Kissing Under the Mistletoe - By Marina Adair Page 0,73
chandeliers, had become one of the most photographed and recognized buildings in the Valley. It also contained one of the last memories Gabe had of his father before he passed.
Gabe walked through the massive wooden doors, and even the addition of the hundred dressed tables and thousands of lilies for tonight’s event couldn’t overpower the scent of redwood floors and oak barrels. Even the smell reminded him of his old man; of the way his father had tried to appear supportive when Gabe had confessed that he wanted to go to art school instead of run the winery.
His shoes echoed off the walls as he made his way through the main hall and to the small set of stairs hidden behind rows of oak barrels. He took the stairs two at a time and breathed in the crisp morning air as he gazed out over the rolling acres of vines.
His father used to bring him up here to talk about the day and slip him a little scotch from the flask he kept hidden in his breast pocket. The one he’d kept a secret from his wife, which she had dutifully washed and refilled weekly.
His father had shown his love for his wife in everything that he did. His mother had put up with all of his father’s crazy ideas about cross-pollination and cross-breeding different species of grapes, loving the way he would lose himself for hours in the field. And in turn they had both loved their children fiercely. Right up until the day they died.
Too bad his dad hadn’t left detailed instructions about how he wanted Gabe to raise his siblings as he had with the business. Or how to successfully blend two families who were both too bold and too stubborn on their own. Not that Gabe was thinking of blending two families anytime soon, but if these last few weeks were an indicator of how the rest of his life would go, he needed to figure out a way to untangle his own happiness from being dependent on his siblings’.
His cell rang. It was Marc. Again. All of his brothers had called at least once, and it wasn’t even lunchtime. Gabe sent the call to voice mail. He didn’t want to talk about Regan or Richard or what he had or hadn’t found out.
Which was pretty much nothing.
A drop of water landed on his arm. He looked up at the darkening sky and watched as the storm rolled in. Rather than fight it, only to get back to a life that was smothering him, he decided to wait it out.
He moved away from the rail and walked under the overhang of the balcony. Feeling suddenly weary, he dusted off his dad’s seat, leaned back, and closed his eyes. The rain tapped against the ceramic tiles of the roof, picking up in speed and volume.
He was tired and worn out, and he really should have stayed in bed.
It took him several minutes and multiple shifts to get comfortable. He tried legs pulled in, ankle over knee, crossed, uncrossed, finally settling on stretched out and leaning back. When he couldn’t relax he laughed. Even after all these years, the leather cushion still hadn’t molded out of his dad’s shape and into his.
“What’s so funny?” The sexy voice shot straight through his body.
Gabe opened his eyes, but didn’t move. He just watched. Watched as Regan slowly made her way toward him. She was wearing tall, sleek black boots, a tight skirt, and a snug red top that looked soft and hugged every curve to perfection. And she was exactly what he needed right now.
Just looking into those baby blues, at those full lips, made his world spin back to right. He didn’t even realize how far he’d shifted off axis until she walked out on that balcony and filled his mind with nothing but her. A strange reaction to have for the woman who confused him more than any other person on the planet.
“I was thinking how, no matter how hard I try, my dad’s seat will never feel right.” If he was surprised at his admission, he was even more shocked at how good it felt to finally say it aloud. To Regan.
She shrugged, sending her top slipping down one shoulder and exposing a lacy red strip. And sending him from stressed to rock hard in two seconds. “I suspect your dad would want you to make your own rather than try to get comfortable in his.”