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“Is something wrong, Mom?”
She ought to tell him she didn’t expect to see Joe ever again. But she couldn’t. Not at Christmas. “No,” she said shakily.
Mark nodded, apparently satisfied.
“You really like Joe, don’t you?” Teresa asked.
Mark stopped playing with his Christmas gift from Joe. He lifted his head. Joe was the first man Mark had really cared about since his father’s death. Losing Joe, too, would devastate her son. Her heart wouldn’t be the only one breaking.
“Yeah,” Mark said carefully. “He’s really cool. I was thinking—I mean wondering…well, do you think you might marry him?” The last came out in a rush.
She couldn’t seem to speak, didn’t know what to say.
The truth, she thought. Tell him as much of the truth as you can bear.
“If he ever asks me to marry him, I’d say yes.”
Mark studied her for a long moment, his eyes serious, then gave another decisive nod. “Good.”
What She Wants for Christmas
Janice Kay Johnson
MILLS & BOON
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JANICE KAY JOHNSON
Janice Kay Johnson is the author of more than sixty books for adults and children. She has been a finalist for a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award four times for her Harlequin Superromance novels. A former librarian, Janice lives north of Seattle, Washington, and is an active volunteer and board member of Purrfect Pals, a no-kill cat shelter. When not fostering kittens or writing, she gardens, quilts, reads and e-mails her two daughters, who are both in Southern California.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
“CAN’T WE GO shopping?”
Thirty seconds after walking in the front door from a lousy day at work, these were not the first words Teresa Burkett wanted to hear from her daughter.
“Don’t whine,” she said automatically. “I didn’t let you whine when you were two, and I’m not going to start now.”
Nicole dumped a cat off her lap and rose from her slouch on the sofa. Sounding teenage indignant, she said, “Can’t I ask a perfectly reasonable question?”
“Certainly.” Teresa headed for the kitchen. “Go right ahead.”
Mark was already there. A typical ten-going-on-eleven-year-old boy, he was eating. String cheese, a bowl of some sugary cereal and a pop. Teresa shuddered.
She opened the fridge and grabbed a cola. Caffeine. She needed it quick. One long swallow later, she noticed the casserole dish, still covered with aluminum foil, reposing on the refrigerator shelf.
Stay calm. “You didn’t put dinner on like I asked.”
“Mo-om.” Her pretty dark-haired daughter looked at her as if she were an idiot. “It isn’t time to put dinner on. You’re home early.”
Teresa sighed. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”
Mouth full, Mark asked, “How was your day?”
“Crummy.” She made a face. “I did three spays, wormed two horses and treated a few miscellaneous cats and dogs. Otherwise, I hung around the clinic hopefully and helped Eric load his truck.”
The dairy farmers had decided their animals could afford to wait until the vet they knew—a man—could get around to them. They were a conservative lot, these farmers. Their daughters and wives might get their hands dirty helping out, but they didn’t make the major decisions and they didn’t become veterinarians.
A couple of the farmers had checked Teresa out by bringing their cats or dogs in for treatment. She had to assume that her appearance was part of the problem. Maybe if she’d been a big strapping gal, they would have accepted her gender philosophically. Instead, she was a slender five foot four when she stretched. Her wiry strength didn’t show. She looked petite and elegant, ornamental instead of useful.
Only, if they wouldn’t give her a chance, how the hell did she demonstrate her competence? A wave of panic washed over her. Financially and legally, she was Dr. Eric Bergstrom’s partner now; she’d bought into the practice. But she wouldn’t blame him if he got damn tired of doing all the work while she loitered around the clinic.
“Dr. Craig said you could come back to your old job any time.” Nicole was trying hard not to sound hopeful. “It’s not too late. The sale on this…house hasn’t even closed.” The pause was calculated; the three-bedroom farmhouse on the edge of town was not, in Nicole’s opinion, a suitable residence for a sophisticated teenager. She belonged back in the oversize, ostentatious, French-provincial style home they’d left behind in Bellevue, an increasingly ritzy community across Lake Washington from Seattle. Teresa was trying very hard to be patient. Fifteen was a tough age at which to have to move, but Nicole would adjust.
