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.