All I Ever Wanted. Kristan HigginsЧитать онлайн книгу.

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      This book is dedicated with love and gratitude to

      Carol Robinson, who has been my great friend since I was a just a little kid. Love you, Nana.

       Acknowledgements

      Thanks as always to Maria Carvainis, my brilliant agent, as well as to Keyren Gerlach, my wonderful editor, and everyone else at HQN for their overwhelming support and enthusiasm.

      Many thanks to my incredibly nice vet, Sudesh Kumar, DVM, MS, PhD, for answering a hundred questions, and to Nick Schade, owner of Guillemot Kayaks and boat builder to the gods. Visit www.guillemot-kayaks.com for a peek at his breathtaking craftsmanship. For the use of their names, thanks to Annie, Jack and Seamus Doyle; Jody Bingham; Shaunee Cole; and my lovely friends, Hayley and Tess McIntyre. Adiaris Flores helped me with a few Spanish phrases … gracias, sweetheart! Thanks also to Lane Garrison Gerard for inspiring Josephine’s somewhat dubious taste in music.

      I have been blessed with the support and friendship of many fellow writers, and though I can’t name them all, here are a few: Cindy Gerard, Susan Mallery, Deeanne Gist, Cathy Maxwell, Susan Andersen, Allison Kent, Sherry Thomas, and Monica McInerney. Thank you. Truly.

      And lastly, all my love to my husband and kids. You three are everything to me.

       CHAPTER ONE

      AS THE MAN I LOVED approached my office, the image of a deer being hit by a truck came to mind. I was the deer, metaphorically speaking, and Mark Rousseau was the pickup truck of doom.

      But here’s the thing. The deer always freezes, as we all know, hence the expression like a deer caught in the headlights. The deer and I (Callie Grey, age thirty as of 9:34 this very morning) are well aware that the pickup truck is going to hit us. But we just stand there, waiting for the inevitable, whether it’s a pickup truck (in the deer’s case) or a man walking athletically toward me (in mine), perpetual smile in place, his brown hair carelessly curling, those gorgeous, dancing dark eyes. I waited, doe-eyed. It was all really too bad, because outside of Mark’s influence, I was not at all a deer about to be run down. I was much more of an adorable, perky hedgehog or something.

      “Hey.” Mark grinned.

      Bam! We have impact. The sunlight streamed through the windows of the old brick office building in which Mark and I worked, illuminating him so that he looked like something painted by Michelangelo. To make him even more appealing, he was wearing an old sweater vest his mom knitted for him years ago, shapeless and faded but something he just couldn’t part with. A good son and a sex god.

      It was as if there were two Callies … the smarter, more sensible self (I pictured her as Michelle Obama), and the dopey, in love part … Betty Boop. Would that Michelle could give Betty Boop a brisk slap, followed by some vigorous shaking. Alas, Betty just sat there, enthralled, as the First Lady snorted in disgust.

      “Hi,” I said, feeling my face warm. You’d think that four years of seeing him almost daily would have built up some tolerance in me, but no. My chest prickled with longing and love, my throat turned Saharan, my feet and fingers tingled. Though I was trying hard for Intelligent Coworker, my expression was probably somewhere around Pathetic Adoration.

      Mark leaned against my desk, which meant his crotch was, oh, let’s see, about a foot and a half from my face, since I was seated. Not that I noticed, of course. “Happy birthday,” he said, making it sound like the most intimate, most suggestive phrase in the world.

      Face: nuclear. Heart: racing. Callie: half inch from orgasm. “Thanks.”

      “I got you a present, of course,” he murmured in that voice … God, that voice. Low and soft and velvety … the same voice he used in the bedroom, as I well knew. Yes, Mark and I had been together. For five weeks. Five wonderful weeks. Almost five and a half, if you really analyzed it. Which I had.

      From his back pocket, he withdrew a small, rectangular package. My heart flopped as my brain raced with contradictory thoughts. Jewelry? Betty squealed. That means something. That’s romantic. So romantic! Oh! My! God! On the other hand, Michelle advised caution. Calm down, Callie. Let’s just see how this plays out.

      “Oh, Mark! Thank you! You didn’t have to,” I said, my voice breathy.

      On the other side of the glass-bricked wall that separated our offices, Fleur Eames slammed a drawer. The wall only went up ten feet; the ceilings were twelve, perfect for eavesdropping, and I guessed she was trying to snap me out of my daze. Fleur, a copywriter here at the firm, knew about my crush. Everyone did.

      Clearing my throat, I reached for the package in Mark’s hand. He held onto it for a minute, grinning before he let go. It was wrapped in cheerful yellow paper. Yellow is my favorite color. Did I tell him that once? Had he filed away that little fact the same way I filed away everything he ever told me? I mean, really, it could hardly be coincidence, right? He smiled down at me, and my racing heart stuttered, stalled, then revved into overdrive. Oh, God. Could it be? Did he finally want to get back together?

      I’d worked at Mark’s firm for the past four years. We were the only advertising and public relations agency in northeastern Vermont. Our staff was small—just Mark and me; Fleur; the office manager, Karen; and the two pale computer geeks in the art department, Pete and Leila. Oh, and Damien, Mark’s