Lock, Stock & Jingle Bells: A Hamilton Christmas Novella Read online

  He watched Holly and thought maybe there was a grieving of an entirely different sort taking place there. The fact that she’d had the taxi drop her off at the shop with a single suitcase indicated a certain level of ambivalence. But what did he know? And why did he care?

  “Sean! There you are. You’ve got O’Hara on the phone, barking mad about the fish order, and the damn grinder is acting up again. What the bloody hell are you doing?”

  Sean waved a hand back at his cousin Mickey. “You know how to fix the grinder and tell O’Hara that if he hadn’t tried to pawn off that load of crap scallops on me, I wouldn’t have canceled my order and gone to Halloran’s instead. His loss.”

  “Sean—”

  “Handle it, Mick.” And, without really giving it any actual thought, he strolled straight across the street.

  3

  “Hey, let me help you with that.”

  At the sound of the deep voice, Holly spun around. Sean Gallagher. The living, breathing embodiment of every single one of her high school fantasies. Feverish fantasies, they’d been, too. Of course, popular Sean, football and basketball star Sean, cheerleader-of-the-week girlfriend Sean, had never once paid her the slightest bit of attention. When they were in school, anyway. Of course she’d seen him almost every day of her life outside of school, given their parents ran businesses across the street from one another.

  He’d nod on occasion, even wave to her when he was alone. But most often he was surrounded by a half dozen teammates and friends, or two to three times that in Gallagher’s, and Holly hadn’t the first clue what to do with a person like that. Especially when that person featured very prominently in every daydream and night fantasy she’d ever had. So, like the awkward geek that she’d been back then, she’d stare back at him, likely with a deer in headlights look, then duck into the shop and hide. All the while bitterly chastising herself for not being more forward and confident in herself when given such perfect openings.

  Thankfully, her mother had never had a clue. One of the few times Bev Bennett’s total absorption in running the shop had worked in Holly’s favor. The instant Holly had popped into the store after school, or debate team practice, or art club, her mother would sigh in relief at the extra pair of hands and put her straight to work. On those days where Sean had privately favored her with that big smile of his, she was thankful for both the haven and the distraction. Today, neither were readily available. The store was locked up and there was no bustle of customers to demand attention.

  Just big, broad-shouldered, blue-eyed, dark-haired, brightly smiling Sean Gallagher.

  Who, at thirty-two, was only about a million times hotter than he’d been at eighteen. She was afraid the same could and would never be said of her. No amount of London polish would turn the small town mouse into a big city swan. She clutched the handle of her suitcase like it was her only lifeline to safety. “I—that’s okay,” she stuttered as he drew closer. “I’ve got it.”

  Her less-than-commanding self-confidence didn’t exactly stop him in his tracks.

  “Those boots look great, but I’m guessing they’re not much on traction,” he said quite genially, as if they were longtime friends who’d simply bumped into each other. “I’m sure you weren’t expecting to come home to slush and ice. Here.” He reached her side and gently, but quite decidedly, took hold of her suitcase handle. He propped his elbow out in an offer of personal support as well.

  Clearly he had no clue whatsoever that he was a far greater threat to her equilibrium than any ice storm or three-inch boot heels could ever hope to be. The thought that, after all these years, he was not only standing right in front of her, talking to her, and smiling that devastatingly gorgeous smile at her, but wanted her to put her hands on him? Okay, just one hand. But still. It made her feel utterly ridiculous to still be so affected by him this many years later, when, obviously, the reverse had always been, and forever would be, true. Which…duh.

  So, with everything else she was struggling to deal with at that moment, including a maelstrom of emotions ranging from confusing, heart-tugging homesickness to abject terror that she wouldn’t be able to run away from it ever again, the additional hormonal surge of seeing Sean Gallagher up close and personal was simply one too many things to tackle.

  “Thank you, but I’ll be fine,” she said, striving to sound a little more in charge of herself, made harder by the fact that, even in heels, she still had to look up what felt like a mile or so, to where he towered over her.

  “Holly Bennett,” he said, making her name sound almost…reverent.

  Clearly she was hallucinating that last part. Leftover dregs of her teenage fantasies. Serious jet lag. Whatever. She was exhausted and stressed out and he was just standing there, all casually godlike. Anyone would have a hard time thinking straight. “Yes,” she said, somewhat stupidly, in response, but not knowing, really, what else to say to that.

  “It’s me, Sean,” he said, then added, “Gallagher.”

  As if she might not be aware.

  “I—right. It’s—uh, yes. Yes, I know who you are. And—well, it’s a pleasure. Sean. To see you. Again.” She stuck her hand out. It was that or start digging a hole straight to China. And there she was, with no shovel.

  He grinned and took her hand, but rather than give it a polite, casual little shake, he held on to it. In fact, went so far as to cover it with his other hand, apparently completely unaware what that did to her already overloaded hormonal circuits, considering he just stood there, smiling down at her with something that looked like a mix of delight and affection plastered all over his handsome face.

  It was that affection part that totally froze her up. Reverting her back to sixteen, when all she could do was stare. God only knew what expression was on her face. All she knew was that his hands were big and warm…and her body was swiftly following suit on the latter part.

  She’d like to think a dozen years living independently in London, in the fast-paced world of advertising, would have long pushed her past her shyness and the paralyzing fear that always came with speaking in front of groups. Sometimes groups of one. Especially when they looked and sounded like Sean Gallagher. And, back in London, she most definitely had. She wouldn’t have made a very successful art director if she hadn’t. And she had been. Successful. But that was business. This…she didn’t know what this was. All she knew was she was a long way from London, and her smart, confident, savvy London self hadn’t apparently made the trans-Atlantic flight along with her.

  Standing there, staring, she still felt exactly like the awkward sophomore she’d once been, looking at all of his senior perfection and feeling her tongue tie into knots. Right along with her stomach.

  “I miss your folks,” he said as they continued to stand there, and stare. “But I got a postcard and note from your mom from their cruise ship. Sounds like retirement is agreeing with them.”

  “Yes, yes it is,” she said, finally coming out of her pheromone stupor and slipping her hand from his. “Well, I shouldn’t keep you. I’d—I’d better get inside and—” She glanced at the store and faltered. She had no idea what she was going to do when she got inside, so she just plastered a smile on her face and grabbed the handle of her suitcase before he could again. “Good to see you.”

  “I heard you were coming back to take over the store,” he said as she bumped her suitcase up the curb and fumbled with the keys.

  “I—” She didn’t know yet what she’d come back to do, or not do, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. “Right.” Finally, blessedly, she turned the lock and the dead bolt and swung the door open.

  “I’m glad you’re back in town, Holly Bennett.”

  She glanced back at him, standing there, hands shoved in his pockets, chef apron tied perfectly around his hips, somehow looking all the more manly for it. He also looked like he was freezing.

  “Me, too,” she said inanely, for the lack of any real reply of substance. Or honesty.

  Just then s
omeone stuck their head out of the front door of the restaurant. Where Sean’s hair was a dark, thick mop of waves, this head was closely shorn and red. But the easy grin and dancing eyes proclaimed him yet another Gallagher. And, if that wasn’t enough, the thick brogue was final proof.

  “Sean, me boy, we’re sinkin’ in here, doncha know. And O’Hara’s called back twice now. I think you can get quite a deal on the mahi mahi and the scallops both if you play it right. You can flirt about later.” He sent a small salute and a wink toward Holly. “Unless I finish me chores first.”

  “Right, Mick,” Sean called back, never once taking his own twinkling eyes off of Holly. “My cousin,” he told her, by way of explanation. “Come from Cork to spend the holidays. And make my life even more impossible, that one,” he finished, doing a fine imitation of a brogue himself.

  “I’ll let you get back to it,” Holly said, feeling just as she had all those years ago, watching his unruly, boisterous clan tumble and wrestle about. Part envious of what it must be like, to always know you had the bosom and embrace of a big family to sink into anytime…and part petrified of what it would be like to never have a moment or thought completely and entirely to yourself. She tore her gaze away and dragged her bag through the door.

  “Welcome home,” Sean called out, sketching a salute of his own before jogging back across the street and through the door his cousin was still holding for him.

  “Home,” Holly echoed as she closed the door behind her. She turned to look at the shadowed room, lined with crammed full shelves and dotted with the odd, eclectic antique furnishings. It was a place she knew like the back of her own hand…every aisle, every shelf, every tile of the floor. And which, at that moment, seemed completely alien to her now that she was totally in charge of them. Owned them, in fact. It was cold. And dusty. And dank smelling. Things her mother’s place had never been.

  Except it wasn’t her mother’s place any longer.

  She tucked her hands under folded arms, trying to ward off a chill that had little to do with the heat being turned down and the electricity switched off.

  Home.

  All that was left of it, anyway. Holly started to tremble a little as she allowed her gaze to travel the depth and breadth of the place. Her place. Now that she was standing here, the real enormity of the decision her mother had left her to make hit her full force. It made her want to call her mother right then and there and angrily demand to know how in the hell she could do something like this to her. Or jump back in the taxi, race back to the airport, and flee once again to London, where she’d send word to Florida that, thanks, but no thanks, then simply get on with her life.

  But the taxi was gone. And so were her parents. At least until after the new year. She glanced across the street, to the yellow glow that emanated through the windows and door of Gallagher’s. Warm and inviting. With people talking, working, knowing, and understanding their purpose.

  She looked back at the interior of the shop, her shop…and wished like hell she had even an inkling of what that felt like. Because, standing there, finally ensconced once again in the cheerful, fairy-tale world of Christmas her mother had so lovingly built and tended to, Holly felt no rush of longing, no ache of homesickness that made her want to cling to the familiarity of the past. She hadn’t realized until just then that, somewhere in her mind, perhaps she’d been hoping—praying—that that would be what happened.

  Instead, the reality was that she felt even less connected to this place than she ever had before.

  “Bah, humbug, dammit,” she muttered, giving in to the feelings that had plagued her since her mother had handed her the keys with that knowing smile and face full of hope. She dragged her bag farther inside and locked the door behind her. “Merry freaking Christmas.”

  4

  Sean was distracted all day. Night, too. He found himself putting in far more front-of-house appearances than usual. Not because there were service issues, or because he wanted to spend more time chatting up new customers, although he managed to deflect a few of the former, and make sure the passing-through-towners were having an enjoyable meal. No, he found any excuse to be in the front of the restaurant because that was where he could look across the street. To where Holly Bennett was currently residing. Like some kind of lovesick teenager, mooning over the girl who got away. Which…well, it was certainly a lot easier for her to get away when the guy never, exactly, did anything about getting her.

  It was closing in on one in the morning when he was finally ready to lock up and leave. Only, instead of heading out into the small rear lot reserved for him and his employees, climbing into his truck, and heading home…he headed out the front door, boxed meal in hand, and went across the street to Santa’s Workshop. The lights in the front of the store were off, but there was a golden glow seeping out from somewhere in the rear of the store, which he happened to know was where Bev’s office was. Or, he supposed that would be Holly’s office, now. So he was doing the neighborly thing…bringing over a hot meal for the new kid in town, freshly off a long flight from the U.K. Neighborly. Friendly. That was Sean Gallagher, all right.

  “You are so full of shit,” he muttered as he tapped lightly on the glass pane of the front door. When no one appeared from the back, he knocked a bit harder. He didn’t want to startle her, but how else was he going to play Good Samaritan unless she knew he was standing outside her door, at one o’clock in the morning, freezing his ass off…being neighborly.

  He was just about to turn away when he saw her poke her head around the corner leading to the back of the store. He waved and lifted the box in his hand so she could see it.

  She didn’t exactly come running to unlock the door, but she didn’t wave him off, either. It was a start. He laughed silently at himself. How pathetic was this? He could hear his assorted cousins and relatives now. You’ve a full life, Sean Gallagher, but when it comes to the fairer sex, you’re a sad, sorry man. Women throwing themselves at you all but nightly, yet you subject yourself to this.

  Of course, said women usually came into Gallagher’s in packs, and had imbibed perhaps more than what was strictly recommended, then simply behaved accordingly. Not exactly the sort of behavior to get his attention, at least not in a positive way. His cousins—the female ones—told him women needed the extra courage of a drink or two because he was “too intimidating” to approach. Good looking, successful, single, usually topped their list of reasons why, along with workaholic, no life, unwilling to commit to anything other than running the restaurant. The male side of the family mostly scratched their collective heads and wondered, aloud, and at great length, why he wasn’t taking them all to bed. Hourly. And not necessarily one at a time.

  He basically avoided the conversations regarding his bachelor status, especially after hitting thirty, rather than subject himself to their endless and highly detailed theories, and worse, their plans to “fix” the situation. Which, to his mind, didn’t need fixing. Yes, most of the Gallagher clan began adding to the massive, mutant-size family tree long before his ripe old age of thirty-two. But most of them didn’t carry the burdens he did, either, even if he did so willingly. He considered his life to be a full and content one. It just also happened to be one that wasn’t all that conducive to conducting a long term relationship.

  Which was the other sad, sorry truth of why he was standing outside Holly’s door in the middle of the night, a box of food in one hand and a hopeful smile on his face. The wee hours were pretty much his only free time. He watched as she unlocked the door, noting that her smile had been brief and not entirely welcoming. In fact, she looked quite tired and perhaps a bit more weary around the eyes—which weren’t currently making any direct contact with his—than simply a long flight followed by a long day and now night, might warrant. He’d thought a personally cooked meal might be welcome, but now he wondered if perhaps she was more in need of a warm shoulder.

  “Hey,” he said when she pushed the door open. “I was closing up and
saw your light was still on back there. I used to bring your mom a meal on occasion when she was doing the books or working on orders late. I thought you might appreciate one as well. I know it’s been a long day for you.”

  She did look at him then, and before she could mask the weariness with a polite smile, her expression said it all. Long day didn’t begin to cover it, apparently. “I—that’s very nice of you. You really didn’t need to. I ordered down at Jimmy’s earlier, for a sub.”

  He could have told her it had been over eight hours ago when he’d seen Jimmy’s little brother pulling up in front of Santa’s Workshop with the carryout sign stuck to the roof of his pickup truck, but then he’d have to explain why he’d been noticing things like that. “It’s shepherd’s pie,” he told her. “You can always reheat it tomorrow. It’s always better the second day anyway. There’s a salad in there, too. And some rolls.”

  She took the bag from him. “You really didn’t have to go to all that trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble. I do it for a living, remember?” He was trying to alleviate the tension a little, put her at ease, but it appeared she was well beyond standing around making polite small talk. Not that he could blame her. “Is everything okay?” he heard himself ask, then immediately wanted to kick himself for doing so. Clearly she was not okay, and just as clearly, she didn’t appreciate being not okay in front of him. Still, it wasn’t in him to just turn and walk away.

  She frowned briefly, seemingly surprised by the question, then her expression smoothed again. “It’s been a long day; there’s a lot to do.” She lifted the bag. “Thank you for this; it was very thoughtful.”

  “If there’s anything else I can do to help—”

  “You’ve already gone above and beyond the call of duty here.”