Kissing Under the Mistletoe - By Marina Adair Page 0,5
of awake time, but not even one of the million or so excuses she usually used came out. With a resigned sigh and a good-girl bat of the lashes, she folded her hands under her cheek and feigned sleep.
Realizing she was stalling too, Regan gave one last tuck to the sheets and stood. Tonight’s party will be fine, she tried to convince herself. Fun, even. And with Christmas only three weeks away, what better way to beef up the yuletide spirit than a holiday party?
She kissed her daughter’s hand and gave it three little I-love-you squeezes. Holly squeezed back with her two me-too grips.
“’Night, sweetie.”
She’d crossed the room and was about to shut the door when the sleeping Holly spoke. “I forgot about the best part of my week.”
“What’s that?” Regan asked, even though she already knew the answer.
“When Mrs. Schultz said I could have a kitty of my very own. Not like in Newberg where I pretended that Miss Tuffett was mine, but one that sleeps in my bed and watches TV with me.”
Regan’s throat closed. One of the concessions she’d made to compensate Holly for leaving all her friends behind was the promise of a kitty of her very own. Last year, after Regan had finally gone under, financially speaking, they had been evicted from their apartment and forced to move to the other side of town and rent from a landlord who wouldn’t allow pets of any kind. Holly had resorted to feeding a stray cat their dinner leftovers.
However, Jordan Schultz, Regan’s new boss, current landlord, fast friend, and the first woman to take a chance on her in nearly six years, had merely waved her fingers dismissively at the request and said a cat would be a great addition to the house, instantly making Holly the happiest girl in the world.
Regan’s eyes rested on her sleeping daughter and conceded that she was the luckiest mom in the world.
CHAPTER 2
Regan debated changing her order from a Sangiovese to a shot of Jack. The invitation had specifically said “cocktail attire.” Apparently Oregon’s definition and the Napa Valley’s differed.
It had taken four laps around the lobby, three visits to the ladies’ room, two pep talks, and a partridge in a pear tree for Regan to muster the courage to walk into that ballroom. She’d decided that her simple red sheath wasn’t dressy enough and her heels not name brand enough and was making a beeline for the circular, rotating glass door when she passed the hotel’s Christmas display.
Beautiful crystal ornaments, which told the story of the Twelve Days of Christmas, sparkled under the massive chandelier. Regan’s eyes fell on the partridge ornament, and immediately she thought of Holly and her Christmas tree wish. Swallowing her nervousness, Regan marched into that party, determination locked and loaded.
From the outside, the Napa Grand Hotel looked like your typical high-end boutique hotel: a ten-story, stone-faced structure with marble end casings and ornate windows and doors. Once inside Regan couldn’t decide if she was in a ballroom, a hotel, or on one of the sets from Titanic. And the man in the corner surrounded by security was quite possibly Francis Ford Coppola.
“There you are. I was beginning to think you’d passed out in a moving box. I was about to send in Search and Rescue,” Jordan said from behind.
Tall, poised, and impeccably dressed, Jordan was the epitome of fashion. Her shoulder-length red hair was sexy in that effortless way Regan had never mastered. To accomplish the same look she would need a gallon of hair products and enough tease to cause permanent scalp scarring.
“Thanks for the gift basket—oh, and the use of your daughter,” Regan said. Jordan had not only come over, welcome basket in hand, which had enough smelly cheeses and Ryo wines to get an entire house of Kappa Gamma Sigma trashed, she had also bribed her teenage daughter, Ava, into babysitting Holly tonight.
Jordan waved a hand, her lips making a raspberry sound. “You have to know what our wine tastes like to really sell it. As for the sitter, you are doing me a favor. This way I know Ava’s new friend”—she threw air quotes around the last word—“isn’t at my house, trying to get into her pants. As far as I’m concerned, she could be your live-in nanny if it means she doesn’t round third before Christmas. Oh, look, the reason we all came.”
A jacketed waiter circled through the crowd with a tray of wine-filled goblets. Jordan removed one and