Kissing Under the Mistletoe

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 to 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.

The janitor was apologizing profusely about how she was just mopping up the south hall, doing her job, didn’t see Isabel in time, and hoped that the mop handle wouldn’t leave a bruise on her beautiful forehead.

Isabel, however, didn’t miss the look passing between Regan and the woman, nor did she miss Regan coming out of the closet. The closet which Regan plastered her body against.

“Stop touching me,” Isabel harped, batting away the other woman’s hands. She marched over to Regan, took in the business suit, and glared. “It’s too late, you know. The board already hates you. So it doesn’t matter that Holly got the lead.”

“Holly got the lead?” Regan whispered, and no matter how hard she tried to be angry, her heart warmed and a smile broke across her face.

Her baby had done it. Set her mind on something, practiced hard, and got her dream part. No matter what happened in that meeting, how bad Isabel tried to make Regan look, Holly was going to play Christmas Kitty.

“Not for long. Every parent has to volunteer, as stated in the bylaws. And you”—Isabel poked her in the chest—“didn’t do your fair share. I am sure the council will see it that way and then Lauren, who is the understudy, will get to play Christmas Kitty.”

“Actually, Isabel,” Regan began, trying to remember what ChiChi had told her, “I have met with my committee and the costumes are coming along wonderfully. In fact, we decided to take a Jesus Christ, Superstar–meets–Cirque Du Soleil approach to their design. I’m sure the council will just love our ideas. It’s very New Age meets traditional.”

Isabel’s mouth fell open and Regan patted herself on the back for that last part. The costumes, just like the direction she hoped the council would embrace, merged the new with the traditional.

Isabel didn’t have a snarky comeback. In fact, she stood so silent that Regan was about to leave. Convinced Isabel would need time to strategize on how best to next screw with the Martin women, and remembering that ChiChi was waiting in the parking lot, she eased off the door. She had taken only three steps when Isabel pounced.

Shoving Regan aside, Isabel yanked open the door, flicked on the light, and didn’t even let out so much as a gasp.

“Es el diablo,” the janitor whispered, jerking a chin toward Isabel.

“What are you hiding?” Isabel said, her eyes scanning the room. “You came in here with a big box and now you only have your purse.”

“Tampons,” the heavy accent cut through the air.

Isabel looked from one to the other. The janitor folded her arms in front of her and glared as if daring Isabel to call her a liar.

With a huff and one final scan, Isabel slammed the door. A very muffled “Merry Christmas one and all” sounded through the wood.

Regan closed her eyes and banged her head against the wall as Isabel yanked open the door again and riffled through all of the bodies to come up with the only one that mattered. The one with the bright red nose and big smile. And the one that was going to ruin everything.

“I knew it!” Isabel cheered. “I knew you had to have something to do with ChiChi’s car and the Christmas display. Wait until the board hears about this. Those old biddies’ savior is none other than the person who single-handedly tried to steal Christmas.”

Regan grabbed Randolph. “I will tell them.”

“Tell us what, dear?”

Regan couldn’t answer, because when she turned around about thirty sets of eyes, all alive and all members of the town council, greeted her with strained smiles. Then they saw Randolph and the smiles fled, leaving only strain.

“Yeah, tell them, Regan,” Isabel prodded.

“You found Randolph!” ChiChi screeched, waddling up to lay a loving pat on the reindeer’s head.

“Is that true?” a thin man with thin limbs and an even thinner head of hair asked. Benson was not only head of the town council, he was also the former high school principal and known for sniffing out BS. Which probably explained why his nostrils started flaring the second Regan opened her mouth.

“I was waiting at my car for ChiChi,” Regan said, the woman in question beaming up at her with all the faith in the world. Regan swallowed. “We were supposed to go over the costumes and material choices for the Christmas musical before the meeting, and I spotted a building out in the field—”

“The utility closet by the old oak tree?” Jordan said, stepping forward and making Regan relax a little. Jordan stood beside Regan, placing one hand on Randolph and the other on Regan’s shoulder. It was a silent declaration of alliance. One that wasn’t missed by anyone in the crowd, especially Isabel, whose upper lip twitched.

“Is that where you found Randolph?” Selma, one of the councilwomen, asked.

“Uh, he was wrapped in this tablecloth,” Regan went on, neither admitting nor denying that she had indeed found Randolph.

“Clearly whoever took him wanted to make sure he didn’t get damaged,” Regan reasoned. “I mean, why else would they wrap him up so carefully? In fact, I bet it was all some ridiculous mistake, and even though they wanted to return him, it went public so fast they probably were too scared.”

“You know what, you’re right,” Mrs. Moberly, the council secretary and town librarian, said, pushing her glasses farther back on her nose and coming forward to pet Randolph’s tail. “I bet they read about the Randolph sanctuary clause on the website you built. They probably thought they could return him anonymously and avoid criminal charges.”

“Ingenious idea,” Benson said, smiling down at the deer.

“Actually,” Regan said, gesturing to her Mrs. Clauses, “it was these ladies here who rallied together, brought in the sheriff’s department, and got the news of Randolph out to the public. It was done with the same hard work and passion as they devote to the Community Action Committee.”

“Are you all actually buying this?” Isabel spat.

Regan had almost forgotten she was there. By the way a few council members jumped at her shrill voice, she wasn’t the only one. Maybe it was because as nearly every council member had made their way forward to pet Randolph, Isabel had been shoved to the back.

“You all really believe that someone stole Randolph, then returned him, wrapped in a blanket—”

“Tablecloth,” ChiChi corrected.

“Whatever,” Isabel snapped, her forehead growing with every heated breath she took. “The point is, there is no way that someone could have hidden him in broad daylight and not a single one of us saw him.”

“But Regan saw him,” Mrs. Moberly corrected, annoyance fogging up her glasses.

“Are you all really this blind?” Isabel flung her hands against her thighs.

All of town hall stood silent—the uncomfortable kind of silence with everyone staring back and forth between Regan and Isabel. Regan held her breath. Isabel crossed her arms. No one spoke. Not even the janitor, who was polishing Randolph’s hooves.

Should she just come clean, tell the council the entire story and hope that they didn’t punish Holly for Regan’s mistake?

God, maybe Gabe was right. Maybe she had some deep-seated anger issues left over from Richard and they made her act like a crazy woman. Because who would throw eight innocent reindeer through the window of an SUV and then abscond with their leader?

“Can’t you all see what this is?” Isabel’s tone implied that anyone who didn’t was a fool.

“Of course, we see,” ChiChi said, wagging her head as if greatly disappointed...in Isabel. “It’s a Christmas miracle, dear.”

And on cue, Randolph blinked his nose and said, “Merry Christmas, one and all.”





Because it was a day ending in Y, Gabe had rolled out of bed at dawn. He’d taken a cold shower, eaten leftover chow mein out of the box—also cold—and headed to the office. Before he could even address the Everest-size pile of paperwork, his phone had started ringing, then his in-box lit up, and by the time he remembered Jordan was coming in late, he’d accomplished jackshit.

Unless he counted dispatching all of the Safe Return of Randolph calls. Apparently, ChiChi had put his number and e-mail address on all the posters.

Was this what Jordan dealt with every morning? He needed to either get his family to handle their own shit or give Jordan a raise.

The phone rang.

Maybe both.

Needing some fresh air and space that didn’t give him a migraine, Gabe took a walk through DeLuca Manor. The former carriage house, originally built by his great-grandfather in the late eighteen hundreds, had been renovated into a modern masterpiece of architecture and finishing. Situated on the back of a vast expanse of lawn and surrounded by heritage oaks, the stone-and-mortar-faced building, with its domed cathedral ceilings and pair of antique six-hundred-lamp chandeliers, had become one of the most photographed and recognized buildings in the Valley. It also contained one of the last memories Gabe had of his father before he passed.

Gabe walked through the massive wooden doors, and even the addition of the hundred dressed tables and thousands of lilies for tonight’s event couldn’t overpower the scent of redwood floors and oak barrels. Even the smell reminded him of his old man; of the way his father had tried to appear supportive when Gabe had confessed that he wanted to go to art school instead of run the winery.

His shoes echoed off the walls as he made his way through the main hall and to the small set of stairs hidden behind rows of oak barrels. He took the stairs two at a time and breathed in the crisp morning air as he gazed out over the rolling acres of vines.

His father used to bring him up here to talk about the day and slip him a little scotch from the flask he kept hidden in his breast pocket. The one he’d kept a secret from his wife, which she had dutifully washed and refilled weekly.

His father had shown his love for his wife in everything that he did. His mother had put up with all of his father’s crazy ideas about cross-pollination and cross-breeding different species of grapes, loving the way he would lose himself for hours in the field. And in turn they had both loved their children fiercely. Right up until the day they died.

Too bad his dad hadn’t left detailed instructions about how he wanted Gabe to raise his siblings as he had with the business. Or how to successfully blend two families who were both too bold and too stubborn on their own. Not that Gabe was thinking of blending two families anytime soon, but if these last few weeks were an indicator of how the rest of his life would go, he needed to figure out a way to untangle his own happiness from being dependent on his siblings’.

His cell rang. It was Marc. Again. All of his brothers had called at least once, and it wasn’t even lunchtime. Gabe sent the call to voice mail. He didn’t want to talk about Regan or Richard or what he had or hadn’t found out.

Which was pretty much nothing.

A drop of water landed on his arm. He looked up at the darkening sky and watched as the storm rolled in. Rather than fight it, only to get back to a life that was smothering him, he decided to wait it out.

He moved away from the rail and walked under the overhang of the balcony. Feeling suddenly weary, he dusted off his dad’s seat, leaned back, and closed his eyes. The rain tapped against the ceramic tiles of the roof, picking up in speed and volume.

He was tired and worn out, and he really should have stayed in bed.

It took him several minutes and multiple shifts to get comfortable. He tried legs pulled in, ankle over knee, crossed, uncrossed, finally settling on stretched out and leaning back. When he couldn’t relax he laughed. Even after all these years, the leather cushion still hadn’t molded out of his dad’s shape and into his.

“What’s so funny?” The sexy voice shot straight through his body.

Gabe opened his eyes, but didn’t move. He just watched. Watched as Regan slowly made her way toward him. She was wearing tall, sleek black boots, a tight skirt, and a snug red top that looked soft and hugged every curve to perfection. And she was exactly what he needed right now.

Just looking into those baby blues, at those full lips, made his world spin back to right. He didn’t even realize how far he’d shifted off axis until she walked out on that balcony and filled his mind with nothing but her. A strange reaction to have for the woman who confused him more than any other person on the planet.

“I was thinking how, no matter how hard I try, my dad’s seat will never feel right.” If he was surprised at his admission, he was even more shocked at how good it felt to finally say it aloud. To Regan.

She shrugged, sending her top slipping down one shoulder and exposing a lacy red strip. And sending him from stressed to rock hard in two seconds. “I suspect your dad would want you to make your own rather than try to get comfortable in his.”

Gabe shifted and finally gave up. No matter what chair he was sitting in, comfort was damn near impossible with her standing only a few feet away and looking like sex in heels. “How come you’re not at work?”

“They double-booked my shift, said I could have the day off.”

“And you came here?”

She nodded. “Your grandma told me that if you weren’t in your office you’d be fixing your family’s problems up here. She asked me to bring you this. Said it was time-sensitive.” She held up an envelope and squinted as if trying to see through it. “But I’m pretty sure it’s empty.”

“Empty, huh? Then why did you come?”

With a smile that was 100 percent trouble, she walked straight toward him. He had to pull his legs back in to make room for her as she skirted right between his widespread knees. “What if I told you Holly’s going to Pricilla’s after school, and for one day I want to feel like something other than a mommy?”

“I’d say we’re going to need a hell of a lot longer than a day to get through every fantasy I’ve cooked up over the past few weeks.” Gabe set the envelope on the side table—definitely empty—and moved to the end of the chair, which brought her breasts right where he wanted them, at eye level. She was so close he could smell the rain on her skin, see the droplets that clung to her lashes, and see the hunger in her eyes.

He skimmed his hands over her boots, the backs of her knees, the backs of her thighs, not stopping until he got to her very bare, very sweet ass. He groaned. “And not one of them included you sans the silk, Vixen.”

“I figured you already had one pair of mine, I didn’t want to lose another,” she teased, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders for support.

“You have to earn those back.” Nudging the V of her top lower, he placed an open-mouthed kiss in the valley between her cleavage. Catching a drop of rain with his tongue.

“Well, you get one day. Then I go back to being a mom, and you go back to being a DeLuca. So make it count.”

“Did I ever mention that I am an excellent negotiator?”

“One day, Gabe.”

She looked stubborn and set on her ridiculous plan. It didn’t matter, he had all day to convince her otherwise. Might as well start now.

“I also like a challenge,” he said, raising his head to look up at her. But he didn’t get the chance, because Regan got things started on her own.

“Then your challenge is to make this”—she slid her hands up his chest and into his hair, and he felt what this was all the way down to his dick—“go away in one day.”

Then she was on him. Kissing him.

Vixen was kissing him.

Her skin was slick with rain, her mouth hot with need, her hands were everywhere and he loved it.

Gabe knew the attraction was mutual, but he had always been the one to instigate. Not today. Today, Vixen was open and aggressive and taking the lead. Hell, if this is what she was like when she was running things, he’d follow her just about anywhere.

His hands tightened on her ass, hauling her up against him and damn near exploding when she moaned against his mouth and bit his lower lip. There was nothing sexier than a woman who knew what she wanted and went after it, especially if that something happened to be him.

Her scent was nearly as intoxicating as her taste, because she tasted like sex and sugar cookies, a combination that was insanely hot. So when her tongue slid against his, he snapped. He could barely string together two thoughts when she was dressed. Now that he knew what she had on under her skirt—abso-f*cking-lutely nothing—he was a goner.

He wanted her right now, right here. His hands slid down the globes of her ass and his fingers found their way back under her skirt and between her legs, gently gliding over her center.

She jerked at his touch and pulled back enough to whisper, “Not here,” against his mouth, but her legs widened, giving him better access.

“Okay.” With one hand he pushed up her top, baring her breasts, and sucked her nipple right through the red lace. It budded against his tongue.

“How about here?” His tongue traced the edging of her bra, over her breast, down into the valley between and over to the other side, gently nipping at the peak with his teeth. “Or here?”

“No, I meant—” But her hands were all over him, clawing at his chest, fisting in his hair, anything she could grab on to. Hot damn, the woman was sexy.

“Oh,” he mumbled against her skin as his other hand cupped her heat and gently squeezed. “Here.” This time it wasn’t a question but a statement. Instead of only her going mindless, all the blood left his brain and rushed south. “Christ, Regan. You’re soaked.”

“There. Right there.” Just the need in her voice was enough to make him embarrass himself. Then she moved against his hand, a sexy little sound coming up from the back of her throat. She did it again, pressing harder. The next was more frantic, almost desperate. “Gabe, I think I might—”

She had to be kidding. He had barely touched her. Hadn’t even slid inside yet and she was breathing like she was about to—

“Oh, God,” she panted, her head dropping back as she rolled her hips forward, grinding against his palm, bringing her skirt up to where he could almost see what he was cupping. He didn’t know what was more erotic, the knowledge that she was about to get off on his hand, or how he could see his hand disappear underneath her skirt but not see her.

“I need more.”

Damn right.

Gabe slid his other hand down the back of her thigh, hooking it around her knee, and gently brought her foot up and set it on his chair, the heel of her boot straddling the armrest. There went her skirt, up and over her ass, and he froze.

“Gabe, now. I’m almost there.” He could see it in the way her pupils were fully dilated and hear it in the need thickening her words. So was he and he was still fully clothed. Vixen, on the other hand...

“God, you are so damn beautiful,” he breathed, taking in the sight of her. Her hair was wet from the rain and tumbling down her back, her shirt was shoved up to her armpit, her skirt was bunched around her waist. And there, right on the inside of her hipbone, was that sexy tattoo. Only it wasn’t a bundle of holly, it was f*cking mistletoe.