Kissing Under the Mistletoe - By Marina Adair Page 0,1

before she knew what had happened, she surged ahead, ramming her cart into the back of Gabe’s overcompensation-with-an-engine. A gigantic crash echoed, sending ice cream flying over the top of the car and landing on the hood with a victorious splat.

She picked up the remaining tub of Rocky Road, ripped back the lid, and squeezed the container until the contents fell to the trunk with a thwack. Still not satisfied, she sank her finger in and then carefully scrawled across the back windshield: Bah Humbug Mother Fuc—

“Are you through yet?”

Regan froze, her fingers still in the Rocky Road, and closed her eyes. She didn’t need to turn around to see who was standing there; she’d recognize that voice anywhere. She knew she should pull on the big girl panties, apologize, and drive away. Unfortunately, today she had opted for her Rudolph panties, and was sporting a sequined nose on her ass.

Reminding herself that Martin women were fighters used to crawling their way back up, and also that she’d always told Holly turning your back while someone was speaking to you was rude, she mustered what was left of her pride, brushed her bangs out of her eyes, and turned to face the man who had ruined her life.

His gaze dropped to her naked finger and back to her eyes.

“Actually, no, I’m not.” She was just getting started.

Gabriel DeLuca glanced over at the woman glaring at him and all he could think was, Thank God.

Thank God he had been the one suckered into picking up the groceries for the weekly family dinner rather than his sister. Abigail, being the only girl among four brothers, was always protected. And that’s what he was doing now—protecting his sister.

“They have classes for that you know,” he said, pointing to the wreck of a car. It would take several washings to get all that corn syrup and refined crap off.

He couldn’t really blame Regan, though. He was responsible for her career—or lack thereof. But he had to keep her away from his family and, most importantly, his sister. The last thing Abby needed, with Christmas only three weeks away, was a visible reminder of her cheating bastard of a husband, Richard, and his taste for extravagance and beautiful women.

Gabe had no idea why his brother-in-law’s mistress was in his town. The last he’d heard she was still in Oregon, a safe five hundred miles from the Napa Valley—and from his family.

“Oh?” She marched straight over, stopping so close that he caught a whiff of something sweet and, even worse, something sexy. Without hesitating, she raised one sugarcoated hand and smacked him. Not in the face, like he expected, but square in the chest—a melted Rocky Road handprint seeped through his button-down. Her other hand slapped a stain onto the left side of his shirt, and then with a smile that, if he were being honest, was almost as sweet as the ice cream, she dragged both hands down his chest—like an idiot, he flexed.

“I know this guy, he specializes in managing rage. I can call him if you want, set up an appointment.” Gabe pulled out his phone and started scrolling. “Actually, he’s in Portland; you could stop by. On your way home.”

“I’m. Not. Leaving.” She punctuated every word with another finger-paint doodle before turning back to the trunk for a refill and adding, “So back off!”

Not going to happen, he thought. Gabe didn’t know exactly why she was here, but it didn’t matter. It had taken him five years to convince Abby to move home. He wasn’t about to give her another reason to move away. This year, he’d have his whole family around the tree. Collateral damage or not, Regan had to go—now.

As if reading his mind, she picked up her purse off the asphalt, hiked it high on her shoulder, and started walking away from him. Her raggedy sweats parted with each step, flashing him a great view of her ass—and Rudolph.

Keep on going, he thought, hating how great she still looked. Not that he’d been following her over the past six years, but he had been keeping tabs on her to make sure that her past didn’t affect Abigail’s future in any way.

Damn. Even with ice cream on her cheek and wearing a worn-out T-shirt, Regan Martin was as gorgeous as ever. And his dick agreed.

Hell, he’d never faulted his brother-in-law’s taste—just the fact that the bastard couldn’t keep it in his pants after he’d said, “I do.” He also hated