Kissing Under the Mistletoe - By Marina Adair Page 0,85

fencepost, stood next to the couch wearing one of his old T-shirts, a mess of brown ringlets, and a scrunched face that said she’d nearly used up all her superkid patience. The curtains were open, but no light was filtering through, meaning it was either storming again or way too early to be awake.

“What time is it?” Gabe said, his voice struggling to wake up.

Holly plopped on the floor, pulled the too-long tee over her bent knees and picked up his phone. “Five thirty-seven.”

Gabe groaned. “Want me to walk you back to bed?”

Holly shook her head, curls bouncing everywhere.

“Want me to get your mom?”

Again with the hair. Only this time she fidgeted with the hem of her tee.

Something was up. He could sense it in his gut. Could see it in her expression, in the way she was worrying that adorable lower lip just like her mom did.

Adorable or not, it was too freaking early. Because her eyes were also batting and innocent-looking, reminding him of ChiChi when she set her mind to something. Something that was sure to complicate his already complicated life.

He raised his brow in a silent last chance. Holly smiled bigger.

“Suit yourself.” Gabe rolled over, grabbing a pillow and smothering it over his face.

He stayed like that, back to Holly, face wedged between the couch and the pillow, sucking in the leather, waiting to hear the pitter patter of feet back to the guest room. It didn’t happen. She just kept silently willing him awake—he could feel it. He could also feel her little breath on the back of his neck. She was almost as bad as Marc, just cuter.

Which meant she’d wear him down.

Resigned to the few hours of sleep he’d managed to get, Gabe threw back the blanket and sat up. “You want some breakfast?”

“Pancakes with chocolate chips and bananas and a glass of milk?” She blinked. Three times.

He wiped a hand down his face, the stubble scratching his palm. His groggy mind tried to catch up, making a mental rundown of what he had in the kitchen. “No pancake mix. No bananas. But I do have milk and some chocolate chips.” They were left over from one of ChiChi’s failed fruitcake attempts.

Holly took his hand and walked with him to the kitchen, eyes batting the entire way. After starting the coffee—he had a feeling he was going to need it this morning—he plopped her on one of the bar stools at the counter, poured her a glass of milk, and scavenged the pantry for something other than beer, chips, and a half-empty jar of maraschino cherries.

In the eight years he’d owned the house he couldn’t remember anyone ever using the breakfast bar. People usually sat at the table, or more often on the couch. People being his siblings, Jordan, Ava, and his grandmother. Gabe didn’t entertain. Didn’t like people in his space. It made him feel like he had to put on the DeLuca hat. He was beginning to hate the DeLuca hat.

He looked at Holly, milkstache above her lip, hem hanging past her ankles, and realized that somewhere along the way he’d lost the façade and, with the Martin women, he was comfortable just being himself. Not a side many people experienced.

He opened the fridge and rummaged through the shelves. “Okay, I’ve got bread, eggs, onion, and cheese. How about an omelet and toast? Scratch that.” He studied the cheese. It was looking a little fuzzy, so he tossed it in the garbage. “Scrambled eggs with onions and toast?”

Holly’s nose scrunched up. Either the kid was going to sneeze or she wasn’t a big onion fan.

“You got any cereal?” she asked, her feet swinging back and forth.

“Yup, cornflakes.”

“With chocolate chips?” Holly asked, her eyes darting back toward where Regan was sleeping.

So, Mom didn’t feed the kid junk. Good to know. “One bowl of plain cornflakes coming right up.”

Holly dropped her chin to the counter and blew out air. Smiling, Gabe grabbed two bowls, a couple spoons, and joined her. Holly poured the cereal, and Gabe polished off each bowl with the milk. He even opened a can of pineapple, also ChiChi’s, pleased that he had covered three of the five food groups.

He helped himself to a cup of coffee, patiently waiting for Holly to spill. She was so amped her entire body was humming with the need to talk. So he’d do exactly what he did when Abby or ChiChi had a secret. He’d get busy, because the second he got invested