Czytaj książkę: «His Valentine Surprise»

Shay swiped a damp paper towel over Vicki’s face.

“There, beautiful again. Don’t you think so, Daddy?”

Shay angled her body so that she was holding Vicki toward him.

Mark’s throat closed, emotion making it impossible to breathe. The sight of his daughter balanced on Shay’s hip and snuggled against her was wrenchingly poignant. It should have been comical, those sparkly red hearts sticking out of Vicki’s mass of curls and Shay standing there with a too-small tiara perched on her head.

I could love this woman.

Dear Reader,

When my son was much younger, he was in speech therapy and I remember being anxious for the day when he could share whatever he was thinking without any communication obstacles. Well, I got my wish. He has shared many things with a great many people.

In this book, single father Mark Hathaway is about to learn that you can’t always predict what kids will say…and that sometimes they share information you wish they hadn’t. More than anything, Mark’s six-year-old daughter wants a mother and, when it becomes clear that her father is too busy with his job to date, she takes matters into her own small hands, landing Mark in the principal’s office.

New principal Shay Morgan stepped into the role midyear when the former, much beloved, principal retired early for medical reasons. Shay is hoping to make a good impression so she will be hired permanently. Flirting with one of the students’ fathers would be a bad career move, especially a father whose first few attempts at classroom volunteering don’t go well. But Shay can’t help admiring how hard Mark works on his daughter’s behalf and how he keeps trying. She also can’t help noticing that he has a great smile and an adorable kid.

As Mark and Shay discover, even when we’ve meticulously mapped out our priorities, life and love (and our children!) often surprise us.

Happy Valentine’s,

Tanya Michaels

His Valentine Surprise
Tanya Michaels

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tanya Michaels began telling stories almost as soon as she could talk…and started stealing her mom’s Harlequin romances less than a decade later. In 2003, Tanya was thrilled to have her first book, a romantic comedy, published by Harlequin Books. Since then, Tanya has sold more than twenty books and is a two-time recipient of a Booksellers’ Best Award as well as a finalist for the Holt Medallion, National Readers’ Choice Award and Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® Award. Tanya lives in Georgia with her husband, two children and an unpredictable cat, but you can visit Tanya online at www.tanyamichaels.com.

If you ever have to meet a summer writing deadline

while the kids are out of school and underfoot,

I highly suggest that in addition to a

wonderful husband and mother (both of which

I am blessed to have) you arm yourself with a team

of incomparable friends. Thank you to Ashley Cate,

Sally Kilpatrick, Melissa Silva and their families—

my very own superhero squad.

Contents

Prologue

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

Prologue

I hate you, Santa Claus!

Six-year-old Vicki Hathaway sat at her aunt’s dining room table, remembering how Aunt Dee took her to that mall in Charlotte to go Christmas shopping. Vicki had her picture made with Santa and told him what she wanted, really wanted, more than anything in the world. And because her dad said it was bad to be greedy, she’d only asked for one thing.

A new mommy.

But December was over and now it was almost the end of January. Her father hadn’t met any new women or gone on one single date. How could Santa not help her when she’d been so good? Her babysitter, Mrs. Norris, called her an angel. Vicki had been almost perfect, except for spilling juice on her dad’s inventory papers—which didn’t count because it was an accident—and sometimes fighting with her cousin Bobby (which didn’t count since he always started it by picking on her).

“Vicki,” her aunt said, “is everything all right? You’re not eating. And you love pot roast. I made it especially for you.”

Vicki loved almost all the food at Aunt Dee’s house. Her dad was not a good cook, which was why they ate most nights at the Braeden Burger Shop. Except on Tuesdays when Aunt Dee picked Vicki up from ballet and Vicki’s dad came here after he closed the store and they had dinner together. Tonight, Vicki wasn’t hungry. Her tummy had hurt since ballet class, but she didn’t want to tell Aunt Dee. Her aunt would make her drink that pink stuff that tasted dee-sgusting.

Vicki’s stomach had started to feel bad when her dance teacher reminded everyone about the big April recital and said she was sending home notes to ask for volunteer “stage moms.” Lorelai Moon said right away that her mother could come.

Lorelai’s mom was in charge of the children’s choir at church and came to their elementary school to read to the first graders after math centers. Lorelai’s mom was in the PTA with Aunt Dee. Lorelai’s mom also baked the cupcakes for their ballet class Christmas party. Vicki was the only girl in ballet—the only girl in the whole first grade—who didn’t have a mother.

Her eyes hurt, and her throat felt sore like the time she got so sick she could hardly swallow. “I’m not hungry.”

Vicki’s dad looked up from his plate. He hadn’t said much tonight, and Vicki thought he looked sad. He looked like that a lot lately, probably because he was lonely.

“You didn’t work up an appetite in dance class, Vicki-bug?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Can I be excused?”

Aunt Dee frowned at her, and Vicki thought she would say no. But sometimes grown-ups surprised you. “I guess you can go up to Bobby’s room while we finish our meal. Bobby, you got some new board games for Christmas. I’m sure your cousin would enjoy playing with you.”

Not really. The main thing in the house Vicki liked playing with was Butterscotch, her aunt’s poodle. But they always put the dog outside during meals.

“I’m eleven!” Bobby whined. For a big kid, he whined a lot. “The games I got aren’t for six-year-olds. Besides, I have homework. You said I could use your computer to do my report.”

Aunt Dee’s computer was in her office, with a door that shut. “Can we both go in your office?” Vicki asked. “Bobby can do his report, and I’ll bring Butterscotch in there with us. Then she couldn’t beg.”

After Aunt Dee agreed, Vicki followed her cousin into the office.

Bobby spoke to her in his usual mean tone. “This is important schoolwork, so don’t bother me, okay?”

“I won’t!” Why would she want to talk to Bobby? He was a jerk.

When she sat down, she patted her knees so Butterscotch would come to her. She put her arms around the dog and hugged the poodle, burying her face in the soft fur. Aunt Dee took Butterscotch to the groomer every week, so the dog smelled like fancy shampoo.

Vicki sniffed and sniffed again. She didn’t know when she’d started crying. But now she couldn’t stop.

“Hey!” Bobby sounded scared. “Stop that. They’re gonna think I did something to you. Knock it off.”

“I—I can’t.”

“What are you even crying for?”

“B-because I don’t have a m-mom.”

He shut up. Even Bobby wasn’t a big enough jerk to tease her about that. Instead, he sat down on the floor on the other side of Butterscotch to pet her, his fingers bumping against Vicki’s arm.

“Do you remember her?” he asked. “You were just a little kid when she died.”

That was funny because he called her a little kid now. She couldn’t answer him, though, because she was crying too hard.

“Aunt Jessica was pretty great,” Bobby said. “I told her once I wanted to be a scientist and thought she might laugh at me, but she gave me a microscope for my birthday.”

Vicki’s dad bought her birthday presents, but he didn’t wrap them. He just stuck them in a bag. Sometimes Aunt Dee used bags, too, but when she did, there were bows on the outside and colored paper tucked in with the gift.

“I need a mother.” She rubbed the snot off her nose. “Santa Claus was supposed to bring me one, but he didn’t.” Spring would be here in a few months—Vicki learned all about seasons back in kindergarten—so maybe she could ask the Easter Bunny for help.

Bobby opened his mouth and took a breath. He looked like he was about to start explaining stuff, like when he’d bored her that one time talking about different kinds of rocks. Then he shook his head. “You don’t need Santa, kid, you need Promises Dot Com.”

“Promises?” Vicki knew about “dot com.” Sometimes her dad let her use his computer to play games; plus her teacher, Mrs. Frost, sent them to different websites to practice phonics or math facts. But she hadn’t been able to work on her dad’s laptop much lately. He was too busy with stuff for the store to share.

“Haven’t you ever seen one of those sappy Promises commercials?” Bobby asked. “People meet each other on the computer, through email and messages, and start dating. Your dad would have to sign up.”

Vicki wasn’t sure he would do that. “If he meeted her on the computer, how would I know if I liked her?”

“Met, doofus. Maybe he’s already met someone,” Bobby said. “I mean, not on the computer, but in real life. He could date someone from church or our school. That way, you’d know immediately if you liked her.”

“But he doesn’t talk to any of those ladies from church or school.”

Bobby’s forehead got all squiggly, the way it did when he was thinking really hard. “Do you know what a Sadie Hawkins Dance is?”

“No.”

“They had one at the middle school. The girls ask the guys to be their dates. Maybe we can get a woman to ask out Uncle Mark.”

“How?” And who? Vicki’s Sunday school teacher, ballet teacher and first-grade teacher were all married.

Bobby stood up, looking at all of the stuff on his mom’s desk. He picked up a little yellow book that had the words Woodside PTA on the front. “If I helped you find a mom, you guys probably wouldn’t be over here so much.”

“You’ll help? Really?”

Nodding, he flipped open the book. “I have a plan.”

Vicki had stopped crying already. Now she smiled and hugged Bobby. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

It was a weird day when you could trust your jerky cousin more than you could trust Santa Claus.

Chapter One

“Wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey.” The ridiculous rhyme rolled off Mark Hathaway’s tongue from habit—it had been the way Jess used to cajole their daughter out of bed for preschool.

Although Vicki had more practice getting up early and getting ready for school, she was no more cheerful about it now than she had been at three. Muttering something that was no doubt a variation of “go away,” his first grader scooted farther beneath the pony-print comforter. Not even the curly top of her head was visible.

With a sigh, he flipped back the corner of her blanket. “Up and at ’em, Vicki-bug. You have school, and Daddy has an important meeting this morning. Tomorrow’s Saturday, we’ll both sleep late then, okay?” If today’s breakfast meeting went well maybe he’d finally be able to get a decent night’s sleep.

“Don’t feel good,” she muttered. It was her standard second line of defense, after hiding beneath the covers.

“What hurts?” When she didn’t answer, he placed a hand over her forehead. “You don’t have a fever. Come on, hurry up so you can help me pick out your clothes. How about…your orange bathing suit with some polka-dot socks?”

Some mornings, his attempts at humor were only met with a sleepy glare. Today, he was rewarded with a half giggle.

“I can’t wear a bathing suit to school, Daddy! And plus it’s winter.” She sighed, clutching her stuffed horse close. “Do I have to get out of bed?”

“’Fraid so.”

“Hug first?” she pleaded. Of all her regular procrastination techniques, this was his favorite.

“Absolutely.” He sat at the foot of her bed, leaning back along the wall, and she scooted into his lap, snuggling against him. He kissed her on top of the head, breathing in the apple-scented detangler he’d combed through her unruly hair last night. Even with the spray-conditioner, she still winced when he hit a knot. And he was completely hopeless when it came to fixing her hair for ballet class—he barely managed simple pony-tails and barrettes for school. The coppery curls were untamable. No matter what style he attempted, it ended up lopsided.

With his everyday shortcomings, it was little wonder the poor kid had been dropping hints for the past few months. Mark was not oblivious to the fact that his daughter yearned for a mother figure. Thank God for Dee, Jessica’s older sister. How would he have survived the past two years without his sister-in-law’s help?

If the store closed, would Vicki have to move away from her aunt and uncle? The knot of dread which had recently taken up residence in his chest tightened. She’s already lost too much. No little girl should have to grow up without a mother. How could he possibly take her away from her friends and family in Braeden, North Carolina, the only home she’d ever known?

He tried to shake off the omnipresent worry. Extra stress wouldn’t change the outcome of today’s meeting. Besides, he’d been working quite a few extra hours lately, and Vicki deserved the benefit of his full attention.

“You know I love you, right, Bug?”

“Love you, too.”

“We make a good team, you and me.”

“Teams can be lots of people,” she said. “Like when Coach B splits us up to play kickball at school. Two isn’t very many.”

Her words sliced through him, her delicate suggestion that, much as he loved her, he wasn’t enough.

Mark chose his response carefully. “Two might not sound like very many, but when you think about it, we have plenty of other people who love us. Aunt Dee, Uncle Frank and Bobby, Mrs. Norris, Lucy at the store, Cade…”

Cade Montgomery had become Mark’s best friend since Jess died—because the sometime white-water-rafting guide, sometime carpenter was single. It was so much less awkward to hang out with Cade than all the married couples Mark and Jessica had known. Cade was about as confirmed a bachelor as a man could get, but he was surprisingly good with Vicki. He’d even promised to come to her ballet recital.

Of course, he’d later asked Mark if any of the little ballerinas had hot single moms.

Mark sighed. “Honey, is this about wanting a mom?”

“Will I ever have one?”

He knew the answer she wanted to hear, but the few dates he’d had in the past two years had left him cold. And even if he had more interest in the idea, he would put it on the back burner right now while he tried to sort out his job situation. Providing a stable home and financial security for his daughter were his priority.

“Someday, maybe.” It was the best he could offer her without being dishonest.

“Are you shy?” she asked. “We talked about shy at school, like when you don’t know how to make a new friend or are nervous to sing in music class. If you feel shy with girls, I can help!”

He grinned at that, imagining his six-year-old coaching him through first-date nerves. “You can, huh? Well, that’s very nice of you, but it will have to wait until later. Right now, you need to get ready for school. We’re already running late.”

“Okay.” She sat up, patting him on the shoulder. “But don’t worry, Daddy. I have a plan. A good one.”

Oh, boy. Part of him was amused and curious, wanting to ask his inventive daughter for details. On the other hand, he’d rather not encourage her Mommy Quest. It had wrecked him when he opened the letter to Santa she’d given Mark to mail—the one she’d insisted on writing all by herself. Mark had tried throughout November and December to get her to tell him what she wanted for Christmas, but she’d coyly refused to answer. Anxious to make sure “Santa” met her request, he’d finally seen it spelled out in green crayon. As a result, he’d over-compensated in the toys he’d bought her. She’d seemed delighted with them on Christmas morning, but after a week had passed, she’d turned pensive again.

Maybe if they didn’t discuss her “plan” to overcome his supposed shyness with the ladies, she’d eventually forget about it. Yet even as he wanted to cling to that hope, he knew better. Vicki had inherited her mother’s curly locks and big brown eyes—but she had Mark’s stubborn streak.

THE STORE MARK RAN WAS called Up A Creek, a tongue-in-cheek name for a place that sold sporting goods and equipment for outdoor recreation. Right now, however, up a creek seemed entirely apt for his situation. This breakfast felt too much like a last meal.

Across the table, Bennett Coleridge, owner of the dozen or so Up A Creek locations, looked sympathetic as he picked up the syrup pitcher. “Understand, if I do close the store, there are still opportunities in the company for you. We have other sites. The one in South Carolina is closest, although if you wanted a complete change, our two stores in Colorado stay busy all year round.”

And busy meant profitable.

When Up A Creek had first opened in Braeden, North Carolina, there had been a campground just outside of town and a popular lodge half an hour beyond that which offered hiking and kayaking excursions. Both had unfortunately closed in the past couple of years. Now it seemed as if the store Mark managed might be next to succumb to tough economic times.

Bennett had mentioned the possibility of Colorado if the Hathaways “wanted a complete change.” But Vicki had been born here, had spent her entire life in the same house. For her, anything outside Braeden limits would be an overwhelming change. Mark knew that his personal life—or lack thereof—disappointed his daughter. How could he tell her that he was a failure professionally, too? That she’d have to move away from her school and her friends?

He swallowed hard, determined to sound calm. Businessmen like Bennett were swayed by numbers, not desperation. “I know the store’s profits have dipped.” Around here, some folks were working two jobs to make ends meet, sacrificing their free time for recreation; others had been laid off, without the funds to maintain a hobby.

“But I have some ideas that might help turn things around,” Mark said. He sounded passably convincing.

Bennett raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“Well, a few months ago I spoke to Principal Ridenour about sponsoring a booth at the elementary school’s spring Fitness Fair. It’s an all-day event local coaches and doctors started last year to educate parents on the risks of childhood obesity. In addition to the information, they provide stations that demonstrate fun ways the kids can keep in shape. It’s a perfect platform for us. I can do a small-scale climbing wall, remind parents about the importance of bike helmets and staying hydrated, give out promotional coupons for items that will pull them into the store.

“Speaking as a dad,” he continued, “parents are more willing to spend on their kids during lean times than on themselves. Especially if it means keeping the kids healthier.”

Belatedly, Mark recalled that Principal Ridenour had retired over the holidays. He should really get in touch with the man’s replacement.

“I’m all for this fitness fair thing,” Bennett said, “but increased sales in canteens and junior knee pads aren’t—”

“Also, I recently read a business article,” Mark said quickly, “about how people who used to travel to luxury resorts or other countries are looking for less expensive domestic vacations. Let’s face it, not many of us can afford to go to Aspen or Vail. People who live right here or in neighboring states, however, might be able to indulge in a day at Sugar Mountain more easily than they realized. There are several ski resorts within a hundred-mile radius of Braeden, but the newest one, Hawk Summit, is only a forty-minute drive. Their projected grand opening last year got delayed twice due to construction and when they finally did open for the season, unusual weather conditions hurt their bottom line. They’re in their second season now and I’d guess they’re struggling.”

Bennett set his fork down with a reproachful sigh. “So you think a fledgling ski resort that’s in danger of going under itself is somehow going to save a store that’s going under?”

Mark felt his jaw tightening and forced himself to relax. “I think we can help each other, yes. And because they are, as you say, ‘fledgling,’ they have a bigger incentive to participate in some of the cross-promotional discount ideas I have. Bennett, I know I can turn the store around. I just need time, and—”

“Until the end of April,” the other man interrupted, his tone final. “My wife and I are coming to the area for her high school’s twentieth reunion. You and I will look at the numbers that week to determine whether or not there’s been significant improvement over last spring. If not…”

Mark wouldn’t let the reprieve go to waste. For the next three months, he would bust his butt and try everything he could think of to make Up A Creek a success. He owed it to his employees, who needed their paychecks, and his boss, who was giving him this chance. But most of all, he owed it to his daughter.

SHAY MORGAN PULLED HER CAR into the slot marked Reserved For Principal. Just a few weeks ago, seeing those words had filled her with enthusiasm and pride. While she was still proud that she’d been appointed the interim principal to finish out the year, well…it had been a long week. But today was Friday, which meant she’d soon have forty-eight hours to recharge, minus the stress of a family dinner Sunday evening.

Maybe the roads will be too icy for me to make the drive.

What she wanted to do was hole up in the cozy warmth of her house with a good book, free from pointed looks from a staff and faculty who were testing her authority, free from “helpful advice” from well-meaning parents who had limited knowledge of the county policies Shay was required to follow and free from the quiet disapproval of the school secretary, Roberta Cree.

Roberta had been at Woodside Elementary since it first opened its doors in 1987 and had outlasted all four previous principals, including Shay’s immediate predecessor, the Esteemed Jonathan Ridenour Who Could Do No Wrong. The corridor that led from the main reception area to Shay’s private office was lined with gold-framed portraits of the prior principals. She swore their eyes followed her whenever she passed. And the principals of yesteryear probably shook their heads at her when no one was looking.

All in all, her first month at Woodside hadn’t gone as smoothly as expected. Even though years had passed since she’d first voiced her ambition to become a principal, she could too clearly hear her father’s words in her head. You don’t need those administrative headaches, sweetie. Why not stay a teacher, with only your classroom to worry about and summers off to focus on your own kids?

Not that Shay had any kids. Or a husband. Or even a steady boyfriend.

She was currently between relationships, which seemed to worry her parents. After climbing out of the car, she shut her door—resisting the juvenile urge to slam it. Her brother, Bastien the M.D., didn’t have a girlfriend. He practically lived at the hospital, and both parents applauded his lofty career goals as building a solid foundation for the future. When Bastien had declared he wanted to go to medical school, their father had never once suggested he settle for being a school nurse and take the summers off! So why the heck couldn’t Shay get the same support for her professional aspirations? After all, it was a lifetime of listening to her mother—a retired elementary school teacher—that had inspired Shay in the first place. Mrs. Morgan and her teaching colleagues had been full of great ideas but lacked the power to implement them. Shay had decided early that she wanted to work her way up the scholastic ladder so that she could one day help teachers.

But so far, it was slow going at Woodside—an elementary school too small to have an assistant principal who might have been an ally in easing the transition. Maybe some of the faculty felt that warming to Shay too quickly would be disloyal to Esteemed Principal Ridenour. Everyone had been shocked by his heart attack in November and sorry to see him leave the school when he took early retirement midyear. Perhaps Shay’s eagerness to tackle her new position after the winter break had come across as unseemly, as if she were seizing on someone else’s misfortune.

I will win these people over, she promised herself. After all, she was pretty darn likable. She was also truly passionate about providing a wonderful environment and the best education possible for the students of the small elementary school. In theory, her advocacy for their well-being gave her common ground with everyone else who set foot inside the door.

Like, for instance, the PTA president.

Shay sighed when she saw that exact woman pacing outside the school’s front office, talking in low, tense tones with two other mothers. Shay recognized one of them as Carolyn Moon. The mom of a first grader, a third grader and fourth-grade twins, Carolyn seemed to spend as much time on school property as Shay did. Shay couldn’t remember off the top of her head who the third woman was, but she looked just as unhappy as her companions. Thankfully, the trio kept their voices diplomatically soft—the students making their way to class before the first bell rang seemed oblivious to whatever the problem was.

If Shay were shorter, she might have given in to the temptation to blend in with a few of the fifth graders and slip past the mothers lying in wait. The PTA president, Nancy, was a sweet woman who truly cared about the student body, but she was a very anxious “the sky is falling” sort. She seemed perpetually worried that the school teetered on the brink of disaster and that, as president, she would be at the helm of the ship when it sank. It didn’t help to have a second-in-command like Carolyn Moon, who complained about everything, upsetting Nancy’s already-nervous disposition. Shay had learned quickly that finding Carolyn waiting for her outside the office was never a good way to start the day.

I can handle this. I am the principal, and I got this job because I am good at what I do. Shay pasted a wide, welcoming smile on her face and vowed that while she certainly encouraged dialogue from concerned parents, she was not going to let herself be ambushed before she’d even had a chance to pour a cup of coffee.

“Good morning, ladies,” she said as they descended on her, all talking at once.

“Ms. Morgan,” Carolyn began, “do you have any idea—”

Nancy cleared her throat and gave a surreptitious shake of her head. “Principal Morgan, we’re sure you have a very full day, but—”

“I would be happy to find a few minutes in the schedule to chat with you,” Shay assured them, “but right now, I need to prepare for the morning announcements. If the three of you want to wait, I’ll be back as soon as I can. If you have somewhere else you need to be, please email me with anything you need to discuss. Or see Roberta about setting up an appointment.”

“This should be addressed immediately!” Carolyn insisted. “A person can’t just spam—”

“We’ll wait,” Nancy said firmly, shooting another look at her fellow PTA board member. Carolyn, this year’s vice president, was clearly champing at the bit for her chance to be commander in chief, figuratively speaking.

Although Carolyn seemed like the type who might not realize it was figurative.

Shay agreed to return as soon as she could, then allowed herself to get caught up in the swell of children sent to the front office with various “please excuse Diane’s absence yesterday” and “please allow Johnny to ride home on the bus with his friend” notes that had to be filed. The thirty minutes between when the front doors first opened to students and when morning announcements began were always hectic for the administrative staff.

Today, the usual cacophony of voices was dominated by two boys, each claiming that a pair of mittens in the office Lost and Found belonged to him. One boy was wailing that his mother had sworn he’d never see his Nintendo DS again if he lost another article of winter clothing this year. Roberta was trying to arbitrate the dispute. The five-foot-tall secretary had hair exactly like steel wool and she owned a sweater set in every color invented.

“You boys are much too loud,” Shay said in quiet counterpoint to their shouting. “It’s disrespectful to Mrs. Cree and to everyone else in the office.”

Roberta looked up, including Shay in the pursed-lip censure she’d bestowed on the arguing boys. “I can handle this if you’d prefer to go check your email.”

No doubt whatever those mothers outside the office were flustered about would be explained by the contents of Shay’s in-box. Bypassing the coffeemaker, Shay left the boys in Roberta’s custody and made a beeline for her office. Once inside she shut her door and entered her password, braced for the worst.