Kissing Under the Mistletoe

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.

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.

The deeper they had gone into the Christmas tree patch, the thicker the crowd had grown and the more nervous she had become. There were more people than golden tags. And since only the golden-ticketed trees could be cut in the contest, someone was going home empty-handed.

“Mommy,” Holly cried from two rows over. Regan could hear the excitement in her daughter’s voice and knew she’d found her Christmas tree.

Cutting through the jolly forest, around a scantily clad Ava who, with red-streaked hair and diamond-pierced navel, had managed to lose her mother and the bottom half of her skirt, and sidestepping a woman with a blinking red walker, Regan finally found her daughter. She was staring up at the most beautiful tree on the lot.

It was a shiny hunter green with lots of lush branches and the perfect tip for her mother’s star—a symmetrical goddess. Regan would have to have it delivered, which meant an extra charge, and the tree was a bit tall, but with some heavy maneuvering they could fit it through the door. Now all she had to figure out was how to get it, since the trunk was way more than a fifteen-minute chop.

“She’s a pretty one,” Isabel said, stepping out from the other side of the tree. She wasn’t wearing a rainbow knit cap, a men’s flannel, and holey jeans with gardening gloves dangling out the back pocket. No, Isabel, in fur and lumberjack boots, somehow managed to look runway ready. And in her back pocket was a tall, well-built man with hands the size of watermelons and an ax big enough to chop through Holly’s tree in one whack.

“This is my brother, Paul. Paul, this is Holly’s mom.” Isabel placed a possessive hand on his arm. “He’s home for the holidays and is sweet enough to be my swinging ax tonight.”

“Regan,” Holly’s mom said. “Nice to meet you.”

“It is very nice to meet you.” Mr. Swinging Ax held Regan’s hand until Isabel elbowed him.

“We saw a tree over there with your name on it,” Regan said, placing a possessive hand on her tree. She had actually counted five Stark-ticketed trees thus far.

“Just seeing what else is out here. We could always use one for the front porch.” Isabel gave the tree a swift kick. “This is nice, but I imagine it would take quite a while to chop down. Even for someone Paul’s size. Too bad you don’t have a man to help out. Well, happy hunting.”

Regan almost shot her a happy greeting in return, but that finger would cost her a whole lot more than a quarter.

“Do we need a man to get a tree, Mommy?” Holly whispered, looking up at Regan as if her answer could forever change the course of her little five-year-old life.

“Are you kidding? Just look at these guns.” She flexed her arms. When Holly didn’t look so confident, Regan dropped to her knees and cupped her daughter’s face with both hands. “No, baby. We just need each other.”

Which was what Regan was still telling herself three minutes later when she gripped the handle of her ax and looked down the line at her competition. Tall, built, and swinging axes, these guys took their Cut-and-Run duties seriously. As Jordan had explained earlier, it wasn’t so much about getting the tree.

The Cut and Run had become a way for the local families to compete on a scale outside of acres, vines, and Wine Spectator scores. For Regan, this was about proving to her daughter that Martin women could do anything they set their minds to. And a tiny bit of it was about sticking it to Isabel, who was standing directly behind her.

“I wanted to let you know that I told Paul not to chop down the tree you were looking at. Holly has been talking nonstop about her dream tree, and I would hate to think that we took something from her that obviously meant so much.”

Regan wondered when Isabel was going to lay it on the line. Yesterday, the list of who was being considered for the musical had been posted. It had Holly and Lauren going head to head for the role of Christmas Kitty.

“You know, I can always lend you Paul after he chops down our tree,” Isabel offered with about as much sincerity as a rabid Chihuahua.

Regan looked at Holly, seated next to the three Mrs. Clauses, and back in the direction of her tree. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to pass.”

“That’s a shame.” Isabel toyed with the fluffy ball on the end of Regan’s rainbow cap. “I really wanted Holly to have her tree come Christmas.”

“Oh, she’ll get her tree.”

Regan had never had a father growing up, but her mother always had a Christmas tree. It may have been a different kind of childhood than the rest of the people here, but Regan had never gone hungry and she always felt loved.

She was going to cut down that tree and Holly was going to have an incredible Christmas.

“Just remember,” Isabel added, “you have fifteen minutes to cut it down and drag it across the finish line. Oh, and once you enter the forest there are no rules.”

Regan’s head whipped around just in time to watch her smirk and saunter away, but not before she whispered in Paul’s ear.

Holy crap! She would need the entire fifteen minutes just to get to the tree and chop it down. Plus the thing was a whole three feet taller than she—and that was if she had on her stilettoes.

Regan looked back at the stands and found Holly. Holding a thumbs-up and a bright smile plastered on her face, Holly let loose a “Go Mommy!” and the Mrs. Clauses started doing the geriatric version of raising the roof.

Axes ready for battle and feet planted firmly on the ground, the line prepared itself as Sheriff Bryant raised his gun. The shot exploded and Regan, even though she’d watched him pull the trigger, jumped, costing herself a good three seconds.

Chaos erupted, and good lord, Regan couldn’t find a single other woman in the herd. It was all muscle and testosterone and ego-driven men fighting for the dominant position. Then she received a hard shove to the back and she sprang into action. Okay, it was more like a stumbling start, but it was a start.

“If you are going to represent,” Frankie hollered, swinging the blunt end of her ax and taking out a man the size of Adonis at the kneecaps, “then do our sex proud.”

Regan grunted and, shoving the fuzzy tassels from her hat out of her eyes, zeroed in on her tree. Boots slammed into the packed mud and the sound of metal on wood echoed through the man-made forest. People had already located their trees and were chopping away. Regan didn’t care about the other men, or about Frankie taking out what looked to be the second to oldest DeLuca with a knee to the groin, or even about coming in first. All she cared about was that she made it across that finish line with a tree for her daughter.

Several fights erupted in the aisles, and after nearly taking an elbow to the head, Regan dropped to her knees and crawled along the middle row of trees, taking the most direct route to her target. Branches smacked her in the face and gravel cut into her hands and knees, but she pushed forward, dragging that damn ax with her.

When she got to the last row she understood why no one else was staking claim on Holly’s tree. Because even if she managed to cut it down, she’d have to drag it back across the entire field.

“Shit.”

Remembering her softball days, she choked up on the handle, pulled back, and swung. The blade hit at too much of an angle, reflected off the trunk, and curved right, taking Regan with it. She landed hard, hands and knees slamming into the ground and her butt sticking up in the air.

Dusting herself off, she swallowed back the pain and tried it again, with the same results. Only this time she flew into the tree, the handle of the ax shanking her in the side upon landing. By the seventh try, Regan had lost the gloves, but instead of a better grip like she had hoped, it only gave her splinters and a really big raw spot.

Jingle bells started rattling as well as the drummers drumming, signaling that the first person had already crossed the finish line and there was a declared winner. Panicked, Regan glanced around, her heart aching when she saw that a number of the men around her were already dragging their trees toward the finish line.

Thinking of Holly up there in the stands, she brushed the dirt from her face and took another swing. Instead of plowing into the tree headfirst, which was where the momentum had tossed her, a pair of strong arms caught her around the waist.

“Easy.” The warm breath tickled her ear, and Regan didn’t blame her nipples for expressing their yuletide spirit. Or her legs for turning to a quivering mess when a strong hand flattened against her stomach and brushed the underside of her breast. By the time Gabe had her righted and facing him, her whole body was reaching Defcon 1.

“You okay?” he asked, taking the ax so he could gently inspect her hands. They were red, chapped, and bleeding. And that one raw spot had multiplied to cover most of her palm and a good number of fingers.

Those intense eyes landed on hers, and it took everything she had not to give in. To be like those women she’d watched growing up who had allowed themselves to lean on a man when life got hard.

“I have to get Holly that tree,” she said, stepping back and out of the safety of his body.

“Okay,” he said, bringing the ax up. Regan was about to tell him that she didn’t need a man when he flipped the ax around and held it out to her. “Then get her a tree.”

Blinking back the tears, Regan gave a single nod and took the handle. She pulled the ax back and right as she was about to swing forward she felt Gabe surround her, his front to her back, his hand resting on the ax.

“Go in at a forty-five-degree angle, like this.” He wrapped his arms around her and, placing his hands over hers on the handle, demonstrated how to swing. Then he stepped back and Regan immediately missed his warmth. “Now try.”

She did. And it worked. A small piece of wood splintered.

“Oh, my God! Did you see that?” she screamed, and realized she was jumping up and down like Holly.

“I did. Impressive, Vixen,” he said with a smile that warmed her, well, everywhere. “Now, this time hit it straight on and then repeat the angle.”

Regan followed his instructions, and with every swing she took out another chunk of trunk. Finally the tree started leaning. She dropped the ax and went around to the other side and shoved it over with her foot. With a loud snap it fell to the ground.

She’d done it! She got Holly her tree!

“If there wasn’t a timer ticking away I would kiss the hell out of you right now,” she said.

Gabe kissed her anyway. Short and sweet, and when he pulled back, he gave her a smack on the bottom.

“Then I guess you’d better get that sweet ass of yours moving. You have a tree to win. And I have a kiss to claim.”

Regan grabbed the top of the tree and started tugging, noticing that Gabe stayed behind, letting her have her moment. It was heavy and awkward and slow going, but she was making good time. She passed the first cluster of trees when she ran into a solid wall of “ax-hole.”

“Whoops, I didn’t see you,” Paul said, looking sheepish.

“Get out of my way.”

“Look, you seem like a nice lady. Actually, I considered asking you out earlier.” He ran a hand down his face. “My sister’s a little unstable when it comes to winning, and she really wants Lauren to have that part in the musical. Just tell your kid you’re taking her away for Christmas so I can move out of your way and you can get your little girl her tree.”

“Hey, Paul. What seems to be the problem?” Gabe said, appearing from the next row over. He placed a hand on Regan’s shoulder.

“Hey, Gabe. No problem. Just seeing if the lady needed any help.”

“She’s doing just fine on her own.”

Paul’s mouth turned up as his eyes slid down Regan’s body. “I can see that. Better get going, the whistle’s going to blow any second now.”

Shoving Paul aside, Regan dug her heels in the ground and pulled her tree. She came through the last clearing and saw the finish line. She also saw that she had less than forty seconds until time ran out. She pulled faster, ignoring the sap dripping down her hands and the way her lower back rebelled. It wasn’t going to be enough.

Then, suddenly, the tree felt weightless. She looked back and saw that Gabe had picked up the trunk and was practically shoving her forward. She opened her mouth to tell him she didn’t need his help, then closed it. Because if the goal was getting Holly her tree, she knew she couldn’t make it alone. No matter how much that ticked her off.

Gabe pushed her right over the finish line, past the crowd of well-wishers, and around the back of the bleachers before he let her stop. Irritated and humbled and breathing heavy, Regan dropped the tree and snapped, “I could have done that on my own.”

“I had no doubt.” Gabe walked around the tree until they were only a breath apart. “But sometimes having someone in your corner can make everything easier. Life is about sharing, Regan. I wanted to share that with you.”

His statement made her wish for things that she knew could never happen for a girl like her. It wasn’t that she didn’t want someone to share Holly and her life with. She had just learned over the years that when it came to forever not all women had that elusive quality that men were looking for.

Fiddling with the bottom of his shirt, she asked, “What was up with the tour of the bleachers?”

He looked up and grinned. She followed his gaze and saw a cluster of mistletoe hanging from the underside of the bleachers.

“How did you know that was here?”

He rested his hands on her hips, pulling her close.

“My grandfather started the tradition about sixty years ago. It was how he got ChiChi to give up her first kiss. It has been a tradition ever since.” He lowered his head. “Now, can we stop talking? I’d like you to kiss the hell out of me.”

Regan slid one hand behind his neck and pulled his mouth to hers. Then, for the first time since meeting Gabe DeLuca, she did as he asked.





Gabe’s night went downhill from there. Holly had needed Regan to take her to the ladies’ room and his family had wanted him to load up ChiChi’s tree and get her home before it started raining. Family appeased for the moment, he’d gone off to find Regan, maybe grab another smoking-hot kiss, ask if she and Holly wanted to grab a bite of dinner, and offer to haul her tree home, when he discovered that she’d paid to have it delivered.

The woman who refused to leave town had finally cut and run. And he found himself frowning.

They hadn’t arrived together, so he shouldn’t have been disappointed, but he was. Disappointment turned to irritation when, after a hot shower, he walked out to find his brothers sitting in his front room, football on the plasma, feet on the coffee table, and enough takeout for ten.

“That had better not turn up on my charge.” None of them responded. He took in the sticky counter, the chow mein noodle on the couch, and the beer ring on the side table. “Don’t you have houses of your own to destroy?”

“Plates on the counter,” Marc said, eyes glued to the game.

Gabe grabbed a plate, stole Trey’s beer, and sat down.

“Hey,” Trey whined.

“Did you buy it? No?” Gabe eyeballed him. “Then it’s mine.”

Trey helped himself to another beer from the fridge. “What crawled up your ass?”

Gabe had no idea. His brothers showed up unannounced and destroyed his house all the time. During football season it was an expected event. One that had been going on since he’d gotten his own place. So why was he so bent?

“Did our girl give up anything that could help us find Richard?” Marc asked.

“Nope.”

“Nope, she hasn’t told you anything, or nope you’ve been too busy trying to shake her tree to ask?” Marc said.

“I’m not trying to shake her tree,” Gabe snapped. Okay, that was a lie. There was nothing he wanted more than to get in Regan’s pants. But he wasn’t going to do it to get information on Richard.

“Christ, maybe you should. Then you wouldn’t be such a tight-ass all the time,” said Nate, the tight-ass of the family, getting up for seconds.

Gabe was the easygoing one of the brothers. A difficult task since he was also the oldest and had to deal with his family’s crap all the time. But he took a lot of pride in his ability to not let things rile him. This, though—invading a woman’s life and lying to her on the off-chance that she had some kind of information on Richard—got him fired up. And not in a good way.

“As far as I know, she has had no contact with Richard. And there is no way she is sitting on a pile of cash. The woman doesn’t have a damn bed for her kid.”

Gabe shoved Trey’s feet off the coffee table, went for another beer, and that’s when he realized that no one was speaking. They were all staring at him like he’d grown another head. He dumped his plate in the sink, wiped down the counter, and inhaled three fortune cookies. Still, no one said a word.

Gabe sank back into the couch. “She’s a single mom. I don’t even date single moms. And somehow I have managed to screw up this one’s life at every turn.”

“She slept with our sister’s husband,” Nate said quietly.

“So did half of the women in this valley,” Gabe said, feeling suddenly tired. “Why aren’t we hounding them?”

After Richard had disappeared, their investigator discovered that the bastard had conducted dozens of affairs. He loved them young, and he loved them often. But the only one he’d kept around for more than a few months was Regan. And now that Gabe had gotten to know her, he understood why. She wasn’t the kind of woman you got casual with and walked away. She got under your skin and stuck there.

“He lived with her for a year,” Trey said, as if Gabe didn’t already know. As if he hadn’t thought about that fact every time he saw her.

“And when he said he was going to Santa Barbara to make sure things were running smoothly, he went to Oregon instead. Three weeks later he and the money disappeared. He only made one call that day, Gabe. Only one. And it was to Regan,” Marc said, stating nothing new. “For all we know she helped him take the money.”

“What part of her kid sleeping on the floor didn’t you guys hear?”

Nate’s face turned serious. “Broke or not, those are the facts, Gabe.”

“Regan didn’t do it.” That much he knew. But arguing with his brothers about it didn’t feel right. Arguing with his family never felt right. It felt like a betrayal of his parents’ memory.

“You’re willing to bet Abby’s future on that?” Marc challenged. “Half the people in this town still wonder if Abby was covering for her husband. A husband who she doesn’t want and can’t divorce. The other half are taking bets on how fast she’ll tank Ryo. She’s under enough pressure without running into Regan buying groceries or on her way to rehearsal for the musical.”

“You were the ones who said we should keep Regan here, not me.”

“Because you were supposed to be finding out what she knows,” Nate reminded him. If his brother was going for the guilt angle, it was working. Gabe had stuck himself between a woman and his family. What the hell kind of mess had he gotten into?

“Maybe I should step in,” Marc said. “She’s working at the hotel. I could use the boss-employee angle. We already know she has a thing for her bosses.”

Gabe glared at Marc out of the corner of his eye. It was a silent warning to shut his pie hole, but instead Marc kicked the footrest of the recliner down and leaned forward, his face going hard. “Maybe I’m a little young for her, though, seeing as she tends to have a thing for older guys.”

Gabe jumped to his feet, his fists curled as he towered over Marc. “Maybe you should shut the hell up.”

Marc stood, moving until they were chest to chest, shoving his kid-brother bullshit all up in Gabe’s face. Marc was five years younger, but he outweighed Gabe by a good twenty pounds and at least two inches. Had ever since he’d turned sixteen.

As a kid, Marc had been a handful. His act-first, think-about-it-later personality intensified after their parents died, landing him in trouble with school and with girls. By the time Marc had graduated and gone off to college, Gabe felt like a middle-aged father. By the time Trey had left the nest, Gabe was done being a parent.

Which was why when Marc said, “Maybe you should start thinking about Abby instead of thinking with your dick,” Gabe lost it.

He was done. Done being a parent. Done sacrificing everything on the chance that it could make his siblings’ lives run a little smoother.

“Maybe Abby needs to grow the f*ck up and get over it. And maybe, just maybe, Regan was as much of a victim as our sister.” He grabbed the remote out of Marc’s hand, punched the off button, and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and shattered. “You know what? I’m tired of wasting my time trying to fix this mess.”

At that, all three of his brothers exchanged a look. Gabe didn’t need to be a genius to figure out its meaning. They thought he was in over his head. And they were right.

“You slept with her,” Marc accused.

“No. I did not.”

“But you want to.”

“What I want is to let this woman go on with her life. And for you guys to stay the hell out of my business.”

Already grabbing his keys, Gabe headed for the door. If this was what it felt like to have a sibling meddle in his life, he was cured. ChiChi was right—it was like being smothered.

“My house better be clean and you guys gone when I get home.”

By the time Gabe made it to Regan’s apartment his temper had cooled some, but his guilt had kicked up a few dozen notches. The last time he and his siblings had had a blowout like that was the Christmas when Richard proposed to Abby. Gabe had been the only one not adamantly opposed to the union, and for three weeks leading up to the wedding, not one of his brothers had spoken to him.

“And look how that turned out, genius.”

He’d assumed that it was his brothers being overprotective as usual, but maybe they had sensed what he’d been too blind to see. That Richard had had an agenda from the start.

He flipped his seat forward and leaned into the back of the truck’s cab, pulling out several bags of ornaments and a box of tinfoil.

If he were smart, he would have gone to his office, cooled down while riffling through the piles of paperwork and endless e-mails that he’d been too busy following Regan to deal with, then called his brothers to apologize. But for the first time in a while, he didn’t want to do the smart thing and he didn’t want to babysit his siblings. He wanted to spend a nice evening making tissue-paper snowflakes and decorating a Christmas tree.

With his brother-in-law’s former mistress.

Crap!

Shoving the bag back in the car and telling himself that this was as stupid an idea as kissing Regan had been, Gabe got behind the wheel. He shouldn’t be here. And if she had wanted him there she wouldn’t have cut and run.

Turning the key in the ignition, he flicked on his headlights and everything inside him stilled as he watched a shadow dart across the parking lot and duck behind a shrub manicured to look like a giant wine bottle. Through the thick fog that had settled on the ground, he couldn’t see who was there or how big they were; all he knew was that they’d come from the general vicinity of Regan’s car and had something slung over their back. And it wasn’t a tote full of toys.

Reaching behind the seat, he blindly grabbed his ax and a Maglite. As he crept around the side of the building, he was acutely aware that no one was around and that Regan’s new place, although right off the main drag of town, was extremely isolated. Back pressed against the cold concrete wall, he glanced down at Regan’s car and noticed the trunk slightly ajar. Using his elbow, he cracked it open and peered inside. It was a disaster. Magazines, papers, flares, and CDs were scattered around. Her taillight was broken and the carpet had been ripped up.

He shifted back to the shrub he had seen the suspect disappear behind. Carefully, he made his way toward the giant wine bottle. Half of him hoped that the son of a bitch was there so that he could beat the crap out of him. The other half, the half that registered that he was a winemaker and not a PI, hoped the guy had fled. And yet a small part, a part he didn’t want to acknowledge, was afraid that maybe it was Richard. And if it was, then what did that mean?

He could hear heavy breathing coming from the other side of the shrub, followed by a rustling of leaves. One hand on the Maglite, Gabe took a deep breath and, wondering why in the hell he didn’t just call the cops, leaped out from behind the wine bottle, ax blazing.

“Don’t move!” he yelled.

He heard a shriek and branches snapping, then a bright red light began flashing, followed closely by a cheery little, “Merry Christmas to one and all.”

Dressed in black tennis shoes, black sweats, a black hoodie, and her hair pulled up in a messy knot on top of her head, Regan was stuck ass first in a shrub shaped like a corkscrew, clinging to Randolph and muttering some very choice words under her breath.

“God, Regan.” He squatted in front of her. “Are you all right?”

“What in the hell are you doing?” she snapped. “And why are you holding a persimmon roll over your head?”

“Me?” He dropped his “ax” to the ground and shrugged. “Hostage negotiations. This in exchange for the deer.” He pulled the Eiffel Tower key ring out of his pocket and dangled it in front of her.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He shot a look, just one, at Randolph. She snatched the key chain and shoved it in the pocket of her hoodie. “You’re trespassing and you should leave.”

He started carefully untangling Regan from the branches. “Says the woman hiding ass-backward in the bushes with America’s Most Wanted Deer in her clutches.”

Even though she was only lit by the moon and his flashlight, he could see her cheeks heat as she fiddled with the strings of her hoodie. “I think I’m cursed.”

“Cursed?” He laughed. She didn’t. She was serious.

Setting Randolph on the concrete, he eased her out of the bush. She dusted herself off, and since the majority of the debris was on that sweet backside of hers, he helped with that too. When she realized he was doing more touching that dusting, she batted his hands away.

“Don’t laugh.” She paused dramatically, lowering her voice when she continued. “But I think I did something to piss off the Ghost of Christmas Past or something.”

“Like obliterating the town Christmas display?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” He reached out and rested his hands on her hips. He couldn’t help it. Whenever he was around Regan he had to touch her. Based on the way she shimmied closer, running her hands up his chest, she suffered from the same affliction.

“I swear, Gabe, I have tried five times to return this damn reindeer. Every time, someone shows up. Or there is a vigil going on. Or your grandmother calls me.”

“Merry Christmas to one and all,” the deer said.

Regan just stared at Gabe as if that was solid proof of a curse.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid?” He ran his hands up her sides, loving how her breasts pressed tightly against the snug black top she wore. He continued heading north, pulling her shirt as he went, exposing that little patch of skin above her belly button.

“No,” she said, her eyes going heavy when he paused to remove a branch that was stuck to her sweats before pushing her shirt high enough to display a very pretty yellow bra—and not much else. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you don’t have any more branches stuck to you.”

“Under my shirt? I landed ass-backward, remember?”

“We’ll get there.” Nudging the hoodie over her head, he pressed his mouth to the curve of her neck. Slowly made his way down her collarbone.

“We can’t.” She dropped her head back, giving him room to work. “We have a problem”—she gasped when he ran his tongue over the swell of her breast—“upstairs.”

“I guarantee you”—he took her hand and placed it over the bulge in his pants—“that we have a much bigger problem downstairs.”

“I told Holly I’d be back in five minutes. I let her watch Miracle on 34th Street on my laptop to keep her busy, but I don’t like to leave her alone.”

“I can deal with five minutes.” He kissed her long and hard, taking his sweet time. He wasn’t about to be rushed. Not now. Not when she was moaning into his mouth and had her fingers sliding over where he needed them most.

They couldn’t have sex in five minutes, he thought, as his hand glided over her stomach to toy with the elastic on her sweats, but they could definitely round third.

“Five minutes ended five minutes ago,” she whispered against his mouth, still tracing the outline of his erection through the denim. If she kept that up, they both might walk away feeling a whole hell of a lot more relaxed.

“Then we’d better get up there.” He kissed her again, one hand coming up to cup her breasts. He could feel her nipple stiffen beneath her bra and had dipped his thumb inside to pull the lace aside when a bright light blinded them.

He blinked into the headlights, trying to make out who was driving the car, and then saw spinning hubcaps, a DELUCA1 license plate, and groaned.

“Shit, you really are cursed.”