Kissing Under the Mistletoe by Marina Adair

causing it to flush. “But things didn’t work out,” she yelled over the rushing water. “As I’m sure you’ve already heard I was fired, and so Holly and I won’t be staying in St. Helena. So, if you could e-mail me the total costs accrued, that would be great.”
Just great
.
    All three women exchanged a meaningful glance that Regan couldn’t decipher. Then they all smiled and walked closer. Regan wanted to lean back but was afraid she would set off the auto-flush again.
    “Let us get this straight—” Pricilla said.
    “You want her to bill you for two weeks that you assumed would be free.” Lucinda poked Regan in the shoulder. She had surprisingly bony fingers for such a muscular woman.
    “It was a perk of working for Ryo, but you intend to pay it back in full?” The corners of ChiChi’s lips twitched with something Regan didn’t understand, but somehow it reminded her of her mother.
    Her fingers strangled the snotty flyers. She hated owing people money, but under the circumstances she saw no other choice. “To be honest, I’m not sure when I’ll be able to pay you back, but if we could set up some kind of payment plan...I know that this is probably not a request you receive often, but if you could make an exception.” Her throat closed on the last word, making it come out strangled.
    “Quite the moxie,” Pricilla said.
    “Stubborn
and
honest.”
    “It’s refreshing.”
    “I won’t take up any more of your time.” Regan stood, smoothing down her skirt, leftover rainwater trickling out the toes of her pumps.
    “Sit,” ChiChi ordered.
    Lucinda’s cat hissed, sending a reprimanding glare from beneath the fuzzy white ball at the end of his hat.
    “Now, Mr. Puffins,” Lucinda cooed, her voice dropping to a soothing singsong.
    Over their blue-haired haloes, Regan looked around the room, taking note of the sole exit. Knowing the only way she could escape would be to take out a granny, she grunted and plopped back down on the toilet. Her heart plopped with her.
    As if understanding her need to run, the three ladies fanned out, blocking the opening of the stall.
So this is whattimeout feels like,
Regan thought, taking in how ridiculous she looked cowering on the too-small toilet.
    “Because my bullheaded grandson acted so
incredibly
out of character—” ChiChi paused to smile, as if she found her words
incredibly
amusing. Apparently everyone but Regan saw the amusement, because even the cat was grinning.
    Regan could think of a few select and more accurate words than bullheaded to describe Gabe but settled on a nod.
    “You are out of a job. And we”—ChiChi glanced at her two friends, who appeared equally as worried—“are in desperate need of a new look.”
    Regan looked at the St. John’s–wearing granny, then down at her own wrinkled and wet suit, and frowned.
    “I was talking about the town’s public perception,” ChiChi clarified with a laugh that let Regan know just how bad she appeared at the moment. “We need to modernize our image without losing all of the tradition that makes this town special. Prove to the people that we aren’t a bunch of crazy old bats. Those pushy PTA moms are driving us nuts with social media this and twatting that. The minute they figure out the only thing we know how to do on the Interweb is shop for men—”
    “And book trips to Vegas,” Pricilla added with an excited nod.
    “Not to mention how we lost Randolph...” ChiChi trailed off and made the sign of the cross.
    “There’s already whispers of impeachment. Our mothers founded the Community Action Committee over seventy years ago, and this silicone, nannyfied, yoga pants–wearing posse—” Lucinda stopped, her hands shaking. The cat hissed. “This is war, Regan, and we need a secret weapon.”
    Regan scooted to the edge of the toilet. She could be their secret weapon. Last year she had consulted part-time with a high-end kids clothing boutique in Portland, helping them grow their