cup toward her in a gesture of sincere reverence. “The innkeeper was right. Truly, a remarkable blend.”
“Enjoy it,” she said, the unspoken ending making it clear that it would be his only chance to do so.
“I plan to.” He couldn’t have said what made him do it, but rather then take his leave, he remained where he stood a moment longer, and quite deliberately allowed his gaze to roam down her chef’s-coat-draped body, and back up again. Not that he could tell one whit what she was hiding behind the starched white linen, but his imagination filled in the blanks quite nicely. “Down to the last drop,” he murmured, as he met her eyes once again.
It was simply payback for the abrupt eviction, and maybe a wee bit more for putting him so off balance. But his impulsive behavior backfired quite spectacularly when his caddish behavior didn’t earn him the expected scowl and possible swift boot straight out the door, but rather a far more delicious bloom of hot pink spreading across her delicate cheekbones.
Bollocks. He’d have to take several turns around the town square in the frigid cold morning air if he hoped to have even the slightest chance of taking his coat off at any point during his upcoming council meeting. He could only pray the windy chill would do what his normally stalwart willpower had not.
“Good-bye, Mr. Gallagher.”
“Have a good day, Miss…?”
“Duncastle,” she responded, polite to the end, despite her obvious dislike of him. When he didn’t respond right away, she sighed, and added, “Melody Duncastle.”
He nodded his appreciation, though he doubted she much cared. “Miss Melody Duncastle.” Her full name suited her, he thought. From her milkmaid complexion to her courtesan mouth, which was where his gaze was lingering.
“I’d wish you the same, Mr. Gallagher, but we both know that wouldn’t be sincere. Especially today.”
He chuckled at that, appreciating her honesty. A shame it looked as if they were to be adversaries. He could have used someone like her on his side. If only he could stop thinking about what it would be like to have her on her back.
He quickly tipped an imaginary hat her way. “Top o’ the mornin’ to ye, then,” he said, with a hearty, full-on brogue. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”
“Of that you can be certain,” he heard her mutter as he left the shop…whistling.
2
As the chiming bells on the door quieted, Melody wiped her damnably sweaty palms on her apron. “Wow,” she murmured beneath her breath. “This is going to be a little harder than I thought.” She relived the moment when he’d looked her up and down. And had to wipe her hands. Again. “Okay, much harder.”
She’d heard a great deal about Mr. Thomas Griffin Gallagher, but none of the reports she’d gotten had described his lethal good looks. Nor had she gotten the impression of him as a charmer. Quite the opposite, actually. The words she’d heard associated with Griffin, as she’d heard he liked to be called, had been more along the lines of determined, detail-oriented, driven, and hard-nosed—which she’d translated into bullying asshole.
Of course, the only people she’d talked to who had actually met the man were other men.
There had been talk that he looked nothing like his American-born relatives. But she still hadn’t been prepared for how startlingly different he did look. The whole town knew of his true heritage now that word had leaked out he wasn’t actually blood kin to the Gallaghers at all, but rather the direct descendant of Lionel Hamilton’s late wife, Trudy Hamilton, previously Trudy Haversham.
Hamilton Industries was the economic backbone that solely and uniquely supported the town’s ongoing existence. Though neither Lionel nor his forebears had ever been perceived as warm, or even particularly likable types, there was no denying his stewardship of his family’s many holdings had continued to make Hamilton a viable place to live and work. As such, there had been significant concern as Lionel’s health had declined over the past several years. Trevor Hamilton, his great nephew and the only Hamilton heir, had made it clear he was not interested in taking on the family empire. What would happen to their town and their livelihoods as time marched on?
It had been during last year’s holiday season that Holly Gallagher—then Holly Bennett—had taken over her mother’s Christmas shop in neighboring Willow Creek, which was also where Sean Gallagher ran his popular family restaurant. The two of them, now married, had unearthed a diary written by a young, pregnant Trudy in one of the dusty antique desks buried in the shop’s attic.
Apparently Trudy had been sent by her wealthy family in Richmond to a dotty old aunt in neighboring Willow Creek, to give birth to her out-of-wedlock baby in secret. The dotty aunt would see to the child’s eventual adoption, but teenager Trudy and her newfound friend, Sean’s own grandmother, had spirited the babe to the local parish, where he was placed with one of the many Gallagher families.
Melody hadn’t heard the specifics on how or when Griffin’s grandparents had returned to Ireland to raise the baby—who grew up to become Griffin’s father—but she knew Griffin had been born and raised there, apparently never knowing of his real ancestry. Melody found that odd, given just how different he looked from the other Gallaghers. Surely there had been some speculation.
The joke around Randolph County was that there must be a Gallagher baby factory somewhere that popped