Free Kissing Under the Mistletoe by Marina Adair Page B

Besides their clothes, they looked like a trio of Mrs. Clauses: all with white hair. All with little round glasses perched on their noses. And all looking up at Regan like she had lost her mind.
    Regan did what any grown woman would do when caught committing a crime. She stepped off the toilet, shoved the flyers behind her back, and slammed the stall door. Then she sat on the toilet lid and pulled her legs up to her chest.
    Maybe if she closed her eyes and waited long enough they would forget that she was in there. And leave.
    The seconds ticked by. Regan heard the squeak of someone’s orthopedic shoes, followed by the clicking of kitten heels, getting closer. She shut her eyes and rested her head against her knees. She would wait until the Mrs. Clauses left, grab Holly, and e-mail ChiChi with the sad news. They could be halfway back to Oregon before the humiliation of the day’s events even hit.
    Then what? She had no job or house there either. No real support system. And she would be no closer to securing Holly’s Christmas wish.
    The stall door flew open, slamming against the wall with enough force to shatter the tiles. Regan opened her eyes and looked at the Mrs. Clauses, who were, surprisingly, smiling.
    “Hi, ChiChi,” Regan began, wondering how, if at all, she was going to get through this conversation. She had lost her last hope of finding gainful employment in this town. Holly was going to be devastated to lose her forever home with a kitty of her very own and a best friend.
    And now Regan was a wanted deer-napper who had, for the second time in so many days, vandalized the property of the one person in the DeLuca clan who had treated her with kindness.
    She opened her mouth to apologize, fess up, drop a ten in the Dirty Jar for her sins, when the smaller and rounder of the three, who was holding a basket of pastries and treats, pulled out a truffle and shoved it in Regan’s mouth.
    “Don’t talk, dear, you might say something stupid,” she said. And based on the Hasselhoff T-shirt, red boa, and life-altering truffle, Regan assumed that this was Pricilla.
    “Oh. My. God,” Regan moaned around a mouthful of chocolate and peppermint. “What’s in this? It’s incredible.”
    “If I told you, then I’d have to—” Pricilla sliced a finger across her neck, punctuating the gesture with added sound effects.
    Regan smiled at her joke. The other women didn’t.
    The one on the left of ChiChi was dressed in a pair of sexually ambiguous pants and a green men’s button-down. She studied the wadded-up flyers in Regan’s hands while clutching a scraggly cat, who had an elf hat Velcroed to its head, against her ample bosom in a protective gesture. “Is there something you want to tell us?”
    Regan felt the tears well up again.
    “Lucinda, don’t make the poor girl cry,” ChiChi said. “She’s had quite a day. Haven’t you, dear?”
    Regan nodded and wiped at her face with one of the flyers. Lucinda frowned at the pile of crumpled Randolph posters at her feet.
    Regan gave an apologetic shrug.
    “Yes, well, next time use toilet tissue.” Lucinda reached into a denim fanny pack and offered up a gingham handkerchief. “It took us hours to make those flyers.”
    Regan accepted the cloth, relieved that the older woman was questioning her possession of the flyers and not Mr. Most Wanted himself. After a sniffle, she finally spoke. “I’m sorry, ChiChi. I know you wanted to meet with me about a favor, but—”
    “Yes, I had assumed you would come to my office, though.” ChiChi’s maternal stare locked on Regan, who suddenly felt like she had been given a test and failed.
    “Yeah, well”—Regan glanced at the flyers—“I got distracted, and I apologize.” She swallowed. “For everything. I know you took a risk hiring me and an even bigger risk recommending Holly to the school. They were already at full capacity and made an exception because of you.” She shifted on the toilet seat, the motion