Kissing Under the Mistletoe by Marina Adair Page B

puts food in your belly, and a roof over your head, there is no reason to feel shame.
    Could she do this? Sacrifice her hard-won dreams to clean toilets?
    Yes
, she thought without hesitation. For Holly, she could do anything. She would just invest in rubber gloves. Rubber gloves and masks, she amended. The risk of being mistaken for an H1N1 carrier didn’t outweigh the exposure to all of the chemicals.
    The one thing she was not willing to sacrifice, however, was her integrity. And she knew that she had reached the place in the agenda for her to pull on her big-girl panties and fess up.
    “Did you know that Gabe fired me because I had an affair with your grandson-in-law?”
    ChiChi snorted, waving her hand dismissively. “Of course, child. Richard always was fond of playing hide the sausage. Interns being his favorite opponents. Now, do we have a deal or not?”

    A motor roared and sputtered, then kicked in from right behind Gabe. It was followed by a lot of pounding, banging, and finally Barry Manilow singing “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” Gabe rolled over, his face sticking to the leather, and almost fell off the couch.
    “Crap,” he muttered, pulling a pillow over his head.
    “Language,” ChiChi scolded from fifteen feet away. The pantry door slammed to punctuate her disapproval.
    “It’s Sunday.” Gabe took in his slacks, button-down, the godawful time of the day and sighed. “And seven. In the morning.” Which meant that he’d achieved less than three hours of sleep.
    Between figuring out how to get Regan to stay while making sure Abby was insulated and dealing with the marketing disaster that was quickly becoming Ryo Wines, Gabe was spent.
    “Which is why I’m baking my famous fruitcake.”
    Gabe cringed. ChiChi’s fruitcakes were famous, all right—famous for causing heartburn and bringing fear into the digestive tracts of thousands.
    There went the motor again. Giving up on sleep, and in desperate need of coffee, Gabe pushed himself up and ran a hand through his hair, which from the feel of it was a pretty epic case of bed head. He padded into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee.
    ChiChi stood at the island, elbow deep in dough. She immediately began tutting when Gabe leaned against the counter and she saw what he was wearing. Her white coiffed crop shook in judgment while she mumbled something about him needing a wife.
    ChiChi had two goals in life: getting her some great-grandbabies and irritating the hell out of her grandkids.Often they worked in conjunction. She also was known as the town busybody, meaning she was busy being in everybody’s business. And if she was here, in his kitchen, on a Sunday morning, then something was up.
    “What are you doing here, Nonna?”
    “I already said, making a cake.” She paused, her penciled brows disappearing into her hairline. “Well, not for you with that look.”
    “What look?” Gabe forced his face to relax. It wasn’t working; just the smell of those candied cherries was messing with his gut.
    “The look of horror you get every Christmas when I pull out
the
pan.” ChiChi shot him the look that had been able to silence him and his brothers since they were babies. “Don’t you believe for one minute that I don’t know you toss out my fruitcake when you think I’m not looking. Now Marco”—ChiChi dumped a bowl of flour into the blender, a cloud of white dust covering everything—“he loves my fruitcake.”
    Marc hated her fruitcake. He fed it to his dog one year and had to get the poor thing’s stomach pumped. “Then why don’t you cook
that
over at
his
place?”
    ChiChi stopped. She had flour on her cheek and molasses dripping all over his counters. “Are you saying you would rather I leave?”
    Gabe walked over to his grandma, pulling her in for a one-armed hug and making sure to hold his breath since she had already opened the prunes. “Nah, Nonna. I was just surprised to see you here so early.”
    “I