Kissing Under the Mistletoe

by Marina Adair

  She wanted him.

  He wanted her.

  Wrong or not, neither could deny that there was something between them. It was that same undeniable connection that he’d felt the first time he’d met her. Even though he’d been pissed and angry and knew he should hate her, all he could think about was how much he wanted her. Only that time, he’d had the good sense to walk away.

  He was drawn to the only woman in the world he couldn’t have, and yet as he watched her eyes darken and her pulse beat against her neck, he couldn’t seem to find enough energy to care. Being with Regan, like this, felt right.

  Deciding to deal with the fallout tomorrow, he pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat, running his tongue over her pulse. Slowly he worked his way down to the curve of her breast, tugging at the V of her top to pull it lower.

  “Wait. Holly,” Regan said, her body too alert and her voice too clear for his taste.

  Without stopping, Gabe made his way to her ear and whispered, “Passed out. Door is shut. We’ll be quiet. I promise,” and then bit down gently.

  “She once slept through a Seahawks game. She never wakes up,” she replied huskily, her hands back on him. This time she trailed her fingers down to his wrists and pulled them securely around her, locking them at her lower back.

  So Vixen liked to be held tight, fine by him. Hauling her up against him, he took her mouth in a kiss that left them both panting.

  Then her phone rang and she pulled it out of her back pocket. “It’s your grandma.”

  Slowly he pried it from her fingers, sent it to voice mail, and set it on the table.

  “That could have been important. I have that council meeting tomorrow.”

  “You can call her back in the morning.” He nipped her lower lip, getting them back on track. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

  “All week.” She snuggled into him, her body rubbing against his. But it was her admission rather than the brush of her fingers above the hem of his low-rise jeans that shot straight to his groin.

  “All week?”

  “Actually, weeks,” she corrected, looking up at him through her lashes. He felt her fingers beneath his shirt, cool and soft, sliding up his stomach to his chest. “Ever since the night at The Spigot.”

  “The Spigot?” He leaned back so he could look her in the eye. She had to be shitting him. “You didn’t even like me.”

  “I like you now,” she whispered, lifting his shirt and giving him an openmouthed kiss in the center of his chest.

  “Yeah?” He fisted up the hem of her shirt, loving how her stomach muscles jumped as he pulled it higher. “Well, I always liked you. And I really like your shirt.”

  “You hated me.” She tugged it back down. “And it’s old.”

  “I never hated you. And it’s wet.” He pulled it down further, plastering it to her body, and smiled. “And extremely see-through. See.” He dipped his head and sucked her through the thin cotton.

  The phone rang again. This time it was his. With a frustrated growl, he reached for the off button, glanced at the screen, and hesitated.

  “Let me guess, it’s ChiChi,” she teased, her hands sliding up his chest. When he didn’t answer her, Regan went from turned on to tuned in, and it took every last ounce of control Gabe had not to throw the damn thing through the window.

  “Gabe?” She looked at the screen and took a small step back, right into the table. “It’s your sister. You should probably answer it. And then you should leave.”

  “I should.” And he should probably take this as a sign from the universe to back the fuck up, walk out of her kitchen and out that front door, because the only thing he could offer Regan was surface—and what he wanted, what she deserved, went so much deeper.

  “But the hell of it is”—he turned his phone off and tossed it on the table next to hers—“I don’t want to.”

  “I don’t either,” she admitted quietly.

  He cupped her face and kissed her hard, bringing the focus back to where it should be. Not on family, or history, or the crap ton of other things that they couldn’t change, but on the one thing that they could—getting naked.

  Regan briefly hesitated, then tangled her arms around him, kissing him back with enough force that they both stumbled against the table. Letting gravity, his new best friend, take over, he followed her down on the table, shoving the chair out of the way and doing his best not to crush her.

  He looked at her wet shirt again. “And I don’t care about my sister, or that this is going to blow up in our faces. Right now, all I care about is getting this off you before you change your mind.” With a quick tug, her shirt went flying. “Or the phone rings again.” Her bra was nice and sexy...and had to go. “Or you remember you have to make Holly’s lunch.” He flipped the catch and the lace fell loose, and she shrugged out of it, letting everything spill free. And hot damn—stacked didn’t even begin to describe her.

  “God, Vixen.” He cupped her breasts, shaping and weighing them, taking his time. Breasts like these deserved to be treasured, and he intended to treasure the hell out of them.

  “Yeah?”

  Regan was resting back on her elbows, nipples jutting prettily, her silky hair spilling across the tabletop, looking like every guy’s wet dream. And yet there was a shy uncertainty in her expression that tore at him. How could she not know how beautiful she was?

  “Hell, yeah,” he whispered, taking one peak in his mouth, giving it every ounce of attention it deserved. By the time he got to her other breast she was writhing beneath him.

  This was exactly what they both needed. No more wondering. No more arguing. No more games. From now on, the only game they were going to play would have a strict no-clothes policy.

  He cushioned one hand between her cold back and the even colder tabletop to give himself more leverage and considered asking her if she wanted to move to the couch. But he felt a little tug at his jeans, watched as Regan’s fingers slid home, and realized that interrupting would be rude. So he kept his mouth shut and thought about adding a new rule: soft surfaces optional.

  The button on his pants opened, her hands dove inside, and all thinking shut down immediately. He could only feel. Her soft hands curled around the base of him and with one stroke his big plans for taking his sweet time snapped. Fast now, finesse later.

  He went for the button on her jeans, got the zipper down, and was nearing the promised land—

  “Mommy?” Holly’s voice came through the hallway, into the kitchen, and right between them.

  Regan froze.

  Gabe yanked his zipper up.

  Holly called out again.

  “What, honey?”

  “I have to go potty and it’s still dark.” Gabe wanted to tell her that it was nighttime, it was always dark.

  “I thought you said she sleeps through everything,” he whispered, handing Regan’s T-shirt to her and pulling his own over his head with hurried hands. Ms. Calm and Collected was nowhere to be seen.

  “Be right there,” she called out, then looked at Gabe with apologetic eyes. “Everything but liquid before bed.”

  He stopped, T-shirt midway over his head. “I gave her a glass of water.” He closed his eyes. “Actually two.”

  “It’s okay.” Regan abandoned the bra and just slid on her shirt, covering up those perfect tens. “I shouldn’t have...I mean, this is why I don’t...Dating with a daughter in the house is—”

  “Mommy? I really gotta go.”

  Regan sighed, but Gabe didn’t fail to notice the embarrassment and regret already clouding those pretty eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, skirting past him. He grabbed the back of her jeans, stopping her. The kid had to go—and by the agitation in her fourth call, he imagined pretty bad—but he didn’t want it to end like this. Regan was more than embarrassed, she was mad at herself and Gabe didn’t want that.

  “Regan, it’s okay. No harm.”

  “No, it’s not okay.” Her e
yes went bright, and he was pretty sure she was about to cry. “I don’t do this. I made myself one promise: Holly first. Always.”

  “And what about you?” he asked softly, tugging her fingers.

  She gave a small, sad shrug. “I think I’m always stuck in mommy mode and when she—”

  “Mom-my?”

  Regan looked at the doorway and then back to their linked hands, and he could see that she was being pulled in two and it was killing her. So he let go first. “Go on. Take Holly to the bathroom and then snuggle in bed with her and be a mom. We can figure this out later.”

  She nodded and reluctantly headed for the hall. Midway she stopped and turned back to face him. “Gabe, what if being a mom is all I can be right now?”

  “Then it will be enough.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “And by blending the traditions with the past and the tools and technology of today, St. Helena will remain a relevant community whose roots are deeply planted in the Founding Fathers’ ideals of community,” Regan said, staring into the rearview mirror and adopting her most confident expression.

  Though no one in the town hall would be able to guess it by the amount of cover-up under her eyes and caffeinated energy pumping through her veins, Regan had achieved no more than one hour of sleep. She had stayed up most of the night preparing for today. And thinking about Gabe.

  There was no way those yoga pants mommies were going to bulldoze over her Mrs. Clauses. Just like there was no way Regan was going to walk away from a chance at something incredible with Gabe.

  The more she thought about it, the more she realized how silly she had been. Every day single moms dated and fell in love, and every day they still managed to raise healthy, wonderful children. Her mother hadn’t been able to manage both, but that didn’t mean Regan couldn’t.

  Then it will be enough.

  Had he really said that? Regan felt her cheeks heat.

  If she could handle raising Holly all by herself for the last...almost six years, then she could handle a relationship with a man. Especially when that man was sweet and thoughtful and honest. And went out of his way to make her feel special, as though she mattered.

  With a final dab of lipstick, she gathered her purse and opened the car door, ready to dazzle. That city council was going to take one look at her PowerPoint presentation and realize just how important tradition was. How important the Mrs. Clauses were to this town. And how important this town could be to its people.

  She stepped out, smoothed down her power skirt, and smiled. Breathing in the crisp air, she looked up, and it was as if the heavens themselves were shining down. She hoped it was a foreshadowing of just how great today was going to be.

  She opened the truck, smiled down at Randolph, who was going to be returned to his rightful home today, pulled out her briefcase, and—

  “There you are, dear.”

  —slammed the trunk, catching her blazer in the latch and tearing the shoulder out. She tugged the sleeve loose and turned, spying ChiChi wearing poinsettia-red-and-green bangle bracelets, shuffling across the parking lot toward her.

  ChiChi looked frazzled, her eyes wide and darting right then left, as if she were afraid to be seen talking to Regan. That was when Regan noticed that the parking lot, given that the emergency meeting was supposed to begin in just ten minutes, was extremely sparse of townspeople and pitchforks.

  “What’s going on, ChiChi?” Regan glanced at her watch.

  “What’s going on,” ChiChi repeated, her voice elevating with every syllable. “That backstabbing twit Isabel is going on. She’s out to screw you.”

  “What?”

  “Did you volunteer for the Costume Committee?” the old woman panted, her hand on her heaving chest.

  Regan felt her own chest return to somewhere normal. By the way ChiChi was carrying on, she’d thought she’d missed the meeting or something had happened to Holly.

  “Isabel was kind enough to put my name down to help out, so yes.”

  “Help out? Child, that woman put you down as costume chair, meaning you run the entire committee. And she’s in there right now telling the council how you haven’t made it to a single meeting, your committee has not been informed of what is going on, and that you haven’t even decided on patterns or bought the fabric.”

  “Now?” Regan checked her watch for the tenth time in so many minutes. “The meeting doesn’t start until nine.”

  “We’re on the agenda at nine, she’s been flapping her gums since eight fifteen.”

  Of course she has, Regan thought, her heart back to hyper-speed. “Wait, I have to buy the fabric?”

  “The fabric, patterns, and all related materials. The council will pay you back, but you have to invoice them.”

  “ChiChi, I don’t have that kind of money. Even if I did, I said I’d help out, not run the thing.”

  “Which is why that woman signed you up as chair. She wants you to fail. And if you walk in there with nothing to show, those members are going to crucify you.”

  “And let me guess.” Regan closed her eyes, understanding what was really going on. “If that happens, it will discredit me and the council won’t listen to our presentation.”

  “Oh, they’ll listen. They just won’t support your ideas. They already think I’m soft in the head for losing Randolph. I can’t have them thinking you’re a flake.” ChiChi shook her head, her eyes going hard.

  “Because you would be replaced by Isabel.”

  “And you’d lose your job.” And Holly’s scholarship. “Which is why you’ve got to open your trunk.”

  “My what?” Regan gasped.

  “Lucinda went out and bought you a mess of fabric, and Pricilla is lending you her extra sewing machine. Your first committee meeting was last night and you all decided on a carnival theme. If they ask, say Jesus Christ, Superstar meets Cirque du Soleil. They love that kind of thing.” ChiChi was already shuffling back across the parking lot. “Now open that trunk and make room. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  “I don’t even have a committee,” Regan hollered back, splaying herself across the back of her car.

  “You do now. Lucinda is the fastest sewer in wine country. Seven years running.”

  Five minutes. There was no way in hell she was going to show the Mrs. Clauses her trunk. She had to do whatever it took to convince the council that her ideas were brilliant and keep Holly at St. Vincent’s. And that did not include incriminating herself.

  Turning around, she fished through her purse and pulled out a receipt, a pen, and a stick of gum. Blowing a bubble, she scribbled a note stating that she had to use the ladies’ room and to start loading if she wasn’t back in time. Then she scanned the parking lot for a place to hide Randolph. If ChiChi caught her with that deer...Regan didn’t even want to go there.

  Certain she was alone, she cracked the trunk, threw a plastic tablecloth she had bought for Holly’s birthday over Randolph, and slapped the note to the back window with the hot wad of gum. Reindeer under her arm, she took off in a full sprint, heading toward a utility shed at the far end of the property. She was just rounding the side of the town hall when she saw Isabel in the window.

  Their eyes locked. Isabel saw the bulge under Regan’s arm. She gasped with understanding and a sinister smile passed her lips before she bolted for the door...and straight for Regan.

  “Crap!” Regan doubled back and slipped in a side door. She shuffled down the hall as fast as her heels would allow, trying every door along the way.

  Locked.

  Locked.

  And locked.

  Damn.

  Angry heels clicked on marble behind her, gaining in venom and speed. Regan turned to see Isabel come around the corner, her focus zeroing in.

  “You!” she accused.

  “Merry Christmas one and all,” Randolph greeted.

  “Shh,” Regan snapped and, pretending she hadn’t heard Isabel and that her tablecloth hadn’t just spoken, spun back around t
o head down another hallway, past the water fountain and seven more locked doors, finally toppling into a woman wearing blue scrubs and pushing a cart with a mop and bucket.

  “Lo siento mucho, señora,” Regan said, gathering up the industrial-sized box of tampons and spare toilet paper, placing them back on the cart. She was dusting the powdered soap off the poor woman when she became aware of two things.

  Randolph had decided to peek out from beneath his tablecloth to gift the janitor—who was rapidly making the sign of the cross, her eyes rapt on the stolen mascot—with a radiant smile and Christmas greeting. And, the designer clicking had stopped.

  “Es el diablo,” the woman whispered, her eyes staring at something over Regan’s head. “Corre!”

  Regan didn’t have to ask who was behind her; the description and look of sheer terror on the woman’s face was enough. She shoved Randolph into Regan’s arms and Regan in the direction of a janitor’s closet.

  Once inside, Regan slammed the door, flicked on the light, and screamed.

  Dozens of lifeless eyes stared down at her. Men, women, children, infants. All of them silent, their mouths gaped opened as if ready to speak. And all of them naked.

  One hand over her mouth, the other over Randolph’s eyes, she backed up, right into a rack. Blue backpacks decorated with red crosses crashed to her feet with enough force to alert the entire building. CPR training pamphlets and supplies scattered across the floor.

  Keeping her focus on the ground, she shoved all of the backpacks into a corner and tried to come up with a plan. One that didn’t include Isabel finding her with Randolph.

  “Merry Christmas one and all,” Randolph greeted.

  “They’re dummies. They aren’t real, so shush before someone hears you,” Regan hissed at the ceramic-and-plastic statue with the glittery red nose. She could swear that his smile grew a little wider.

  Setting Randolph in the far corner of the closet, Regan piled all of the CPR dolls against him, careful not to damage his sheen. Once he was securely hidden, she reminded him to be quiet, clicked off the light, and left the room—only to come face to face with a very winded, very wet, and very pissed Isabel Stark.