Kissing Under the Mistletoe (8 page)

She had just finished her last interview, the ninth since Monday, and all she needed was
one
person to believe in her work. She’d foolishly thought that maybe, just maybe, Mary would be that person, the one in town who saw beyond the gaping holes in her employment record and her lack of a degree.

She’d even dropped her rates to the point of slave labor. The administrative assistant job at the Barrel Buyer was the last shot she had at staying here, at giving Holly her Christmas wish.

Hands steady, breathing regulated, Regan splashed some cold water on her neck and face and pulled her purse high on her shoulder. At least Mary had had the professionalism to pretend to peruse Regan’s portfolio before giving her the it’s-not-you-it’s-the-nature-of-the-industry speech. Never once pointing out the Gabe-sized target Sharpied on her back.

Serene smile in place, Regan smoothed her skirt down and, forcing her lips higher at the receptionist’s offer of Christmas cheer, shoved through the door and raced out of the office, making sure to drop a dollar in the red charity canister by the exit.

Cold air blasted her while a fine mist of rain trickled down, turning what had been a professional updo into more of a drowned-cat look. Using her portfolio as an umbrella, she clicked her heels down the lamp-lined sidewalk.

The town looked exactly like the photos she and Holly had seen online, only with a little extra spirit from Santa’s helpers. Twinkle lights and joyful reindeer decorated nearly every storefront. People smiled and nodded and “afternooned” one another, inquiring about the kids, what the rain would mean for next year’s harvest, and if they would be in town
for the Christmas musical, as though everyone here was one big family.

With its world famous wines, picturesque downtown, and tourists flooding the streets during the summer and fall months, St. Helena was one of the most visited spots in the Napa Valley. But when winter rolled around, it belonged to the five thousand residents who were lucky enough to call it home.

Regan had hoped to call it home—was still determined to find a way to stay. But her options were running close to empty. She had switched tactics, adapted to her new situation, but the outcome was the same.

Pulling her jacket tighter, she hunkered down and pushed into the rain. What she needed was a Christmas miracle. Just one. Because she wasn’t leaving until the big old fat man in red ho-ho-hoed.

She ducked between two garland-covered trees and dodged puddles as she passed the Grapevine Prune and Clip and Stan’s Soup and Service Station, coming to a full and startling stop by the town Christmas display.

There, blocking the north corner of Hunt Avenue and surrounded by a million lit candles and enough poinsettias to decorate the Vatican, stood ChiChi, red umbrella in hand, and St. Vincent’s Academy’s upper-grade glee club singing a haunting rendition of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” Regan took in Santa’s chipped hat, Dancer’s broken hoof, and the spot where Randolph should be standing—except that he was still in her trunk. In his absence was a gilded frame with an aged photo of Randolph standing next to...was that Gabe with glasses, freckles, and a cowlick? Good God, he wasn’t kidding when he’d said Randolph was the treasured town relic.

Regan had tried to return the deer last night, but a suspicious gray bun kept peeking out of the window above Pricilla’s Patisserie. Afraid she’d get caught red-handed with Red Nose himself, Regan figured it would be best to wait another day or two. Apparently she’d figured wrong. The town had gone into mourning mode.

Not wanting to get caught near the scene of the crime by the sweet woman whose car—and granddaughter’s marriage—Regan had destroyed, she whispered some “excuse me’s” and slunk past the glee club. Dodging their plastic swaying antlers and shimmying Santa gloves, she reached the other side of the formation and released a deep breath.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” ChiChi said, twirling her umbrella as she tiptoed over a puddle to catch Regan. “Just the woman I was looking for.”

“Me?” Regan squeaked. “Why?”

With her round face flush from singing and a halo of gray hair bounding around her cheeks, ChiChi looked more like Mrs. Claus than a wine heiress. But her tone was so stern, Regan felt like she had just been called to the principal’s office.

“Yes, dear. I was hoping you could come a few minutes early when picking up Holly. There is something I wanted to speak with you about.”

“Me?” Regan repeated, searching her face for some clue as to whether or not Gabe had told her exactly who Regan Martin was. Or if this was the meeting where Regan discovered that Holly’s scholarship was no longer valid, since it came with the job.

When the woman just smiled, open and warm, Regan felt herself relax. The idea of disappointing someone who had been so wonderful to her and Holly made her stomach
ache. She would eventually have to tell ChiChi who she was, but for now it felt nice to have someone look at her like she was a good person.

“No need to panic.” ChiChi patted her on the shoulder. “I wanted to ask you a favor. Why don’t we say two o’clock in the theater? I have a little office right off the dressing rooms. That will give you time to grab a cup of coffee and warm up a smidge. Plus, Pricilla makes a peppermint latte that is just shy of heaven.”

Regan followed the woman’s eyes across Main Street to Pricilla’s Patisserie. The two-story brick-faced building had a welcoming red-and-white-striped awning with little dancing elves in the window. It also had the most beautiful cakes in the window, a poster of David Hasselhoff in Christmas garb taped to the door, and a smell wafting out that wasn’t even a little shy of heaven.

Regan was cold, wet, and close to tears—a latte sounded perfect.

“Ask for the Christmas Crawl. Pricilla uses homemade schnapps instead of that peppermint crap that the kids like.”

“See you at two, then,” Regan said as ChiChi smacked Regan’s tush and sent her out into traffic with a wink.

She hopped up on the curb and, setting her portfolio case down, pressed her face to the glass and practically had to wipe the drool off the corners of her mouth when she spotted the display case full of chocolate. Light, dark, semisweet, raspberry-filled, white, white with peanut butter, and—sweet baby Jesus—Rocky Road truffles.

Eyes on the goal, she pushed open the door, stepped inside, took one look at a way-too-familiar and way-too-incredible backside in worn denim and walked right back
out. She sprinted back across Main Street, cutting around the community park near the town hall, through a puddle that looked sole-deep when in reality it came up to her ankles, all the while with the rain slapping at her face. She flung open her car door, vaulted inside, turned the key, and...

The engine didn’t turn over. She tried again.

“Not today!” She thumped her head against the steering wheel several times before letting it rest there. She was soaked, she wanted chocolate, the Grinch had made her forget her portfolio case on the sidewalk, and now her car was flipping her the bird.

She wanted to scream. Actually, she wanted to wad up her consignment-bought suit, shove it in her clunker of a car, and light them both on fire. And if Gabe DeLuca happened to be hiding in her trunk next to Randolph—well, merry freaking Christmas!

Taking off her jacket, she climbed out of her car, her heels sinking into a full gutter of water. Muttering under her breath, she yanked open the hood and disconnected the terminals of the battery.

“You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch,” she hummed while scraping off the corrosion that had formed around one terminal before replacing it and doing the same to the next.

She had just hit the chorus and was maneuvering the clampy doohickeys back into place when something musky and sexy skirted past her nose.

She froze, afraid to breathe in any more male. Because with just that one scent, her thighs quivered and the day got that much worse.

Hoping that maybe he would go away if she ignored him, she checked the oil level and the coolant. He only
moved closer, proving just how shitty her luck had been lately. Satisfied that the battery was the problem, Regan, resisting the urge to wipe her greasy hands down the front of his pristine shirt and certain she wouldn’t dissolve into frustrated tears, spoke into the engine. “Go away.”

Gabe leaned around her shoulder and peered under the hood, his body brushing up against her back and doing all kinds of yummy things to her front.

“I believe this is yours.” A black portfolio case came into view.

Without looking at him she grabbed her case. “Thank you. Now, go away.”

When he didn’t move, she slammed the hood shut, his hands jerking back just in time. She smiled—serenely. She wasn’t going to let him ruin this already ruined day.

She turned around. Gabe didn’t budge, except to block her in further, leaving her wedged between two hard bodies with no place to go.

She frowned.

He smiled. It was a sweet smile of victory that made her stomach squeeze and her palms go moist. Then he looked over her with those deep caramel eyes and something altogether different went moist.

“You’re cold.”

She followed his line of sight to her blouse, which was white and wet and about as practical as tissue paper in the rain. When she met his eyes, he smiled...again. Crossing her arms, she held her tongue, swallowing a select word or three that desperately needed saying, and mentally replayed Holly’s letter.

Slowly.

Centered, she finally spoke. “Mary over at the Barrel Buyer sends her best, by the way. She deemed me unqualified to file papers in under ten minutes.” Gabe was so close that she took a step back and bumped into the hood of her car. She forced herself to lean casually against the grille, going for composed. A least she hoped she pulled off composed.

“Mary is a Baudouin, Vixen.” He reached out and rested a palm against the hood on either side of her hips, caging her in. Ever so slowly he leaned forward, his arms brushing against the side of her breasts, his lips coming so close to hers that she thought for one crazy, exciting, idiotic second he was going to kiss her.

When he spoke, his breath tickled her mouth. “Which means she is genetically predisposed to screw with my life. Me discouraging her to hire you would have guaranteed you the job. That ten minutes, that was all on you.”

His heart was truly two sizes too small.

Gabe looked down at the woman who moments ago had been all piss and vinegar and watched as her shoulders sank and her eyes went flat, making him feel like the biggest sack of shit north of the equator.

Regan was a fighter. But right now she looked a little lost and a lot scared. And no matter how many times he told himself that none of this was his fault, he couldn’t get past how devastated she’d been over losing that cottage. Then he remembered why he’d come here.

The game had changed and he was supposed to do whatever it took to keep her here. In St. Helena.

“Look, about the cottage. Sunday is just two days away—”

“I am aware of that. Now, if you could please tell me how much the monthly charge is for the cottage, so I can prorate what I owe you.” A blatant “screw you” cut through her polite polish.

“Don’t worry about it.” He’d never rented out the property, never had a need to.

Not to mention, there was no way in hell Regan could afford two weeks there. Cottage or not, it was one of the oldest historical buildings in the Valley, surrounded by one of the finest vineyards in California.

“It’s only fair. You lost income waiting for me to arrive and then I spent the past two weeks there. I don’t want you telling people that I ruined an account for you
and
left you high and dry.”

So people had been talking. Probably Frankie.

In the spirit of fairness, Gabe shrugged and threw out a random, but
fair
, number. He crossed his arms, waiting for her to get all riled up so he could enjoy the show. But she sat there wide-eyed and mute, her expression washed white. Shame rose swiftly, pounding in his head until it began to ache. What the hell was he doing?

“Listen, about the rent, let’s just forget—”

“Would you prefer to give me an address to send the check or just handle this through Jordan?” Her voice wobbled, but he could hear her pride kicking in.

Not wanting to screw this up any more than he already had, Gabe reached into his pocket, extracted a business card, and offered it to her. She took the card, careful not to brush fingers, placed it in her handbag, and sidestepped him.

Opening the door, she leaned over the steering wheel and turned the key. The car sputtered to life, black exhaust expelling from the tailpipe as the keys vibrated from the over-idling of the engine. Wanting to apologize, Gabe placed his palm down on the door frame just as Regan grabbed the handle to open it wider. It slammed back shut.

“What!” She spun around. “What more do you want from me?” Her voice shook and instead of anger, something else entirely shot through his body. This was the moment he and his brothers were waiting for: Regan stripped down to the point where she would talk. All he had to do was push.