Their Christmas Angel. Tracy Madison

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Their Christmas Angel - Tracy Madison Mills & Boon Cherish

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she repeated. “I really appreciate—”

      “If you want my opinion, though,” Parker broke in, “I think you should come inside and change out of that costume into something warmer. When you’re all set, we can continue the search by car. We’ll be faster if we drive a loop around the entire area than if we keep walking.”

      Nicole blinked, surprised and warmed through and through by Parker’s offer. “You don’t have to. I mean, you’ve already done more than enough. But changing into my normal clothes is a great idea, so I can get my coat and return yours.”

      “Again, I wouldn’t have offered unless it was something I wanted to do,” Parker said as they started the trek across the street. Still arm in arm. “Besides which, my daughters will want to help. Actually, they’ll insist. And let’s face it—four pairs of eyes are far better than one.”

      “Okay, I accept,” Nicole said after only the slightest of hesitations. If Parker wanted to lend a hand, then why argue? Especially since he was right. The more people on the lookout for Roscoe, the better chance she had of finding him tonight. “Redundant maybe, but thank you.”

      A soft, husky rumble of a laugh emerged from his chest. “I have never been thanked so often in such a short amount of time, but you’re very welcome, Nicole. While the circumstances are less than ideal, I’m enjoying this—getting to know you—quite a bit.”

      Nicole’s cheeks burned even hotter. It had been a while since a man’s comments had made her blush. So long, she couldn’t even remember the last occurrence. Of course, she hadn’t dated seriously since before her illness and had dated only a few men after. One of whom could have become a long-term partner—she’d liked him enough for that to happen, at any rate—but once she told him that she was a cancer survivor, he disappeared into thin air.

      As in, she had never heard from him again. Not a phone call or an email. Not even a cowardly text message. Evidently, her cancer confession had spooked the man and sent him running for the hills. She understood why, and it wasn’t as if they’d dated for very long, but his vanishing act without so much as a goodbye hurt. It made her realize that most men would likely view her as damaged goods, and she did not need that label put on her. From anyone.

      Easier to call a halt to dating altogether.

      So she had, and until now, she hadn’t really missed having a man in her life. But Parker—by virtue of his kind, considerate behavior and, okay, enormous sex appeal—had seemingly ignited her onetime yearning for love. A yearning that wouldn’t do her any good at all. Unlike her deep desire for a baby, which she potentially—and with a lot of help—had the power to fulfill, wishing for a man to love her was completely useless.

      She couldn’t visit a clinic to get a man, now, could she?

      The simplest and sanest explanation for Parker’s attention boiled down to good manners and a normal inclination to help someone in need. Even if he was somewhat interested in her as a woman, he would change his mind the second he discovered her rocky medical history. Why wouldn’t he? Not only was Parker a widower, but if what Nicole had heard was correct, his wife had died from the same disease that could have claimed her life: breast cancer.

      Yeah. He’d run for the hills, too. And she wouldn’t blame him.

      So tonight, she’d accept his help and revel in his attention, and perhaps a friendship between them might develop. But no more than that. For his sake, his daughters’ sakes and even for Nicole’s. She might be pregnant. In a year’s time, she might be a mother.

      Therefore, despite her body’s reactions to Parker and the slight—very slight—possibility of his interest in her, she had zero room in her life for anyone or anything else. Nicole’s entire focus needed to remain on her good health, getting pregnant and becoming a mother.

      Nothing else mattered. Nothing else could matter. Simple as that.

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