Kissing Under the Mistletoe

chapter 7





By the time Regan and Holly arrived at school, Regan had a permanent twitch behind her right eye. Holly had spent the entire morning chattering on about the move, her new room, and her new friend, Gabe. She wondered—aloud and often—where he lived, if he had a pet, how he knew her favorite doughnuts were the ones with the pink sprinkles on top. Making Regan wonder what in the heck she had been thinking, taking him up on the offer to help her move. Not to mention that kiss. Which was why avoiding him was the best option.

“Lauren!” Holly yelled, dropping Regan’s hand so she could wave her own excitedly at the blonde-haired girl who stood at the end of the hallway under a new batch of Missing Randolph posters. Lauren’s little face went wide and she started jumping up and down, chanting Holly’s name.

“Mommy! That’s Lauren!” Holly tugged on Regan’s coat, which was buttoned from knee to neck. She wasn’t embarrassed about the polyester blend she had on underneath, but she also didn’t want to advertise that she cleaned toilets. Not at Holly’s school.

“She’s in my class and she likes kitties too. We played together at recess. She and Summer and Chloe were pretending to be orphaned baby kittens in the wild, and she was really nice and let me play with them. It’s Lauren!” Holly said in one long breath with no pauses, her voice elevating with each word.

“Yes, you’ve told me about Lauren.” And Regan assumed Summer and Chloe were the other two girls who had joined in the jumping. “Why don’t you bring them over and introduce us?”

Holly had barely made it ten feet before the three girls surrounded her, each taking their turn in giving her daughter a hug.

Regan’s breath caught in her throat. This is what she wanted for Holly. This moment, right here. Friends. Happiness. Connection.

Roots.

And no matter how hard it got, she would do anything to keep her kid as happy as she was right then.

“It’s the same thing at our house.” A woman approached Regan. Dressed in designer slacks and ridiculously high heels, with sculpted blonde hair, she was the epitome of Napa Valley society. She also looked incredibly stuck up and vaguely familiar. Regan pulled her coat tighter. “Lauren talks about Holly nonstop. She’s been hounding me for days about setting up a playdate.”

Regan felt herself relax. Mommy talk she could do. It was something she had mastered early on in Holly’s life. If she kept the conversation on the kids, people were too wrapped up in bragging to notice that Regan was at least a good decade younger.

“Holly would love that. She says Lauren is quite the singer.”

“She gets that from my side,” the woman preened. “Actually, all of my daughters have landed the role in the community Christmas musical. This is Lauren’s year. She’s purr-fect for Christmas Kitty.”

Regan swallowed. “Christmas Kitty is the lead?”

“The play is called Christmas Kitty Goes to Frogtown,” Lauren’s mother enunciated slowly, as if Christmas Kitty Goes to Frogtown had starred Julie Andrews and won the Tony for Best Musical Featuring Felines and Faux Fur. “And Lauren will do brilliantly.”

“I didn’t know it was already cast.”

“Oh, it’s just a matter of semantics. And don’t worry about Holly.” Miss Actor’s Guild leaned in, patting Regan on the shoulder. “All the kids understand that a Stark gets the lead. It’s tradition. Not every girl can hold center stage, but the chorus members are just as important; they’re the foundation of any play. Oh, and by the way, I’m Isabel Stark.”

“Of course you are.” Regan swallowed, taking Isabel’s hand and shaking it. The woman was not only a stuck-up b—bad word, she looked familiar because she had been Gabe’s date to the Ryo Christmas party.

Gabe, who had kissed Regan just last night. The same Gabe who had asked her to live with him—well, not with him but with him. God, she hated men.

“I’m Regan Martin.”

Isabel gave Regan a long, thorough examination, her brows furrowing, which looked bizarre since her forehead didn’t move. “Have we met?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Stanford, class of—”

“Nope.” Try Clovisville High, class of not all that long ago.

There went the unmoving forehead again. “Are you sure? You look so familiar and I never forget a face.”

Maybe it was when I was dancing with your date? God, even if the woman grated on Regan’s every nerve, no one deserved to see another woman dancing with their date. Time to say sorry. “I think we may have been at the same party—”

“Mommy,” Holly called, she and her three friends bounding up, their little pigtails and curly poofs bouncing with every step. “This is Summer, Lauren, and Chloe. And we’re the...” Holly stopped.

All four girls looked at each other for a quick second, their faces scrunched in confusion, then Lauren directed as they scrambled around until they were in a straight line, ranging from shortest to tallest, with Holly being on the shortest side and Lauren on the tallest. Isabel smiled proudly at her daughter’s ability to lead.

“And we’re the...” Lauren repeated Holly’s earlier words.

“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 childhood 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.

“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 darting 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.