Kissing Under the Mistletoe (20 page)

“Suzanne is Gail’s daughter-in-law. And since she was born with a corkscrew lodged firmly up her hind quarters—”

“Suzanne never asks Gail to sit,” ChiChi interrupted Lucinda, sending her a reprimanding glance over the top of
her glasses. “But her own mother is in Hawaii. Usually she would just cancel whatever plans she had rather than ask her mother-in-law.”

“So it got us thinking,” Pricilla whispered, leaning down, Crock-Pot in hand, as if the information she was about to impart was a matter of national security. “What could be so important that she would ask a favor of Gail?”

“Then I saw Penny at the vet when I was picking up Mr. Puffins’s insulin shots, and she said her granddaughter asked her to sit her two youngest on the same day and for the same amount of time.”

“And this is evening news material, why?” Regan asked, noticing how all six eyes went wide in disbelief.

“Because they’re a part of the yoga pants posse,” all three ladies yelled at once.

“And they are having a mandatory PTA meeting Monday morning at nine,” Gabe said from the doorway. When everyone stared at him mutely, he just shrugged. “Jordan is still on the board and needed the time off. I gave it to her. What?” he said, when ChiChi looked ready to spit.

“They knew that Mr. Puffins had an appointment at the Paws and Claws Day Spa,” Lucinda snapped, gripping Mr. Puffins’s costume and sending pipe cleaners everywhere.

“I have two hundred minicakes to make for a wedding, and ChiChi is supposed to be in San Francisco with Abby meeting with the new marketing company Gabe found.” Pricilla patted Regan on the knee. “Sorry, dear, that was insensitive of me.”

Regan shrugged. Hospitality may not be her dream industry, but it beat working with Abigail.
And
she was good at it.

In fact, today had marked the end of her first week at the Napa Grand, the end of the wine seller’s convention, and the end of cleaning toilets. It had also been her first official day as the newly promoted Manager of Special Events and VIP Coordinator.

After convincing Mr. Bonnet that ChiChi was getting up in years and that the holidays were especially difficult because it reminded her that none of her grandchildren were married, he had laughed off the situation, explaining that his own wife had threatened to find his daughter-in-law a lover if their son didn’t give her grandchildren soon.

Jordan, impressed with Regan’s people skills, had immediately assigned her to handle any and all needs of “The Bonjour Group,” as they had been deemed.

Before the Ms. Clauses could accuse another innocent Frenchman of crimes against the town, Regan had emptied out one of the dining halls, arranged the tables in intimate seatings for six, and provided all-you-can-guzzle complimentary beverage service and free Wi-Fi. She’d single-handedly turned what could have been a scheduling disaster into a successful networking luncheon. And Jordan had quickly promoted her from housekeeping to events coordinator.

“They are trying to pin the Randolph disaster on us, use it as a way to get us impeached so they can take over the musical. So we have to make a unified front. Prove to them that we are not a bunch of old biddies. That we still know what’s best for this community,” ChiChi said. “And I just know that once that board sees your ideas on the town’s new image, their faith in us will be restored and that Isabel Stark will have to find herself a new committee to hijack.”

Regan loved the idea of sabotaging Isabel’s plans. But that these ladies were expecting her alone to sway the board was a lot of pressure. If she made a mistake, even a small one—like, say, getting caught replacing Randolph—and let her Mrs. Clauses down, she would feel horrible. Not that it mattered. There was no way she could make that meeting. She had work.

Regan opened her mouth to apologize when she found it suddenly full of popcorn. A heaping handful. Afraid that if she opened it again she might wind up with a mouthful of yarn since they were running low on snacks, she took her time chewing.

“I already talked to Marc and he said you can start late and make up whatever time you missed at the end of your shift,” ChiChi said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

“And I’ll bring Holly back to the bakery with me. It will give us a chance to talk about what kind of tea party she wants for her birthday,” Pricilla added.

On special occasions, Pricilla’s Patisserie doubled as a tearoom that had become the crème de la crème of birthday party locations for little girls in a three-county radius. Regan had looked into it as a solution to their short-on-space living situation.

Martha Stewart had listed Pricilla’s Official Teas as one of the premiere places to host a child’s party on the West Coast. It was all about decadence, elegance, and etiquette. It was everything that Holly could dream of. It also had a ridiculous wait list and would take Regan two months to pay for the two-hour party.

“Oh, Pricilla, thank you for the offer, but there is just no way—”

And in went a gingerbread man, his wife, and three children. Regan’s mouth was so full that her eyes watered.

“Now, seeing as the arrangement was struck between your daughter and myself, as long as you feel safe having Holly with me is all that matters,” Pricilla said, dusting the ginger crumbs from her cardigan sweater, which boasted beavers with antlers.

Holly came out of the bedroom in her footie pajamas and climbed on Regan’s lap. “Grandma Pricilla and me made an arrangement. I promised to help with the cakes for that wedding, and she promised to host my party in her shop.”

“You did?” Regan asked, finding it difficult to speak through the gingerbread and tears in her throat.

Holly nodded and snuggled against her chest. She held her daughter close, expressing with her eyes what she could never get across without bursting into tears. The women exchanged a knowing glance, and Gabe came behind her to rest a supportive hand on her shoulder.

“We thought the Saturday before Christmas would be best, since after Christmas people tend to get busy. All that’s left to do is choose the menu and decorations. Oh, and you can pick up the invitations at my shop on your way to get your new couch Sunday.”

“Couch? What couch?” Regan slapped her hands over her mouth when Pricilla pulled a chunk of white-chocolate peppermint bark out of her crocheted handbag. It was like the Mary Poppins bag of baked goods.

“Did you not tell her anything?” Lucinda slid a glance at the other two Mrs. Clauses.

“You’ve been here the whole time, Lucinda,” ChiChi countered, waving her hands in a dramatic circle and
scaring the cat. “If you didn’t hear it, it wasn’t said.” She turned back to Regan. “Our friend Peggy is moving into one of those retirement homes in Calistoga. She has to get rid of her furniture and I mentioned that you were looking for a couch. She said that if you haul it away by Sunday you can have it, a kitchen table, and the guest bed for a hundred bucks.”

“A hundred bucks?” Regan said through her fingers. She thought back to the envelope of cash Gabe had slid back into her pocket and smiled.

The couch would probably be yellow with mauve roses all over it and covered in plastic—but who cared. It was a couch. They had been sitting and sleeping on the floor for almost a week, and her back was killing her.

“I can load it up in my truck if you want some company,” Gabe offered, his fingers gently squeezing her shoulder and doing all kinds of squeezing in her belly.

Regan nodded. It was all she could do. Everyone was being so nice.

“Okay, then, we will get out of your way so you can put Holly to bed and I will see you tomorrow,” Gabe said, ushering the Mrs. Clauses to the door. After a round of hugs and good-byes, including an awkward moment with Gabe where she settled on a hug, Regan tucked Holly into bed and went to the kitchen.

Normally, she loved this time of night, when Holly was asleep and the house was quiet and she could relax. Well, that was, when she wasn’t working or picking up Holly’s things or surfing the net for inexpensive and simple patterns for cat and frog costumes. Tonight, though, all that peace and quiet was anything but calming.

She grabbed a spoon from the drawer and went for the fridge. It was a Rocky Road kind of night.

She didn’t think of Gabe as she grabbed a mug. Or when she filled it full with some of the hot buttered wine that hadn’t spilled. And she sure as hell didn’t analyze how she had nearly had sex with him in a bush.

Not that it was all her fault. He had scared her, attacked her with a persimmon roll, and then kissed her—and man oh man, that mouth of his should be outlawed. One more second of those lips on her body and she would have wound up pantyless and panting with a bad case of shrub burn.

But the Mrs. Clauses had shown up. Again.

She hadn’t been kidding when she told Gabe that she was cursed. Not that she would have changed anything. Getting busy with Gabe while Holly was alone upstairs was a bad-mommy move. One that she would be sure not to make again.

Getting involved with Gabe in general was also a bad-mommy move, and it was clear that making out with him had been a mistake. A big one. A big, hot, delectable, and totally insane mistake, which had been the direct result of too much adrenaline, too many hormones, and an unnatural amount of testosterone. If their past wasn’t enough to smack some sense into her, their awkward parting was.

Awkward was putting it mildly. Not sure whether she should hug or kiss or merely thank him for a fun night, she’d become all arms and legs and uncertainty. Then ChiChi went for her purse and pulled out something that looked suspiciously like mistletoe and Regan panicked, giving him a friendly hug. Then she patted him. On the back.

Regan leaned against the fridge and banged her head on the door a few times. The man whose lips had kissed their
way down her chest and brought her to near orgasmic levels while still clothed had gotten a send-off fit for Fido.

This was why she didn’t date. Because she sucked at it.

She opened the freezer and was pulling out a carton of Rocky Road when a light tap sounded at the door. She jumped, smacking her head on the top of the fridge and sending a small avalanche of freezer burn into her hair. Grabbing the ice-cream tub before it rolled out onto the floor and taking the spoon for protection, she silently crept to the door, being sure to slow her already elevated breathing.

She looked through the peephole and had to stop herself from giving in to a happy dance. Gabe leaned against the rail with his thumbs tucked into his jean pockets, looking finger-licking good.

She opened the door and her heart caught. And not in a good way. Mr. Easygoing was looking anything but. In fact, his hair looked like he’d done a lot of raking his hands through it, and his expression was almost sad.

Then he took in her ice cream, the deadly spoon, and by the time he got to her hair a small smile was spreading across his face. He stepped close to her and ruffled her ponytail. Little bits of ice scattered to the ground.

“Holly wants a white Christmas. Still working out the details,” she explained. She didn’t know what was more embarrassing, the ice shard dripping down her right cheek or her Abominable Snowman slippers.

His smile widened. Then he said, “We need to talk.”

And hers faded.

Gabe was thankful that Regan was still wearing her sweats and tee. It had taken him so long to get rid of the grannies, he was afraid he’d find her asleep—or worse, in her nightie. He was going to have a hard enough time sleeping without adding the image of what she slept in to the mix.

“Okay, what do you want to talk about?” Her words came out breathy and her eyes were sending him all kinds of mixed signals. Almost as mixed up as he felt at the moment.

He wanted nothing more than to pick up where they’d left off, but she had a sleeping kid fifteen feet away, and he had to ask her something he didn’t want to. Because seeing her tonight, surrounded by his grandma and Holly, had reminded him that family, even if they were sometimes a gigantic pain in the ass, were important. And his family needed some answers.

Her face flushed. She stepped onto the stoop and quietly pulled the door closed. “Actually, you don’t have to answer that. I know why you’re here and you’re right, we need to talk.”

“Is that right?” He knew full well that she hadn’t a rat’s-ass clue why he was there, and he bet he knew exactly what she wanted to talk about. So he raised a brow and waited for her to talk herself in circles.

“Every time we’re together, stuff gets out of hand.”

“What stuff?”

“You know exactly what stuff I’m talking about.”

Yeah, he did. But he wanted to hear her say it. When she pressed her lips tight and shook her head, sending melted ice drops splattering on his arm, he took a step closer. Close enough to hear her breath pick up and see her eyes go heavy.

He didn’t kiss her or even touch her. He just invaded her space as much as possible without actually initiating contact.

“See, Vixen,” he whispered, watching the pulse at the base of her neck skyrocket. “When you refer to
stuff
, I can only imagine you’re talking about how whenever we’re together we can’t seem to keep our hands off each other. And when we do touch it’s so damn combustive it’s hard to breathe.”