Kissing Under the Mistletoe by Marina Adair Page A

social media presence and attract new clientele. Even though the contract had only lasted six months, she had quickly become a Twitter goddess, creating a black book filled with blogging mommies who could help spread the word, and she hated yoga pants on design alone.
    “Hang on, honey,” ChiChi said. “I see that got your attention, but before you begin dreaming of Fendi and fittings with Valentino, the actual budget for the position is...well, nonexistent really.”
    “That damn PTA took away our hiring power after we offered the summer dance instructor position to a stripper we met on one of our trips to Vegas.” All three women went dreamy-eyed at Pricilla’s words. “He had a marvelous cha-cha.”
    “PTA or not,” ChiChi said, “without us the school’s art program would have died out when the dot-com industry went into the crapper. So all we can offer you is a nonpaid position, but according to our bylaws, members of the Community Action Committee gain free tuition for all of their offspring. You could build your résumé, and Holly would be able to stay here at St. Vincent’s.”
    “This is so wonderful, but,”
I slept with your grandson-in-law!
“I don’t have a job or a place to—”
    In went another truffle, this one milk chocolate and rum, cutting off all her reasons for why she couldn’t stay.
    “I would hire you back if I could,” ChiChi said, wiping a chocolate smudge off Regan’s cheek. “But the family made a decision and I was outvoted. No matter how much I adore you, we are Italian, after all.”
    Regan wished she was Italian. It sounded safe and warm.
    “So I got on the e-mail this morning,” Lucinda said proudly. “My cousin, Perkins, says you can rent his place. He owns the St. Helena Corkery.”
    “You want me to move my daughter into a corkery?”
    “Goodness no, that would be silly,” Lucinda said, stroking her cat. “He renovated the upstairs into an apartment for when Ruth kicks him out. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s clean, within walking distance to school, and available immediately.”
    “What happens when Ruth kicks him out again?”
    “He’d sleep in the corkery,” she said as if Regan were slow-witted. “Plus, we’re Baudouins. The second Perkins heard that Gabriel was giving you a hard time, he offered the space. No credit check needed.”
    “But she’s a DeLuca.” Regan pointed her chin at ChiChi.
    “I, my dear, am a Ryo. The second oldest family name in the Valley.” Her tone told Regan to
never
make that mistake again. “And as such, I never took my husband’s name. Created quite a stir in town. Although my husband loved my independent streak.” She eyed Regan carefully, her expression turning thoughtful. “You remind me of myself when I was your age, which is why I’m telling you that there is a job at the Napa Grand Hotel with your name on it. Just say the word.”
    There went the tears again because, God, how long had it been since she’d felt like she had someone in her corner? Not since her mom died.
    She closed her eyes and took in the moment, knowing that this feeling wouldn’t last. Because they still didn’t know who she was—the real reason Gabe had fired her. Not that she got to voice her concerns, because Pricilla shoved another truffle in her mouth.
    “Don’t fall to your knees yet,” ChiChi said. “I believe it’s in the house management department.”
    And just like that, Regan’s heart started to ache, either from too much chocolate or from the fact that she was a single mother, homeless, with three hundred dollars in the bank and had just been offered a job as cleaning lady. Just like her mom.
    Regan had worked hard not to become a statistic, to build a better life for herself. And here she was looking at a future of sore feet, backaches, and—she glanced down at her glossy nails, trimmed cuticles, soft, clean skin—chapped hands.
    Her mother’s voice played in her head.
Work is work, mija. As long as it’s honest,