Kissing Under the Mistletoe

by Marina Adair

  “You know what! And can’t you see I’m getting dressed?”

  “Why? You look perfectly fine to me.”

  She rolled her eyes at the way he said fine. Or maybe it was how he took his time observing exactly how she was dressed. Either way, when he sat himself down in the chair, she gave a dramatic huff and turned away from him. She yanked on her uniform as if she was trying to break some world record for quickest dresser. Not quick enough that Gabe didn’t get a chance to fully take in her backside, which was almost as impressive as her front.

  He zeroed in on her ass and found himself wavering. Before he could stand by that decision, he’d need time to compare and contrast the two. A lot of time.

  “Seeing as this is my brother’s office, I think I’ll make myself at home.” Hands behind his head, he plunked his running shoes on top of the desk and leaned back.

  This day was warming up to be incredible. After a hard workout, which had done nothing to help his growing problem, he’d stopped by Marc’s office hoping to find an employee file on the latest disaster of the Napa Grand—the events coordinator who had a thing for dirty martinis and propositioning the wrong guy. Instead, he’d found his favorite new employee wrapped in Christmas red.

  The polite thing would have been to give her a heads-up that she had company. But then she’d dropped trou, and he’d been rendered stupid. Because that was the only word that could sum up why he would willingly walk into a room containing a half-naked woman who he couldn’t sleep with but couldn’t stop thinking about sleeping with.

  “Then, I’ll go,” Regan said, turning around and slipping the blazer over the untucked blouse. She grabbed her clothes, palmed her shoes, and, without another word, swept by him. Her eyes were shimmering. With anger or hurt, he wasn’t sure.

  Gabe cursed himself, stood, and stepped in front of her, blocking her exit. “Hang on. That was rude of me.” He reached in his pocket, plucked out a quarter, and offered it to her. Then he thought about all of the places he’d imagined her naked and emptied his pockets on the desk.

  Instead of a smile, when she looked up her eyes were on fire. “I met Isabel today.”

  “Okay.”

  “The one you took to the Christmas party.”

  He still had no idea where she was going with this. Then her face scrunched and his gut rolled painfully.

  “You kissed me, Gabe. And you’re dating another woman.”

  “It’s not what you think,” he said, hating the hurt in her eyes.

  “That’s what they all say.” She looked at the floor.

  “Not me.” He curled his finger around her chin and lifted until he could see those baby blues through her lashes. “I have never cheated and I never will. It’s not who I am.” She still didn’t look convinced. Not that he blamed her, if all she had to judge his sex by was Richard. “Isabel and I dated very briefly, several years ago. The week before the party, ChiChi told me I should take Isabel. In front of Isabel. I wasn’t going to be rude and say no. So we shared a drink, I danced with you, drove her home, and with a kiss on the cheek said good night. She’s called a few times, but I told her I wasn’t looking for anything permanent. End of story.”

  “Oh,” was all she said, but he could tell that she believed him and was now feeling silly.

  “Yeah, oh.” He cupped her face. “And, Regan. I didn’t kiss you the other night.”

  “Yes, you did,” she argued. He loved it when she tried to argue with him.

  “No, I didn’t. This is a kiss.” He gave her a hard, quick smack on the lips. God he loved those lips. Had been fantasizing about them all week.

  “And this is what we did.” With that, he covered her mouth with his, surprised when she didn’t knee him in the nuts and instead kissed him back.

  He started out slow, nibbling her lower lip and taking his time to thoroughly explore every inch of her mouth. She made a sexy little noise in the back of her throat, her shoes hit the floor, and then her hands were on him. They slid around his middle, her nails digging into his back, and when they dropped down to his ass he was lost.

  Lost track of time. Who he was with. Hell, somewhere between her hands digging under his shirt and raking up his back, and him doing the same, only exploring her front, he forgot they were standing in the doorway of his brother’s office, in clear view of anyone passing by, making out like two horny teenagers.

  With a groan, he eased back, just enough that they could catch their breaths, but their foreheads and noses still touched.

  “Can you see the difference now? Because if you’re still confused I can show you again.”

  Her fingers fisted in his hair and she pulled him to her, obviously wanting another demonstration of the distinct difference. So he showed her. Twice.

  “You smell good,” she whispered, nuzzling his neck.

  “I smell like the gym,” he chuckled. She nuzzled deeper. “Besides, anything is a step up from your apartment.”

  “It’s not the gym, you smell like—” She stopped, pulling back enough to level him with a look, but she didn’t move out of his arms. “We promised not to do that again.”

  “I never made any such promise.” He kissed her nose. “Because making a promise I have no intention on keeping is a waste of time, Vixen.”

  “We can’t...this won’t...I have to get to work.” She looked at him horrified, like she’d blown it, like she was about to get screwed. And not in a good way. “I work here. I was going to tell you. And then I saw...I should have called you and told you.” When she exhaled, her breath was so weighted and shaky that it left him unbalanced.

  He took in her starched white shirt, which had somehow come undone again, black pencil skirt, matching blazer with the hotel logo embroidered on the lapel, and smiled. “Kind of figured.” He wanted to ask who she had seen but knew better than to push. He’d find out later. “It’s okay, Regan, ChiChi told me the day you were hired.”

  Which was ridiculous, since Marc had been the one to come up with the idea of hiring Regan as a way to keep an eye on her, then slyly mentioned the opening to ChiChi. Gabe hadn’t been a part of it, but he also hadn’t stopped it. He figured Regan needed a job and was too stubborn to let him help her. What he didn’t know, until that morning when Jordan had called him, was that his dickhead brother had given Regan a job as a maid.

  “She also told me that if I were to upset you in any way, she’d pull out the wooden spoon.”

  That got a smile out of her and Gabe felt his chest relax.

  “To spank you?”

  “No, to bake me a fruitcake.”

  “So, when Marc gets home he isn’t going to fire me?”

  Did Regan really think that after last weekend he’d allow that? He still didn’t have a solution that made everyone happy, but he was working on it.

  “We’re not going to cause problems for you, Regan.” He tucked her hair, now a rumpled mess tumbling around her shoulders, behind her ear. “That, I can promise.”

  She showed genuine surprise at his confession. God, he felt like shit.

  When they found Richard, he was going to kick his ass for breaking Abby’s heart. Then kick it again for hurting Regan. Then he’d kick his own ass for doing equal damage to her life. And maybe Marc’s ass while he was at it.

  First they had to find the bastard. And what sucked was that his brothers still believed that the only reliable lead they had was currently looking up at him with those big lapis eyes. If his brothers were right, and his gut said that they were, where did that leave him and Regan?

  “You are needed out on the floor. Now!” Jordan shoved her way into the office.

  Regan jerked away, buttoning up her shirt and smoothing back her hair. And Gabe stood there like an idiot watching her. All the pressing in the world couldn’t hide that she had just been loved. Oh, they hadn’t made love—yet—but what was happening between them was way more than just kissing.

  “Hello? Did you not hear me?” Jordan said again, her eyes da
rting back and forth between the two.

  “I’m sorry, I was just grabbing my things.” Regan leaned down and picked up her shoes.

  “Not you,” Jordan sighed dramatically. “Although you were supposed to be on the floor over twenty minutes ago.” Her irritation zeroed in on Gabe. “You! I have been texting you for nearly ten minutes.”

  He shrugged, used to Jordan’s dramatics. Whenever she complained about her daughter being a handful, he considered buying her a black tea kettle.

  “Texts? I didn’t get any.”

  As if on cue, his phone vibrated. Jordan picked it up off the floor and thrust it at him. He silenced it and set it on the desk. Regan, on the other hand, was bright red and doing her best to avoid looking him in the eye.

  “Jordan, give us a minute, would you?”

  “That’s okay. We can talk,” Regan mumbled to the floor. “You know.” No, he didn’t know. And he wanted to finish this conversation now. Before Regan made it all the way to the door, which was where she was headed. Fast.

  Gabe reached for her but she skirted past, his fingers grazing her hand, which seconds ago had been all over his body. She hadn’t made it more than five feet when she was shoved back inside, and right back into his arms, by three shouting ladies, a hissing fluff ball in Santa drag, an angry Frenchman, and a partridge in a pear tree. Literally.

  The Frenchman held the crystal partridge from the lobby display.

  “Get us some rope, Regan,” Lucinda said, jabbing the businessman in the rear with an umbrella. “We can tie him up while we wait for the sheriff.”

  “Nobody is tying anybody up,” Gabe hollered, snatching Lucinda’s makeshift cattle prod and ChiChi’s scarf for good measure, since she was holding it like a rope. Easing Regan out of scratching distance, since the cat was showing its claws, Gabe took the Frenchman by the arm and guided him to the chair.

  “Now, would someone mind telling me what in the hell is going on?”

  The entire room erupted into conversation. Well, conversation implied a two-way thing—this was more of everyone telling their side of the story simultaneously. At the top of their lungs. Besides him, the only one who wasn’t yelling was Regan, who was still looking for a way out.

  “Silence!”

  Everyone froze, including the cat, whose hat was now covering its eyes.

  “Jordan, please explain to me what is going on.”

  Jordan folded her arms and glared. “Check your phone. It’s all there.”

  This, Gabe thought, right here, was why he spent so much time—what had ChiChi called it?—smothering his family members. Because when he didn’t, he spent his days cleaning up his brothers’ messes and dealing with homicidal grannies. He was about to say to hell with it and let his nonna take out the Frenchman when Regan spoke.

  “‘Get your stare-worthy, entitled ass over here now,’” Regan said.

  Gabe looked up and Regan shrugged, holding up his cell as proof. “That’s what the text said. The next one says, ‘All the wine in the world can’t make up for your crazy a—” She stopped, looking at everyone in the room but ChiChi. “Maybe I should skip ahead?”

  “Scroll to the last two,” Jordan said, picking at her cuticles.

  “Um, okay, here it is. ‘Your grandmother is about to assault a foreign diplomat with her handbag.’” Gabe grabbed ChiChi’s purse, which was clutched in her angry little hands.

  “I am a wine connoisseur,” Frenchie argued.

  “He’s a criminal,” ChiChi argued louder.

  “He is the head of foreign investment for the country of France!” Jordan rebutted.

  “See,” Pricilla said, pulling out a petit four from her purse and taking a bite. “Politicians are all criminals.”

  “He was stealing Marco’s crystal bird,” ChiChi accused.

  “I was not stealing anything, I was merely admiring the display when these three started beating me with their umbrellas, and then that feline scratched me.” The Frenchman looked from his arm to the cat and then to Lucinda. “I hope it’s had its shots.”

  Lucinda cuddled Mr. Puffins to her chest. “I’m going to shoot you if you don’t give us back our Randolph!”

  “Ah, hell,” Gabe said, a headache forming behind his left eye.

  “I have no idea who Randolph is, and as I tried to explain to these ladies earlier, I have nothing to do with his disappearance.”

  “I never forget a face and I have seen yours before. Probably on one of those police shows on television,” Pricilla shot back, licking the icing off her pudgy little finger so she could point with it.

  And Gabe’s life just got a hell of a lot worse because this man wasn’t a diplomat, and Pricilla had seen his face. It was plastered on every ad promoting this week’s wine conference. Their criminal was none other than Simon Bonnet, one of the largest wine importers in France and this week’s keynote speaker.

  “And we found this near the town display, right next to Randolph’s pedestal,” ChiChi said, shoving an Eiffel Tower key ring in Gabe’s face. He blinked. “As in, the scene of the crime.”

  “Oh, boy.” Regan’s face paled and Gabe would have bet good money she was shy one key ring.

  “Can you read the last text?” Jordan asked, taking a petit four from Pricilla.

  “Um, okay.” Regan read the screen. “It says, ‘I’m taking the rest of the week off. Paid.’”

  “And to think I brought you one of my persimmon rolls,” Jordan added.

  Gabe cringed. He hated those persimmon rolls. They were almost as bad as ChiChi’s fruitcakes. He still had the one from Thanksgiving in the back of his truck.

  As if reading his mind, Jordan harrumphed and then headed for the door.

  “Hang on.” Gabe grabbed her arm. There was no way in hell he could lose Jordan the week before Christmas. Not this Christmas. As insane as she made him, she also made his life run smoothly. She was the gatekeeper for all of his family’s crazy ideas and problems. If she left, he would be forced to go with her, because there was no way he could deal with his family alone.

  Then the damnedest thing happened. The Frenchman laughed.

  Simon and Regan sat, one in the chair, the other on the desk, and spoke in rapid French, giggling and sharing stories. Gabe watched with fascination—and, if he were being honest, pride—as the man literally transformed in front of his eyes. Under Regan’s attention his brows lowered, his eyes lit with excitement, and his whole body relaxed.

  She didn’t flirt or use her beauty to charm him, which she easily could have. Instead, her magic was making him feel validated, taking the time to listen and to share.

  With a final laugh and a firm shake of the hand, Regan led him out of the office. Simon patted Gabe on the shoulder and said something about grandbabies and holidays.

  “You going to just let them walk away?” ChiChi barked.

  A wise man would answer yes. Last he’d heard, though, the roles of all three wise men were already cast. And he wasn’t one of them.

  CHAPTER 8

  “This one,” Holly said as she walked around the tree. It was full and lush and smelled like Christmas. It was also ten feet tall and wider than their kitchen.

  “How about we find something a little more...quaint?” Regan suggested, gripping the ax handle tighter and steering her daughter toward the smaller trees.

  Choosing the right tree was a lot more difficult that she’d anticipated, and, if the way the ax handle was already giving her blisters was a sign, cutting one down was going to be painful. Cutting it down in the middle of a race, when most of her competitors were dads, was going to be impossible. Which was why Regan and Holly came early, to scout out a good tree. Because when that whistle blew and people started scrambling for the available trees, it was bound to get messy.

  First step was to get Holly to agree on one that was not fit for Rockefeller Center. It was the dreamer in Holly. She believed that if they had the perfect tree then they would have the perfect Christmas.

&n
bsp; Telling herself that she did not fall under those same illusions, yet determined to make this Christmas everything Holly dreamed it would be, Regan put on her game face and contemplated just how big a tree they could get and still cut through the trunk in the allotted fifteen minutes. Because how many more years would Holly still believe in Santa? In Christmas miracles?

  “How about that one?” Regan said, pointing to a beautiful tree toward the back of the row. Holly ran through the column of trees to stare up at it in awe. There was no way she could get it on top of her car, let alone in her house, but if Holly loved it then they could always have it delivered and put it on the back porch.

  “Nope,” Holly said dismissively. “Not quaint enough. Plus it’s got a red tag.” Which meant that it had already been sold.

  Most people in St. Helena didn’t have to wait for payday to buy a tree. They had come down weeks ago, picked out the best one, prepaid, and still came to the St. Helena Cut and Run.

  The Cut and Run was an annual fund-raiser held by the Community Action Committee to fund the Christmas musical, and with a portion of this year’s profits going toward the Safe Return of Randolph fund, nearly the entire town had turned out, which wasn’t a surprise. Regan had begun to understand that St. Helenites loved their town, Christmas, and Randolph. And not necessarily in that order.

  She had tried several times over the past week to return the stupid statue. But no matter what time she went, there were always mourners holding a silent vigil. Sometimes not so silent, she thought, remembering Mrs. Lambert of the Grapevine Prune and Clip singing her version of “Ave Maria” while holding a clip-off to help raise funds for Randolph.

  “Five minutes left until the Ninety-Third Annual Cut and Run. All contestants please make your way to the starting line.” A voice came over the speaker, which was on loan from the school.

  Regan followed Holly over to the next row, the fake snow crunching under her feet. She waved to Jordan, who was too busy draping Ava in her coat to wave back, and said hi to Mrs. Collette who, just as Holly described, smelled like saltines and sounded like she had a megaphone surgically attached to her vocal box.