Kissing Under the Mistletoe

by Marina Adair

  Taking off her jacket, she climbed out of her car, her heels sinking into a full gutter of water. Muttering under her breath, she yanked open the hood and disconnected the terminals of the battery.

  “You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch,” she hummed while scraping off the corrosion that had formed around one terminal before replacing it and doing the same to the next.

  She had just hit the chorus and was maneuvering the clampy doohickeys back into place when something musky and sexy skirted past her nose.

  She froze, afraid to breathe in any more male. Because with just that one scent, her thighs quivered and the day got that much worse.

  Hoping that maybe he would go away if she ignored him, she checked the oil level and the coolant. He only moved closer, proving just how shitty her luck had been lately. Satisfied that the battery was the problem, Regan, resisting the urge to wipe her greasy hands down the front of his pristine shirt and certain she wouldn’t dissolve into frustrated tears, spoke into the engine. “Go away.”

  Gabe leaned around her shoulder and peered under the hood, his body brushing up against her back and doing all kinds of yummy things to her front.

  “I believe this is yours.” A black portfolio case came into view.

  Without looking at him she grabbed her case. “Thank you. Now, go away.”

  When he didn’t move, she slammed the hood shut, his hands jerking back just in time. She smiled—serenely. She wasn’t going to let him ruin this already ruined day.

  She turned around. Gabe didn’t budge, except to block her in further, leaving her wedged between two hard bodies with no place to go.

  She frowned.

  He smiled. It was a sweet smile of victory that made her stomach squeeze and her palms go moist. Then he looked over her with those deep caramel eyes and something altogether different went moist.

  “You’re cold.”

  She followed his line of sight to her blouse, which was white and wet and about as practical as tissue paper in the rain. When she met his eyes, he smiled...again. Crossing her arms, she held her tongue, swallowing a select word or three that desperately needed saying, and mentally replayed Holly’s letter.

  Slowly.

  Centered, she finally spoke. “Mary over at the Barrel Buyer sends her best, by the way. She deemed me unqualified to file papers in under ten minutes.” Gabe was so close that she took a step back and bumped into the hood of her car. She forced herself to lean casually against the grille, going for composed. A least she hoped she pulled off composed.

  “Mary is a Baudouin, Vixen.” He reached out and rested a palm against the hood on either side of her hips, caging her in. Ever so slowly he leaned forward, his arms brushing against the side of her breasts, his lips coming so close to hers that she thought for one crazy, exciting, idiotic second he was going to kiss her.

  When he spoke, his breath tickled her mouth. “Which means she is genetically predisposed to screw with my life. Me discouraging her to hire you would have guaranteed you the job. That ten minutes, that was all on you.”

  His heart was truly two sizes too small.

  Gabe looked down at the woman who moments ago had been all piss and vinegar and watched as her shoulders sank and her eyes went flat, making him feel like the biggest sack of shit north of the equator.

  Regan was a fighter. But right now she looked a little lost and a lot scared. And no matter how many times he told himself that none of this was his fault, he couldn’t get past how devastated she’d been over losing that cottage. Then he remembered why he’d come here.

  The game had changed and he was supposed to do whatever it took to keep her here. In St. Helena.

  “Look, about the cottage. Sunday is just two days away—”

  “I am aware of that. Now, if you could please tell me how much the monthly charge is for the cottage, so I can prorate what I owe you.” A blatant “screw you” cut through her polite polish.

  “Don’t worry about it.” He’d never rented out the property, never had a need to.

  Not to mention, there was no way in hell Regan could afford two weeks there. Cottage or not, it was one of the oldest historical buildings in the Valley, surrounded by one of the finest vineyards in California.

  “It’s only fair. You lost income waiting for me to arrive and then I spent the past two weeks there. I don’t want you telling people that I ruined an account for you and left you high and dry.”

  So people had been talking. Probably Frankie.

  In the spirit of fairness, Gabe shrugged and threw out a random, but fair, number. He crossed his arms, waiting for her to get all riled up so he could enjoy the show. But she sat there wide-eyed and mute, her expression washed white. Shame rose swiftly, pounding in his head until it began to ache. What the hell was he doing?

  “Listen, about the rent, let’s just forget—”

  “Would you prefer to give me an address to send the check or just handle this through Jordan?” Her voice wobbled, but he could hear her pride kicking in.

  Not wanting to screw this up any more than he already had, Gabe reached into his pocket, extracted a business card, and offered it to her. She took the card, careful not to brush fingers, placed it in her handbag, and sidestepped him.

  Opening the door, she leaned over the steering wheel and turned the key. The car sputtered to life, black exhaust expelling from the tailpipe as the keys vibrated from the over-idling of the engine. Wanting to apologize, Gabe placed his palm down on the door frame just as Regan grabbed the handle to open it wider. It slammed back shut.

  “What!” She spun around. “What more do you want from me?” Her voice shook and instead of anger, something else entirely shot through his body. This was the moment he and his brothers were waiting for: Regan stripped down to the point where she would talk. All he had to do was push.

  But in this instant Gabe didn’t care about Richard or the affair or the big picture. He couldn’t think past this insane connection he felt or how every time he looked at her it was like someone had kicked him in the gut.

  They stood silent for a long moment, the rain coming down harder, yet neither moved.

  As the wind gusted, a few wet strands of hair clung to her lips. Gabe reached out, tucking them behind her ear, his finger lingering. He felt more than heard Regan’s breath catch, and he knew he was in trouble because his chest was doing some catching of its own. Especially when she worried her lower lip, making it fuller, redder, and wetter.

  “The truth, Regan,” he whispered gruffly. “That’s all I want and then this will end. For both of us.”

  She stood there, open and vulnerable, her finger tracing the top edge of the side mirror, and nodded. They both knew he was talking about so much more than their rivalry. Just like they both knew that whatever was happening between them, if allowed to grow, would only wind up hurting someone—most likely Regan.

  She studied the ground for a moment, shifting her weight, then looked up at him through rain-spiked lashes. “Do you want to hear that I was stupid? That I gave my heart to a man who lied to me? That for the first time in my life, I was happy that my mom had died so I wouldn’t have to see the disappointment in her eyes? Would that make you feel better?”

  No, it wouldn’t, and it didn’t. Because he could see that she had been crushed by Richard. Worse still, Gabe had made her life even harder.

  “You’d think business trips over Christmas and Easter would have been a sign that something was up. But I was in love,” she croaked out. The look of horror and pain in her eyes was genuine, and at that moment he knew he had made a mistake.

  “I didn’t cheat on your sister, Gabe. Richard did. I’ve never even met the woman. But I’m willing to bet she knew as much about me as I knew about her.”

  When he didn’t move, didn’t so much as respond, she sagged, her whole body giving in. And this time when her eyes met his, they were filled with tears.

  “I don’t know how many more times I can apologize. I’m so sorry f
or hurting your sister. Sorry for trusting Richard. You have no idea how much I’ve paid for that mistake. In a way, I actually understand why you set out to ruin my life. And your sister...she’s lucky to have a family that cares for her so much.” She brushed angrily at her cheeks.

  Is that what he’d set out to do? Ruin a woman’s life? A woman, he admitted, he didn’t really even know?

  Looking back, he’d only meant to scare her from trying to use her affair to extort money out of the family. He’d done it to protect Abby from more pain, to make up for introducing her to Richard. But when he looked into Regan’s face and saw her dump of a car, her well-worn clothes, doubt began to weigh in.

  Regan mistook his silence for censure. “Never mind, I don’t even know why I bothered.” She shoved at his hand, which still secured the door shut. “I answered your question. Now move. I. Said. Move!”

  He did, and she jerked the car door open, its rusty hinges groaning under the force. She climbed in and slammed it shut. With the car in reverse, eyes forward, she cracked the window and said, “Life is messy, Gabe. It sucks and it’s hard and people get hurt, but they move on. So do me a favor and figure out how long you need to get over this so I don’t have to wonder if today is the day when I finally get to move on.”

  CHAPTER 5

  At precisely 1:50 p.m., Regan pulled into Holly’s school. Situated just east of the main part of town, behind St. Helena Corkery, and on the south side of one of the DeLucas’ vineyards, St. Vincent’s Academy looked more like a winery than a private school. The main building was faced with hand-shaped stone and boasted two massive wooden doors at its entrance and a front lawn that could easily host an RV-and-boat fair.

  It was Friday and raining, and that meant that the parking lot was packed with high-end cars and moms wielding designer galoshes and matching umbrellas. Regan had just finished her second tour of the parking lot when she gave up and parked down the street by the school’s Performing Arts Building.

  “He’s just one man. His opinion doesn’t matter,” she said, flipping down the visor. She gasped when she saw her face. Eyes red, nose even redder, she looked like a woman who had spent the last seven blocks bawling her eyes out. Which she had. Because no matter how many times she told herself that she could do this, that she wouldn’t let some man hurt her again, it didn’t stop the tears from coming.

  After a good blow of the nose and a new layer of cover-up, Regan stepped out of the car and, dollar store umbrella in hand, ran down the block. The wind blasted her, causing her umbrella to bend backward.

  By the time she made it inside the school, she was officially drenched and reality had set in. All she could do now was find the bathroom, transform herself into some believable form of successful mommy, and then face ChiChi. No matter what the older woman wanted to talk about, Regan understood that she would have to withdraw Holly from the school. She was jobless, practically broke, and, come Sunday, homeless. Talk about humiliating.

  She passed the front office, the glass display case that was filled with photos of last year’s graduates in front of the Arc de Triomphe, and had just opened the bathroom door when something caught her eye.

  Full-color flyers hung on each stall, one after the next, all the same, spanning the entire length of the bathroom, and making Regan’s palms sweat.

  “Missing: Randolph and Christmas Cheer. A $5,000 reward for the safe return of St. Helena’s most beloved mammal.”

  It even had the heart-melting photo of Gabe when he was a boy hugging the ceramic statue. Dropping to her hands and knees, she checked to ensure that every last stall was empty. Coast clear, she scrambled to her feet and went to work, ripping down one, then the next. She got to six when she noticed that Randolph’s sad little face was also plastered on the insides of the stalls. They must have been posted by the high school basketball team because some were taped to the ceiling, dangling like banners.

  Hiking up her skirt, she closed the lid on the first toilet, crawled on top, and, teetering dangerously on her heels, gave a hard tug on the flyer just as someone cleared their throat.

  Frozen, hand in mid-rip, Regan turned to find herself staring down at not one but three gawking grannies. Besides their clothes, they looked like a trio of Mrs. Clauses: all with white hair. All with little round glasses perched on their noses. And all looking up at Regan like she had lost her mind.

  Regan did what any grown woman would do when caught committing a crime. She stepped off the toilet, shoved the flyers behind her back, and slammed the stall door. Then she sat on the toilet lid and pulled her legs up to her chest.

  Maybe if she closed her eyes and waited long enough they would forget that she was in there. And leave.

  The seconds ticked by. Regan heard the squeak of someone’s orthopedic shoes, followed by the clicking of kitten heels, getting closer. She shut her eyes and rested her head against her knees. She would wait until the Mrs. Clauses left, grab Holly, and e-mail ChiChi with the sad news. They could be halfway back to Oregon before the humiliation of the day’s events even hit.

  Then what? She had no job or house there either. No real support system. And she would be no closer to securing Holly’s Christmas wish.

  The stall door flew open, slamming against the wall with enough force to shatter the tiles. Regan opened her eyes and looked at the Mrs. Clauses, who were, surprisingly, smiling.

  “Hi, ChiChi,” Regan began, wondering how, if at all, she was going to get through this conversation. She had lost her last hope of finding gainful employment in this town. Holly was going to be devastated to lose her forever home with a kitty of her very own and a best friend.

  And now Regan was a wanted deer-napper who had, for the second time in so many days, vandalized the property of the one person in the DeLuca clan who had treated her with kindness.

  She opened her mouth to apologize, fess up, drop a ten in the Dirty Jar for her sins, when the smaller and rounder of the three, who was holding a basket of pastries and treats, pulled out a truffle and shoved it in Regan’s mouth.

  “Don’t talk, dear, you might say something stupid,” she said. And based on the Hasselhoff T-shirt, red boa, and life-altering truffle, Regan assumed that this was Pricilla.

  “Oh. My. God,” Regan moaned around a mouthful of chocolate and peppermint. “What’s in this? It’s incredible.”

  “If I told you, then I’d have to—” Pricilla sliced a finger across her neck, punctuating the gesture with added sound effects.

  Regan smiled at her joke. The other women didn’t.

  The one on the left of ChiChi was dressed in a pair of sexually ambiguous pants and a green men’s button-down. She studied the wadded-up flyers in Regan’s hands while clutching a scraggly cat, who had an elf hat Velcroed to its head, against her ample bosom in a protective gesture. “Is there something you want to tell us?”

  Regan felt the tears well up again.

  “Lucinda, don’t make the poor girl cry,” ChiChi said. “She’s had quite a day. Haven’t you, dear?”

  Regan nodded and wiped at her face with one of the flyers. Lucinda frowned at the pile of crumpled Randolph posters at her feet.

  Regan gave an apologetic shrug.

  “Yes, well, next time use toilet tissue.” Lucinda reached into a denim fanny pack and offered up a gingham handkerchief. “It took us hours to make those flyers.”

  Regan accepted the cloth, relieved that the older woman was questioning her possession of the flyers and not Mr. Most Wanted himself. After a sniffle, she finally spoke. “I’m sorry, ChiChi. I know you wanted to meet with me about a favor, but—”

  “Yes, I had assumed you would come to my office, though.” ChiChi’s maternal stare locked on Regan, who suddenly felt like she had been given a test and failed.

  “Yeah, well”—Regan glanced at the flyers—“I got distracted, and I apologize.” She swallowed. “For everything. I know you took a risk hiring me and an even bigger risk recommending Holly to the school. They were alread
y at full capacity and made an exception because of you.” She shifted on the toilet seat, the motion causing it to flush. “But things didn’t work out,” she yelled over the rushing water. “As I’m sure you’ve already heard I was fired, and so Holly and I won’t be staying in St. Helena. So, if you could e-mail me the total costs accrued, that would be great.” Just great.

  All three women exchanged a meaningful glance that Regan couldn’t decipher. Then they all smiled and walked closer. Regan wanted to lean back but was afraid she would set off the auto-flush again.

  “Let us get this straight—” Pricilla said.

  “You want her to bill you for two weeks that you assumed would be free.” Lucinda poked Regan in the shoulder. She had surprisingly bony fingers for such a muscular woman.

  “It was a perk of working for Ryo, but you intend to pay it back in full?” The corners of ChiChi’s lips twitched with something Regan didn’t understand, but somehow it reminded her of her mother.

  Her fingers strangled the snotty flyers. She hated owing people money, but under the circumstances she saw no other choice. “To be honest, I’m not sure when I’ll be able to pay you back, but if we could set up some kind of payment plan...I know that this is probably not a request you receive often, but if you could make an exception.” Her throat closed on the last word, making it come out strangled.

  “Quite the moxie,” Pricilla said.

  “Stubborn and honest.”

  “It’s refreshing.”

  “I won’t take up any more of your time.” Regan stood, smoothing down her skirt, leftover rainwater trickling out the toes of her pumps.

  “Sit,” ChiChi ordered.

  Lucinda’s cat hissed, sending a reprimanding glare from beneath the fuzzy white ball at the end of his hat.

  “Now, Mr. Puffins,” Lucinda cooed, her voice dropping to a soothing singsong.