Mismatched
Authors: Elle Casey,Amanda McKeon
Tags: #Fiction, #Humorous, #Contemporary Women, #Romantic Comedy, #General, #Romance, #New Adult, #Contemporary
COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2015 Elle Casey and Amanda McKeon, all rights reserved, worldwide.
No part of this ebook may be reproduced, uploaded to the Internet, or copied without author permission.
MISMATCHED
A Chicklit Romance
Former college roommates Erin and Ridlee leave Boston for Ireland to track down an inheritance, and end up at a matchmaking festival in Lisdoonvarna.... Ridlee's a newly minted attorney, and Erin's part owner of the Pot O' Gold Pub, hoping to buy out her new, mysterious partner, some old Irish guy she'd never heard of before the reading of her late grandmother's will. It seemed like it would be an easy thing to do: show up, find the bloke, and make him an offer… But the magic that is Ireland and the people who speak the lilting Irish brogue are as unpredictable as the weather, and things get a little more complicated than the girls anticipated when the town's legendary matchmaker pulls out his leather-bound book and proposes two matches…
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OTHER BOOKS BY ELLE CASEY
NEW ADULT ROMANCE
By Degrees
Rebel
(3-book series)
CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE
Shine Not Burn
(2-book series)
Don’t Make Me Beautiful
Full Measure
(written as Kat Lee)
Just One Night
(romantic serial)
Just One Week
(romantic serial)
Love in New York
(3-book series)
YA PARANORMAL
Duality
(2-book series)
Pocket Full of Sunshine
(short story & screenplay)
YA URBAN FANTASY
War of the Fae
(7-book series)
My Vampire Summer
Aces High
(with Jason Brant)
YA DYSTOPIAN
Apocalypsis
(4-book series)
YA ACTION ADVENTURE
Wrecked
(2-book series)
OTHER BOOKS BY AMANDA MCKEON
Morrigan: Emergence
Morrigan: Blue Moon rising
DEDICATION
To our husbands, who kept the home fires burning.
CHAPTER ONE
ERIN
THEY SAY THE GOOD DIE young.
So, it’s really no surprise that my grandmother, or rather Margaret as she preferred me to call her, lived to the ripe old age of ninety-odd. No-one knows what the ‘odd’ was because she guarded her age more closely than a nun’s knickers.
That is until now.
I am sitting in the offices of Hanby & Hanby, Margaret’s lawyers, waiting to be called in for the reading of her will. Most of the family live back in Ireland, so it’s my job to assist the lawyers in any way I can and report back. But what I’m really interested in is The Pot O’Gold.
Nobody in the family is expecting much. My grandmother never had any money. Case in point: when I approached her last year for a much needed injection of cash to fix up the bar, she assured me that she didn’t have two ha’ pennies to rub together. That’s Irish for: ‘I’m broke
.’
Still
, I sigh shifting in the leather chair, feebly pulling at the hem of my very short skirt,
she always seemed to have it when she needed it
. I allow myself a little pre-will-reading fantasy.
Maybe she was in fact
a mastermind gambler and her weekly ‘little flutters’ on the horses brought in truckloads of money that she has sewn into her mattress. Maybe my money troubles are over…Ha ha!
“Erin O’Neill?”
I stand up quickly and my purse falls from my knees, scattering its contents far and wide.
“Great,” I mutter, dropping to all fours.
A fusty middle-aged woman, the secretary I presume, stands over me as I grab for my things that have travelled great distances across the floor. I redden slightly as I snatch at a scrunched-up pair of red lace panties and matching bra; not exactly mourning attire…
Clearing my throat and with as much dignity as possible I stand, pretending that this didn’t just happen.
“Eh, that’s me. I mean, I’m Erin O’Neill.”
She glances at the underwear spilling out of my closed fist and sniffs.
“I’ll have you know they’ve never been worn!” I say, indignantly. “I won them in a raffle. Last night.”
Why am I saying all this to her?
“Oh, never mind.”
With slow deliberation she looks me up and down. Starting with my face, still plastered in last night’s make-up, her gaze travels down to my sheer black blouse, leather micro-mini skirt, and knee-high boots and stockings. She sniffs audibly.
I jut out my chin in defiance. I don’t have to take this from
her,
though I can’t help pining for the nice trouser suit hanging in my closet that I had intended to wear to this meeting.
Why did I listen to Ridlee? I told her that with the reading of the will today, I couldn’t risk going out the night before. But she was convinced that a Saints and Sinners fancy dress party was just what we both needed.
Today’s a big day for both of us. She’s waiting to hear whether or not she passed the bar exam and I’m waiting to hear whether or not I’ve inherited a bar, a.k.a. The Pot O’Gold. Ridlee promised that we’d be home and tucked up in bed by one thirty, but of course one thing led to another; shots were downed and meetings forgotten. I awoke in Ridlee’s bed twenty minutes before the appointed time and had to hightail it across town in the clothes I wore out last night. I had no choice but to come to the meeting dressed like a sinner.
And now, all I can do is try to brazen it out. Act natural. I mean, some people actually do dress like this in their everyday lives. Sinners, admittedly, but still; at least it’s all black, which is good seeing as I’m officially still in mourning.
I decide to adopt the tone of important, valued client and shame the secretary into showing me some respect. It’s time to put her in her place. “Shall we?” I ask arching one eyebrow in the direction of her boss’s office. She colors slightly. “We don’t want to keep your boss waiting now, do we?” I nod toward the hall that leads to Mr. Hanby’s office. I have been here once before with my grandmother, and we went straight in to see the man himself, so I know my way around a little.
She walks on stiffly, her head held a smidgen too high.
Game, set, and match, Erin.
I allow myself a smug little smile as I walk behind her.
A young guy at a desk looks up as we approach — she walking now at a clip, I more slowly so he can have a leisurely look. I wink as I pass. He blushes. It’s the sinner in me breaking free; I can’t help it.
I follow her to the door of Mr. Hanby’s very roomy corner office with large windows, no doubt paid for by people like Margaret—literally daylight robbery. The building is located on the waterfront in the financial district in Boston, with views of the harbour. I once asked her why she had such fancy lawyers, and she said that if you pay peanuts, you get monkeys.
The secretary doesn’t even knock; in fact, she strides right in, walks around the desk, and sits in Mr. Hanby’s chair.
I remain in the doorway, wondering what to do. Where is Mr. Hanby and who
is
this person? I have to stifle a smile when she starts to shuffle papers. Maybe she’s plain old crazy.
“Please, have a seat,” she intones, nodding curtly at the two chairs on the other side of the desk.
“Oookaaay.” I walk over and sit down, glancing around me just in case there’s a camera pointed at me. I’m half expecting to be punk’d.
She clears her throat.
I may as well play along until the boss arrives, but she’s sure to get an almighty dressing down for this kind of insubordination when Mr. Hanby gets here.
Opening the desk drawer, she takes out a pair of glasses, the kind that have a chain connecting the arms, and puts them on. They slide to the bottom of her nose. She looks over some pages that I now assume to be Margaret’s will.
Enough’s enough!
“Look here, Mrs. ...?”
“Hanby.” She stops reading and looks directly at me. “I’m the first Hanby in Hanby & Hanby. My brother is the second.”
“Oh.” I feel my face turning pink.
Oh, bollox… and I treated her like some half crazed underling out in the waiting area. Great start, Erin. Tops!
“Now, Ms. O’Neill… first of all, I’m very sorry to hear about your grandmother’s passing. She was a great lady, and a very good friend of mine.”
“Oh.” I’m usually more articulate than this.
“As executrix of her estate, I will distribute her property and wealth per her wishes…”
Soon I hear words like: last will and testament, international will, probate, and beneficiaries, but I can’t really take all this in. As far as I know, Margaret only had the pub, I mean the bar, and that’s all that really interests me. I try to follow what Mrs. Hanby is saying.
“The sum of $100,000 will go to each of her children. Properties in the greater Boston area to be sold and…”
“I’m sorry. Stop.” I hold up my hand like a traffic cop. “Could you just stop for a minute?”
She looks up from the pages she’s holding in both hands, and now it’s her turn to arch an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Are you sure this is my grandmother’s will? Margaret Daly, born in Lisdoonvarna, County Clare, Ireland? Proprietor of ‘The Pot O’Gold’ bar in South Boston?”
“Yes. Margaret Assumpta Daly, born April 17, 1917.”
“Well, where did she get all this money from? She didn’t have a dime when I asked her to invest in renovations for the bar. Did she win the lottery and not tell me?”
“I’m afraid you’d have to ask her that.”
“Well, I can’t very well do that now, can I?”
“No, you can’t. Shall I go on?”
My head is spinning.
I had to work like a dog to get the bar going again and Margaret never gave me a penny. Now it turns out that she was loaded! I cannot get my head around this.
There must be some mistake!
“Look, Mrs. Hanby. Sure, I’m terribly sorry, but I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier.” I turn up the Irish lilt a little— the Yanks usually love it.
She narrows her eyes.
I drop the accent.
“Right. Let me put it this way.” I inhale deeply. “I had no idea that my grandmother was worth so much; she never gave me a handout or a leg up. I’ve been living with her day in and day out for the past five years, tending to her needs and running the bar more or less single-handedly. At the end, she couldn’t even go to the toilet on her own. We couldn’t afford a nurse…”
I leave that little nugget to hang for a minute before going on gravely. “I think I’m owed some kind of an explanation, don’t you?”
I sit back in the chair folding my arms across my chest.
“I’m sorry, Ms. O’Neill, but I am not at liberty to discuss all of the particulars of your grandmother’s estate with you. Suffice to say, you are permitted to pass on the details of your mother’s inheritance, and your uncle’s, which relate only to properties in Boston, and the payment of your grandmother’s life insurance. Beyond that there is only the matter of the bar to discuss.”
“Yes, fine. Whatever.” I watch her through narrowed eyes.
This is typical Margaret. And now she has a minion continuing her evil legacy.
“Let’s discuss The Pot O’ Gold then, Mrs., Hanby, and I’ll be on my way.”