Kissing Under the Mistletoe

by Marina Adair

  “B.” Holly punched her fist forward like she was some superhero. There was a blue B drawn on her knuckles.

  “F.” Summer followed with the announcement and fist pump.

  “F.” Chloe pumped.

  “Ssssssssss...” Lauren finished, dragging out the letter like a snake. All four girls slithered down to the ground before erupting into giggles once more.

  God, she loved her kid.

  Isabel, however, made a horrified gasp. Her hand, shy one wedding band, clutched at her surgically enhanced chest. “Lauren, you were always the B.”

  “But Holly’s the smallest so we gave her the biggest letter. It’s only fair.” Lauren beamed. The kid obviously had a great father.

  Isabel stood behind her daughter, eyes firmly on Regan. “She’s been the B since Mommy and Me.”

  “Mrs. Abby said it was a good friend thing to do,” Lauren said, her smile dimming.

  Regan’s smile did more than dim. “Abby?”

  “Our music teacher,” Holly said, looking at Regan as if she had lost her mind.

  Her mind? No. But her breakfast? A distinct possibility.

  “I thought her name was Mrs. Dee.” Because the universe could not be that cruel.

  “D,” Isabel once again enunciated slowly, this time as if Regan was phonetically challenged. “As in DeLuca. Abby and I go way back. She was the F to my B.”

  “I didn’t know she taught here. Wait, doesn’t she live in Santa Barbara?”

  “She moved back a few months ago and, no, she doesn’t work here. The play is held in the school’s performing arts center, but it is a community event, and the DeLuca family has always been amazing about giving back. And as you could imagine, I was ecstatic when good old Abs volunteered to run the musical this year. Just ecstatic. Isn’t that right, Lauren?”

  Lauren nodded hesitantly, her little eyes darting back and forth between the adults. She wasn’t sure what was going on, but the girl instinctively knew that something was off in Frogtown. And that she had just been pushed neck deep in it.

  Had Regan not been hyperaware of every adult in the hallway with dark curly hair and brown eyes, or scanning for every exit within a fifty-foot radius, she would have said something to break the tension. Instead she kissed Holly’s head and hugged her tightly.

  “I have to get to work, angel. See you after school.”

  “Aren’t you coming to the parent meeting?” Isabel asked. “It concerns the Christmas musical. We’re doling out what still needs to be done. Every year the parents rally together and volunteer for various positions. It’s what makes St. Helena such a wonderful community.”

  Holly looked at the floor. She knew the drill. Working mommies didn’t go to midmorning meetings. They didn’t have time to make sets or sew costumes. They barely made it to the performance.

  Regan wanted to go to that stupid parent meeting, just for Holly, but as it was, she was already going to be late for her first day of work. Not to mention, she would rather eat glass than face Abigail right now. She had no idea how much Gabe’s sister knew, if she would even recognize Regan, or if she knew Holly was Richard’s. The month after Regan discovered Richard was married, she had sent Abigail a letter apologizing and explaining that she hadn’t known he was married. The letter had come back unopened: Return to Sender.

  The meeting between the two women would take place, that was certain, but not here. Not with Holly in the same building and a hundred prying ears.

  “I have work this afternoon. But”—she got down on her knees so that she and Holly were at the same level—“I would love to sign up and volunteer.”

  At that Holly smiled and planted a big, wet kiss smack on Regan’s lips. “You’re the best mommy!”

  “Easy when I have the best kiddo,” she whispered.

  “I bet Mrs. Stark would be nice and sign you up on a real good committee,” Holly said.

  “Why, I would love to.” Isabel beamed.

  I just bet you would. Regan stood and watched the girls skip down the hallway, holding hands and humming.

  Isabel leaned in, eyes still on her daughter. “The Costume Committee is in serious need of help. Since you won’t be available for morning duties or afterschool positions, how about I put your name in for seamstress?”

  The most time-consuming and meticulous position available.

  “That would be lovely. Very nice of you to offer.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Regan shoved her purse higher on her shoulder and called out, “Holly, give Mommy a big purr before I leave.”

  Holly stopped, turned around, and let loose the cutest damn purr in the history of animal impersonations. Her face scrunched while her eyes went as big as saucers of milk. It was Tony-worthy.

  Regan didn’t have to look at Isabel to know that her jaw was dangling around those designer stilettos. The woman had gasped so hard that she had sucked all of the oxygen out of the building. Regan spun on her orthopedic heel, and with a “See you later,” made her way toward the front of the school, smiling the whole way. Normally she never would have used Holly in a Mommy sparring, but...

  “Chorus members are the foundation, my ass,” she muttered.

  With a smile, full-blown and broadcasting what a wonderful morning it had turned out to be, Regan rounded the hall and was passing the trophy display when the front door blew open. And there, surrounded by a glowing halo of sunlight, with auburn curls and those intense brown eyes that Regan was all too familiar with, stood Richard’s ex-wife.

  Abigail was petite in all the places that counted, curvy in the ones that said “woman,” and with her big lashes and pert nose, was just about the most adorable thing Regan had ever seen. Abigail truly was the DeLuca Darling. Regan looked down at herself and was suddenly reminded how, once again, there was a distinct difference between...how had Richard put it in the end? Oh, yes...the kind of woman you marry and the kind you screw.

  Swallowing back the residual hurt, Regan started forward. Her first instinct was to approach Abigail, introduce herself, and try to make this inevitable meeting as painless as possible for both of them. To assure the woman that she wasn’t here to cause the DeLucas problems and convince her that Holly was an innocent in all of this.

  She searched Abigail’s face for some kind of recognition, some kind of clue to let her know how the woman wanted to handle this. Or if she even knew what this was. Regan had had six years to prepare, but—

  Then the other door opened and in stepped two laughing, big, dark-haired, bad-ass Italians. Their laughs died instantly when they locked eyes on Regan.

  Her right eye started to twitch again, and her nerves went on a full-scale war with her stomach. They weren’t Gabe, the kissing jerk, but they were DeLucas and they were pissed. And Regan didn’t have to guess who inspired those chests to puff out or those eyes to turn to slits.

  Not willing to cower, she took two more steps forward and then, deciding she didn’t have to fight them now as a united front, made a beeline for the nearest classroom door. She opened it and ducked inside, only exhaling when she heard their voices disappear down the other hall.

  “Well, how nice of you to join us.”

  Regan spun around. The three Mrs. Clauses held court at the front of the classroom. Glasses low on their noses, each holding a ruler and laser pointer, they were doing some kind of presentation to a room full of parents and a small handful of—

  Holy crap!

  The whiteboard was covered with photos of the Christmas display, Santa sticking out of ChiChi’s car, and enough evidence for a full-scale White House investigation. In the middle of the collage was a glossy 8-by-10 of Randolph. And studying Regan, with what appeared to be blatant suspicion, was the sheriff.

  “Thank goodness you’re here,” ChiChi said, taking Regan by the arm and dragging her to the front of the room. All the parents stared. “We were just telling the sheriff here about the deer-napping of our beloved Randolph.”

  The sheriff was a
short man with skinny arms, skinny legs, and a spare tire under his belt. He gave Regan a bear-with-me smile, which was difficult to see under his mustache, followed by a meaningful wink. At least the local law enforcement wasn’t acting ridiculous about some stupid statue. A statue that Regan still hadn’t returned.

  Pricilla hugged her. “We were telling him how you—”

  “—being our marketing and social media expert—” Lucinda added.

  “—could keep the general public notified of the status of Randolph’s case,” ChiChi went on. “You see, the sheriff here just agreed to make this his top priority. They’re going to arrest whoever committed this sinful act.”

  “Arrest?” Regan choked out.

  “My manners.” ChiChi shook her head. “Sheriff Bryant, this is Regan, Regan Martin.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Regan said, pumping his hand.

  Sheriff Bryant’s grip tightened and his eyes narrowed. “As a bullet. Now, Ms. Martin, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about the disappearance of our town mascot, would you?”

  Regan looked to Pricilla and opened her mouth, waiting for her friend to shove a truffle in before she said something stupid. Too bad for Regan, Pricilla seemed short on truffles at the moment. And Regan was about to be short on quarters.

  Regan’s no-nonsense shoes squeaked as she shuffled across the marble floor, walking as fast as she could without appearing to be in a rush. Head down, she darted through the vast lobby, edging past the reception desk, hoping not to be caught by one of her superiors while sneaking through the Guests Only entrance.

  The lobby, usually calm at this hour, was clamoring with an overabundance of confused guests and designer luggage. Regan stepped around a Louis Vuitton pet purse that growled and almost collided with its owner, who was currently expressing her frustration at the lone girl manning the registration desk.

  Rounding the corner, she pushed open a door—the dividing line between chocolate roses and breakfast in bed, and scrubbing tubs and sheet service.

  “There you are,” an authorial voice snapped from behind.

  She stopped, straddling the threshold. Crap. Caught.

  “Sabrina,” Regan started, embarrassed that she was caught walking in late...again. It was only her third day at her new job. “I want to apologize for being late.”

  She had tried to return that stupid reindeer, only to be cornered by the Mrs. Clauses, force-fed a two-thousand-calorie breakfast, given an earful about the yoga pants posse and their secret meeting for world domination, and then sent on her merry way—Randolph still safely hidden in her trunk. Not that she could tell her boss that. So she fibbed.

  “My daughter forgot her homework on the, uh, counter and we, uh...” She slowly turned around, but instead of finding her boss, Sabrina, with her shrink-wrapped uniform and perky attitude, Regan found Jordan, looking ever so amused. “What are you doing here?”

  “You mean here, at the employee entrance, where you should be walking out of and not into?” Jordan said, her hands dramatically circling before zeroing in on her. “Where I’m not is at my desk searching the Internet for chastity belts since Mr. Sex with Wheels snuck into Ava’s room last night. Which they make, by the way—chastity belts. I’ll save the link for when Holly reaches fifteen. Although they look like they would encourage sex, not prevent it.”

  “And Mr. Sex with Wheels still retains the appropriate equipment to be a threat?”

  “That was my next search, but I got called here before I could finish reading the instructions. Apparently, Marc had to go to Vegas. Something about Sabrina, a bachelorette party, an undercover cop, and bail.”

  When ChiChi offered Regan the job, she’d failed to mention that the hotel was owned by another one of her overprotective grandsons. Water cooler gossip was that Marco had bought the Napa Grand three years ago and turned a dilapidated hotel into the most exclusive luxury resort and members-only club in the Napa Valley.

  Not that Regan had run into the middle DeLuca. Okay, she had successfully avoided him a total of eleven times in three days. So she was happy to hear he was gone. Would buy that events coordinator a round if she managed to keep him busy in Vegas for the rest of the week. Because all this sneaking around was exhausting.

  “I get paid to make Gabe’s troubles go away,” Jordan continued, “and Marc is always in trouble. So I have two days to clean house, which makes me your boss. Again.”

  “Woo hoo,” Regan deadpanned. “Because that worked out stellar for me the last time.”

  “I am an excellent boss. And you’re still here, aren’t you?” Jordan held up a finger in warning. “But don’t you dare address me as Mrs. Schultz. It makes me sound divorced.”

  “You are divorced.”

  “Yes, well, it also implies I wear Ann Taylor and starch.” She shuddered. “Now that we’re done with the heart to heart, can I say thank heavens you’re here. You hable français, right?”

  “Oui,” Regan played along, chuckling. She couldn’t help it. Jordan was fast becoming one of her favorite people. She was straightforward, told it like it was, and made no apologies. She had also brought over a casserole the other night, along with a set of bath toys for Holly. Not to mention that her life was like watching some bizarre afternoon talk show unfold.

  “Cute. Now, can you put this on and get to the front desk in”—Jordan thrust a garment bag at Regan in a panic, eyes bugged as she took in the chaotic lobby—“well, ten minutes ago?”

  Regan eyed the reception-desk uniform.

  “I know, not an Isaac Mizrahi.” Jordan looked at the black nylon skirt and rayon blouse and grimaced. “Not even his Target line, but we work with what we’re given, right?”

  Jordan now studied her with the assessment of a fashion-consultant-slash-critic. Regan took the bag but couldn’t help feeling that she too was another project where Jordan felt she was forced to work with what she was given.

  “I have two days to get you out of the dungeon and into management.”

  “Management? Are you serious?” Her world just got so much better.

  “That’s my goal. So don’t be late. Don’t piss off any more DeLucas. And don’t let Marc charm his way under your skirt.”

  Regan wanted to ask if the same rules applied for the oldest DeLuca, then remembered Isabel and changed her mind.

  “Now, be a doll and strip.” Jordan looked around at the clusters of irritated customers. “Well, not here. But what a crowd you’d draw. All those uptight Frenchies over there would hand over their best foie gras and forget that their reservations have somehow vanished and the wine convention they thought they were here for is actually scheduled for next week.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “Because Marc has a tendency to hire personnel based on their bra size rather than their organizational skills. Which is why he’s in Vegas and I’m here. And I need to get someone with brains in management so I can get back to DeLuca Wines and do my job, which is where you come in.”

  Jordan pressed her palm on the small of Regan’s back and maneuvered her through the lobby before shoving her into an office. “Five minutes. Go.” She clapped twice and disappeared, the door slamming dramatically behind her.

  Oh boy. Not just any office. Marco DeLuca’s office.

  A massive mahogany desk sat in the middle of the room, staring her down. It was dark, imposing, and besides the stack of unopened mail, it was meticulously arranged. It was also intimidating. The kind of desk that people get fired at.

  Over the past few years, Regan had learned a lot about desks with regard to their owners. And this was one desk she wouldn’t want to tangle with. There it was, two weeks until Christmas and not one decoration or Christmas card was in sight. In fact, the only evidence of softness was the small collection of wire-framed photos that sat on a bookshelf at the rear of the room.

  After skimming her fingers along the edge of one, Regan picked it up. The photo was at least twenty years old and screamed of the chi
ldhood Regan had always dreamed of. Two loving parents, an army of happy, dark-haired boys and a smiling little girl with auburn curls—all in red and green and all standing around Randolph.

  “Stupid deer,” Regan mumbled, placing the photo back.

  Stepping out of her shoes, she peeled down her cleaning-lady polyester dress, draping it on the back of Marco’s chair. She tugged her undershirt over her head and was reaching back for the skirt and blouse when a low sound of male appreciation came from the doorway.

  “Need help with that?” Gabe leaned against the doorjamb as Regan spun around, the uniform slipping to the floor. Left with nothing but red lace and embarrassment for cover, she scrambled to hide all of her girly parts. Problem was, she had more girly parts than hands.

  He took in her complicated updo, the little tattoo peeking out, and incredible bronze skin. Regan was the sexiest woman he’d ever seen. He had no idea why she was here, but as long as she stayed in nothing but that red lace, he really didn’t care.

  “No,” she snapped.

  “You sure about that? Mine cover more area.” He held up his hands as proof. Regan’s eyes went narrow, clearly telling him what she thought of his suggestion.

  Gabe shrugged. Maybe she was right. She had a whole hell of a lot of curves. Then again, he never backed down from a challenge.

  The don’t-mess-with-me scowl on her face told him the answer was no. Too bad, because for the past seventy-two hours Gabe had spent his days figuring out how to get her in his bed, and his nights creating his own Dirty Jar versions of how things played out between them. They usually ended with him and Regan in a sweaty, tangled heap on her kitchen counter. Sometimes in his shower. But always with her screaming out his name.

  A slow grin took over his face. Tonight, she’d be wearing Christmas red in those dreams.

  Leaving the door ajar, Gabe took a step forward and Vixen backed up.

  “Oh, no, you don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” He rounded the desk, and before he could even touch her, she’d picked up her clothes and darted around the other side.