Kissing Under the Mistletoe (3 page)

Holly was adjusting like a champ. She’d made it through the first week of new house, new school, new life. And she seemed to be doing all right. More than all right—she was happy. Which made Regan happy, run-in with Gabe DeLuca notwithstanding.

This move was just what Regan had hoped it would be. A fresh start for them both. And tonight represented an end to six years of professional hell. She was about to attend her new company’s holiday party and, come Monday, Regan would awe them with her ideas for their new wine.

She smoothed her fingers through her hair, arranging it into a makeshift upsweep, a few curls left free to add a touch of softness to the overall look. “Hair up or down?”

Her mini fashion consultant poked her tongue out the side of her mouth, deep in thought. After much consideration, she exclaimed, “Princesses look better when they wear it down. It makes the tiara stand out more, I think.”

“Hair down it is. Now hop up in bed. It’s lights-out time.” Regan pulled the blankets taut, tucking them snugly around Holly’s petite frame. She brushed another kiss across her daughter’s forehead, one across each eyelid, and a final one across her button nose.

She clicked off the bedside lamp. Holly looked around the room, her eyes wide with wonder at the twinkle lights that went around the ceiling. They might not be anywhere near unpacked, but her daughter had Christmas lights in her room. “This is the best house ever.”

Their house, a perk of her new job, was a modest two-bedroom casita off the Silverado Trail. It had a bright kitchen, a gnat-sized bathtub, and stucco walls that were covered in fuchsia and scarlet bougainvillea. It also had a leaky bathroom faucet, avocado tile, and a tiny patio that passed for a yard. But who needed grass when your house was set in the middle of thirty-nine acres of Syrah vines?

And for Holly, who had spent a lifetime living in one-bedroom apartments, this place was like Disneyland. It was also the kind of house that they could call home. The kind of place Regan had dreamed of raising Holly in.

“So tell me about school.” Regan sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to displace the red envelope, which had “Santa” scrawled across it in green crayon.

“I already told you.” Holly’s balled fists rubbed at her eyes and she snuggled deeper into the sheets.

“Then tell me again,” Regan said, knowing Holly was bursting with excitement to repeat her week.

“I made a new friend, Lauren, who sings just like Beyoncé and she loves kitties almost as much as I do. And she said she would come to my birthday party since she’s not going away for Christmas.”

Regan smiled. Holly was truly her Christmas miracle. Born five weeks too early on Christmas Eve, she had come out a fighter. Just like her mama. Holly had always loved her Christmas birthday; she said it was special, because how many kids got a birthday present from Santa? But the last few years, Regan had come to understand that birthday parties around the holidays were hard to plan. People were out of town or busy decorating trees and making memories with their own families. Not to mention that living in a cramped apartment had made it all the harder to host any sort of gathering. This year, though, they could have a party right here, in their new home. With her new friend Lauren.

“My teacher, Mrs. Collette, is really nice except she smells like saltines and says ‘shhh’ too loud.” Holly interrupted herself to explain. “A fact, not gossip, so it’s not bad. Then today we had the tryouts for the Christmas musical, and I went out for the role of Christmas Kitty and the music teacher, Mrs. Dee, said my purring was ‘purrrrfect.’”

Holly demonstrated said purr, and it was pretty dang perfect.

“You know what I was thinking?” A long blink was Holly’s only response. “Maybe next weekend we could go chop down a tree.”

“Chop down a tree? Like a real one?” That got her attention. “For the front room?”

“Yup. I saw a banner for a Christmas tree fund-raiser in town. It sounded fun.”

“I want a big one, like they have in the middle of town, with twinkle lights, white ones only, and snow. Real snow. It has to smell like camping and have Grandma’s star on top. Maybe even birds in it. And when I come out Christmas morning, there will be presents with red and green bows all around and the birds will sing.”

Regan was already making a mental spreadsheet of the cost. Then stopped herself. This Christmas was going to be perfect. She had a new, plush job and a little in savings. “How about tomorrow we measure the front room and then go and see what they have that might fit?”

“How ’bout we measure it now?” Holly suggested, eyes alert, already sitting up.

“Tomorrow.” Regan placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, steering her back down. “
Now
we go to sleep.”

Holly stared at her, clearly trying to think of a way to buy just five more minutes of awake time, but not even one of the million or so excuses she usually used came out. With a resigned sigh and a good-girl bat of the lashes, she folded her hands under her cheek and feigned sleep.

Realizing she was stalling too, Regan gave one last tuck to the sheets and stood.
Tonight’s party will be fine
, she tried to convince herself. Fun, even. And with Christmas only three weeks away, what better way to beef up the yuletide spirit than a holiday party?

She kissed her daughter’s hand and gave it three little I-love-you squeezes. Holly squeezed back with her two me-too grips.

“’Night, sweetie.”

She’d crossed the room and was about to shut the door when the sleeping Holly spoke. “I forgot about the best part of my week.”

“What’s that?” Regan asked, even though she already knew the answer.

“When Mrs. Schultz said I could have a kitty of my very own. Not like in Newberg where I pretended that Miss Tuffett was mine, but one that sleeps in my bed and watches TV with me.”

Regan’s throat closed. One of the concessions she’d made to compensate Holly for leaving all her friends behind was the promise of a kitty of her very own. Last year, after Regan had finally gone under, financially speaking, they had been evicted from their apartment and forced to move to the other side of town and rent from a landlord who wouldn’t allow pets of any kind. Holly had resorted to feeding a stray cat their dinner leftovers.

However, Jordan Schultz, Regan’s new boss, current landlord, fast friend, and the first woman to take a chance on her in nearly six years, had merely waved her fingers dismissively at the request and said a cat would be a great addition to the house, instantly making Holly the happiest girl in the world.

Regan’s eyes rested on her sleeping daughter and conceded that she was the luckiest mom in the world.

R
egan debated changing her order from a Sangiovese to a shot of Jack. The invitation had specifically said “cocktail attire.” Apparently Oregon’s definition and the Napa Valley’s differed.

It had taken four laps around the lobby, three visits to the ladies’ room, two pep talks, and a partridge in a pear tree for Regan to muster the courage to walk into that ballroom. She’d decided that her simple red sheath wasn’t dressy enough and her heels not name brand enough and was making a beeline for the circular, rotating glass door when she passed the hotel’s Christmas display.

Beautiful crystal ornaments, which told the story of the Twelve Days of Christmas, sparkled under the massive chandelier. Regan’s eyes fell on the partridge ornament, and immediately she thought of Holly and her Christmas tree wish. Swallowing her nervousness, Regan marched into that party, determination locked and loaded.

From the outside, the Napa Grand Hotel looked like your typical high-end boutique hotel: a ten-story, stone-faced structure with marble end casings and ornate windows and doors. Once inside Regan couldn’t decide if she was in a ballroom, a hotel, or on one of the sets from
Titanic
. And the man in the corner surrounded by security was quite possibly Francis Ford Coppola.

“There you are. I was beginning to think you’d passed out in a moving box. I was about to send in Search and Rescue,” Jordan said from behind.

Tall, poised, and impeccably dressed, Jordan was the epitome of fashion. Her shoulder-length red hair was sexy in that effortless way Regan had never mastered. To accomplish the same look she would need a gallon of hair products and enough tease to cause permanent scalp scarring.

“Thanks for the gift basket—oh, and the use of your daughter,” Regan said. Jordan had not only come over, welcome basket in hand, which had enough smelly cheeses and Ryo wines to get an entire house of Kappa Gamma Sigma trashed, she had also bribed her teenage daughter, Ava, into babysitting Holly tonight.

Jordan waved a hand, her lips making a raspberry sound. “You have to know what our wine tastes like to really sell it. As for the sitter, you are doing me a favor. This way I know Ava’s new
friend
”—she threw air quotes around the last word—“isn’t at my house, trying to get into her pants. As far as I’m concerned, she could be your live-in nanny if it means she doesn’t round third before Christmas. Oh, look, the reason we all came.”

A jacketed waiter circled through the crowd with a tray of wine-filled goblets. Jordan removed one and handed it
to Regan. “Here, drink this and everything won’t seem so overwhelming.”

“Really?” Regan took a gulp. She didn’t feel any different unless you counted the peppery zing, which woke up her taste buds and tickled her nose.

“No, not really, but it takes the edge off. A few of these and everyone will start to resemble famous people. Or past lovers.”

Regan felt eyes burn through the back of her dress, caress their way down the length of her, and settle on her hips. Twisting her body slightly, she looked over one shoulder.

She couldn’t tell the shape of his lips, the color of his eyes, or even who he was—the distance was too far and her last job hadn’t included eye care in the benefits package. But her nipples apparently had twenty-twenty, because they went into full party mode.

The man shifted slightly, as if he, too, was ready to party. That was a bad sign. Because men did not—repeat, did
not
—fit into her five-year plan. There was Holly, her career, and creating a home. Period. None of those included the penis-carrying members of society.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t add him to her dream bank, though.

“Quite a sight to behold, isn’t he, dear,” said a woman who looked so regal she could give Queen Elizabeth a run for her money. Her accentuation of the hard consonants and rolling of the vowels screamed Italian origins—as in Italy, not the local pizzeria. The nonchalant way she wore her vintage Armani advertised that she came from old money.

“Excuse me?” Regan asked, but it came out more an apology than a question.

“The gentleman that you are currently ogling,” the woman clarified, her eyes resting proudly on the man in question. “My grandson.”

Regan opened her mouth and stopped. Caught sizing up anyone, let alone someone’s grandson...talk about embarrassing. Should she apologize, deny, or perhaps qualify? Denying would cost her a quarter, qualifying would be even more embarrassing and cause her to say something that would no doubt cost her multiple quarters. Apology it was, then.

“Oh, stop gulping, dear. He’s quite a specimen—takes after my side of the family. With three brothers equally as stunning, I’ve gotten used to women gaping at them in front of me.” Her hands made a wide gesture, encompassing every woman in the room. “He’s a bit too stubborn and way too responsible for his own good, but he has potential. A lovely choice on your part.”

“What most people miss,” Jordan jumped in with a smile that came from speaking of someone you admired and loved, “is that behind that impressive portfolio is an honorable and generous man.” She leaned in and whispered, “With the most impressive package. I mean, look at him. Hands down, best ass in the Valley. If I hadn’t played ballerinas with him as a kid, I would toss him in the nearest stall.”

Regan turned for a better view of the man’s impressive package. But he was gone.

“When Steve left me, I was a wreck. No marketable skills other than managing a house and playing hostess. He took me on as his assistant and—” Jordan paused, collecting herself.

Assistant? As far as Regan knew, Jordan was managing director of Ryo, which, according to Regan’s research, was a female-owned-and-operated company.

Before she could question the information, or the identity of the mysterious man, Jordan spoke. “Let’s just say he made me and Ava feel like part of the family.”

“Well, since I don’t have his naked baby pictures on me to complete this touching moment, why don’t you tell me who this lovely child is?” the older woman said.

“Oh.” Jordan shrugged, totally unfazed by her lapse in etiquette. “This is Regan Martin, marketing guru and appointed savior for Ryo Wines. Regan, this is Chiara Amalia Giovanna Ryo, founder and president of Ryo.”

“You can call me ChiChi, dear.” The older woman extended her arm like royalty. Regan didn’t know whether to shake it or kiss it. She settled on a shake.

“As soon as I phase myself out of the day-to-day operations at Ryo, you will report directly to ChiChi,” Jordan explained.