Rom-Com Collection

Rom-Com Collection
Kristan Higgins

Rom-Com Collection (Part 2)

All I Ever Wanted

Fools Rush In

My One and Only

Just One of the Guys

Kristan

Higgins

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

About the Author

KRISTAN HIGGINS divides her time between home in Connecticut and summers on Cape Cod. She is the mother of two lovely kids, the wife of a brave firefighter, and a devoted Ben & Jerry’s fan. Previously a copywriter, Kristan began writing fiction when her children graced her life with simultaneous naps … so much more satisfying than folding laundry. She holds a BA in English, which enables her to identify dangling participles and quote many great novels. She loves to connect with readers on her website www.kristanhiggins.com and her Facebook page www.facebook.com/KristanHigginsBooks

All I Ever Wanted

Hello!

I hope you’ll enjoy All I Ever Wanted! I think like a lot of us, Callie feels that if she just does everything right, she’ll get the results—and the man—she wants. She tries so hard, but life seems to have other plans. Her challenge now: get over the guy who doesn’t want her, even though she thought they were pretty perfect together.

One of the things I love best about this book is how the hero and heroine meet. We’ve all had moments where we’ve seen people at their worst, not to mention those moments in our own personal histories we wish we could erase! But Ian and Callie see something in each other that no one else does and, in some ways, that’s the essence of a romance novel. It was awfully fun to write two characters with such different personalities, and I love the way Callie and Ian bump up against each other again and again. She wants to help him out so much! And he thinks he’s just fine on his own. But sometimes in life, what we want is not really what we need, don’t you think?

As always, you’ll find a quirky family (I especially like Noah), a great dog and a beautiful little town, this time in the form of Georgebury, Vermont. I visited the Northeast Kingdom part of the state last year, was especially fond of the Cabot’s Dairy tour, the rushing rivers and the faint smell of syrup that tinged the air.

Hope you’ll have a lot of laughs and a few deeply satisfying tears with All I Ever Wanted. And of course, I’d love to hear from you! Visit my website at www.kristanhiggins.com.

Happy reading!

Kristan

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 personal assistant/receptionist/willing slave.

I loved my job. Excelled at my job, as proven by the large poster on my wall, which had very nearly won a Clio, the Oscar of advertising. Said Clio ceremony took place eleven months ago out in Santa Fe. And in that beautiful, romantic city, Mark and I had finally hooked up. But the timing wasn’t right for a serious relationship. Well, at least that’s what Mark had said. Honestly, has a woman ever said that? Not a lot of twenty-nine-year-old women truly have timing issues when it comes to being with the man they love. No. It had been Mark’s timing that wasn’t right.

But now … now a gift. Could it finally be that the time was right? Maybe now, on the very day that my thirties began and I entered into that decade where a woman is more likely to be mauled by a grizzly bear than get married … maybe today really was the start of a new age.

“Open it, Callie,” he said, and I obeyed, hoping he didn’t notice my shaking fingers. Inside was a black velvet box. Squee! I bit my lip and glanced up at Mark, who shrugged and gave me that heart-stopping smile once more. “It’s not every day my best girl turns thirty,” he added.

“Oh, gack,” sniped Damien appearing in the doorway. Mark glanced at him briefly, then turned his eyes back to me.

“Hi, Damien,” I said.

“Hi.” He stretched the word into three syllables of contempt … Damien had once again broken up with his boyfriend and currently hated love in all its forms. “Boss, Muriel’s on line two.”

Something flickered across Mark’s face. Irritation, maybe. Muriel was the daughter of our newest client, Charles deVeers, the owner and founder of Bags to Riches. The company made outdoorwear from a combination of plastic grocery bags and natural fiber. It was our biggest account yet, a huge deal for Green Mountain, most of whose clients were in New England. I’d only met Muriel once, and then only briefly, but Mark had been flying back and forth to San Diego, where Bags to Riches was based. As part of the package, Charles had asked Muriel to come to Vermont and work as the account exec, so he could have someone close to him keeping tabs on things. And, since Charles was paying us gobs of money, Mark had said yes.

Mark didn’t answer Damien, who was quivering with the joy of running Mark’s day. “Boss?” Damien said, a bit more sharply. “Muriel? Remember her? She’s waiting.”