ass for breaking Abby’s heart. Then kick it again for hurting Regan. Then he’d kick his own ass for doing equal damage to her life. And maybe Marc’s ass while he was at it.
First they had to find the bastard. And what sucked was that his brothers still believed that the only reliable lead they had was currently looking up at him with those big lapis eyes. If his brothers were right, and his gut said that they were, where did that leave him and Regan?
“You are needed out on the floor. Now!” Jordan shoved her way into the office.
Regan jerked away, buttoning up her shirt and smoothing back her hair. And Gabe stood there like an idiot watching her. All the pressing in the world couldn’t hide that she had just been loved. Oh, they hadn’t made love—yet—but what was happening between them was way more than just kissing.
“Hello? Did you not hear me?” Jordan said again, her eyes darting back and forth between the two.
“I’m sorry, I was just grabbing my things.” Regan leaned down and picked up her shoes.
“Not you,” Jordan sighed dramatically. “Although you were supposed to be on the floor over twenty minutes ago.” Her irritation zeroed in on Gabe. “You! I have been texting you for nearly ten minutes.”
He shrugged, used to Jordan’s dramatics. Whenever she complained about her daughter being a handful, he considered buying her a black tea kettle.
“Texts? I didn’t get any.”
As if on cue, his phone vibrated. Jordan picked it up off the floor and thrust it at him. He silenced it and set it on the desk. Regan, on the other hand, was bright red and doing her best to avoid looking him in the eye.
“Jordan, give us a minute, would you?”
“That’s okay. We can talk,” Regan mumbled to the floor. “You know.” No, he didn’t know. And he wanted to finish this conversation now. Before Regan made it all the way to the door, which was where she was headed. Fast.
Gabe reached for her but she skirted past, his fingers grazing her hand, which seconds ago had been all over his body. She hadn’t made it more than five feet when she was shoved back inside, and right back into his arms, by three shouting ladies, a hissing fluff ball in Santa drag, an angry Frenchman, and a partridge in a pear tree. Literally.
The Frenchman held the crystal partridge from the lobby display.
“Get us some rope, Regan,” Lucinda said, jabbing the businessman in the rear with an umbrella. “We can tie him up while we wait for the sheriff.”
“Nobody is tying anybody up,” Gabe hollered, snatching Lucinda’s makeshift cattle prod and ChiChi’s scarf for good measure, since she was holding it like a rope. Easing Regan out of scratching distance, since the cat was showing its claws, Gabe took the Frenchman by the arm and guided him to the chair.
“Now, would someone mind telling me what in the hell is going on?”
The entire room erupted into conversation. Well, conversation implied a two-way thing—this was more of everyone telling their side of the story simultaneously. At the top of their lungs. Besides him, the only one who wasn’t yelling was Regan, who was still looking for a way out.
“Silence!”
Everyone froze, including the cat, whose hat was now covering its eyes.
“Jordan, please explain to me what is going on.”
Jordan folded her arms and glared. “Check your phone. It’s all there.”
This, Gabe thought, right here, was why he spent so much time—what had ChiChi called it?—smothering his family members. Because when he didn’t, he spent his days cleaning up his brothers’ messes and dealing with homicidal grannies. He was about to say to hell with it and let his nonna take out the Frenchman when Regan spoke.
“‘Get your stare-worthy, entitled ass over here now,’” Regan said.
Gabe looked up and Regan shrugged, holding up his cell as proof. “That’s what the text said. The next one says, ‘All the wine in the world can’t make up for your crazy a—” She stopped, looking at everyone in the room but ChiChi. “Maybe I should skip ahead?”
“Scroll to the last two,” Jordan said, picking at her cuticles.
“Um, okay, here it is. ‘Your grandmother is about to assault a foreign diplomat with her handbag.’” Gabe grabbed ChiChi’s purse, which was clutched in her angry little hands.
“I am a wine connoisseur,” Frenchie argued.
“He’s a criminal,” ChiChi argued louder.
“He is the head of foreign investment for the country of France!” Jordan rebutted.
“See,” Pricilla said, pulling out a