Kristan Higgins - My One and Only

ALL I EVER WANTED

“Kristan Higgins has a gift for creating realistic, relatable heroines…. I wholeheartedly recommend this book. Get it. Read it. Love it.”

—All About Romance

“Higgins has a special talent for creating characters readers love… Fun, charming and heartfelt.”

—RT Book Reviews, 4½ stars

THE NEXT BEST THING

“A heartwarming, multi-generational tale of lost love, broken hearts and second chances.”

—BookPage

TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE

Winner—2010 Romance Writers of America

RITA® Award

“Cheeky, cute, and satisfying, Higgins’s romance is perfect entertainment for a girl’s night in.”

—Booklist

“Kristan Higgins proves that she is emerging as one of the most creative and honest voices in contemporary romance.”

—Romance Junkies

JUST ONE OF THE GUYS

“Higgins provides an amiable romp that ends with a satisfying lump in the throat.”

—Publishers Weekly

CATCH OF THE DAY

Winner—2008 Romance Writers of America RITA® Award

“A touching story brimming with smart dialogue, sympathetic characters, an engaging narrative and the amusing, often self-deprecating observations of the heroine. It’s a novel with depth and a great deal of heart.”

—RT Book Reviews, top pick, 4½ stars

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

Thanks for choosing My One and Only! For me, there’s nothing like a book that makes me laugh and cry. I hope you’ll find scenes in these pages that make you do both.

This is a story of finding your way back, of learning to let go of the past and have faith in the future, even when you can’t predict it. Nick and Harper had great reasons for falling in love, and they had equally good reasons for breaking up. Finding their way back isn’t going to be easy…but nothing worthwhile in life is.

In some ways, this book is a little different—there’s a road trip, for example, and my heroine doesn’t have terribly romantic expectations for love, as some of my other heroines have. Some things are the same, though…a colorful family, gorgeous settings, and of course, a really cute dog in the form of Coco, a Jack Russell/Chihuahua mix. I had a great time with some of the secondary characters in this story—Dennis was a personal favorite, as well as BeverLee and Carol.

I took some liberties with facts in this book. There is no professional Martha’s Vineyard Fire Department…the island is ably served by noble volunteers from the eight towns that comprise Martha’s Vineyard. I’m also not sure an attorney could make a living handling only divorces with such a small year-round population. And as far as direct flights from South Dakota to New York City…well, if they’re out there, I couldn’t find them. But hey. This is fiction.

I’d love to hear from you anytime…visit my website at www.kristanhiggins.com.

All the best,

Kristan

Thanks as always to my agent, the brilliant Maria Carvainis, as well as her able and ready staff, who are always in my corner, always available and always absolutely lovely.

Every writer should be so lucky as to work with an editor such as Keyren Gerlach, who is insightful, kind and pushes me to reach higher with every book. The entire team at HQN and Harlequin Enterprises has been overwhelming with their enthusiasm and support for my work. Special thanks to Margaret Marbury O’Neill and Tara Parsons and the wicked awesome art department for my beautiful covers.

My heartfelt thanks to Shaunee Cole, Karen Pinco and Kelly Morse for helping me kick this bad boy off; to Toni Andrews for her ready and brilliant counsel on plotting; to Cassy and Jon Pickard for describing the life of an architect; to Annette Willis for giving me the scoop on the life of a divorce attorney (any mistakes…all mine!); to Paula Kristan Spotanski and Jennifer Iszkiewicz for sharing their memories and photos of Glacier National Park; to Bridget Fehon, animal name consultant extraordinaire; to my dear mom for all her help; Bob and Diane Moore for the loan of their beautiful home on Martha’s Vineyard. And to my great friends at CTRWA, thanks for the enthusiasm, support and cheerleading. The Force is strong within you!

And of course, all my love to my honey and our two beautiful kids, the three best things that ever happened to me.

Lastly, thank you, dear reader. Thank you for spending time with this book, for writing to me and in many cases, making me your friend. I just can’t tell you how much that means.

When I was five years old,

we kindergartners got to bring our art projects

to show the big-kid second graders. As I walked

past my brother’s desk, I made my clay turtle kiss him.

He took it like a man, told me it was cute and ignored

the boys who made fun of him for having a dorky little

sister. For that, and for a million other reasons,

this book is dedicated to you, Mike. Love you, pal.

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 SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

EPILOGUE

“STOP SMILING. EVERY time you smile, an angel dies.”

“Wow,” I answered. “That’s a good one.”

The man with the negative attitude sat at the bar, looking as if he was living a bad country-and-western song—no woman, broken truck, dead dog. Poor slob. “Listen,” I said. “I know it’s sad, but sometimes, divorce is just the euthanization of a dying relationship.” I patted his shoulder, then adjusted his white collar, which was just a bit off center. “Sometimes our hearts just need time to accept what our heads already know.”

The priest sighed. “Listen to her with that ridiculous line,” he said to Mick, the bartender.

“It’s not ridiculous! It’s great advice.”

“You’re evil.”

“Oh, my,” I said. “You’re taking it harder than I thought.”

“It’s true. After all my hard work, you swoop in and ruin everything.”

“Father Bruce!” I said, feigning hurt. “There was no swooping! How cutting!”

The good father and I were at Offshore Ale, Martha’s Vineyard’s finest bar, a dark and charming little place in Oak Bluffs and a favorite place for locals and tourists alike. Father Bruce, my longtime friend and the immensely popular pastor of the island’s Catholic church, could often be found here.

“Now come on, Father,” I continued, sliding onto a stool next to him and tugging my skirt so as not to flash him. “You and I are actually a lot alike.” He responded with a groan, which I ignored. “We shepherd people through life’s hard times, guiding them through an emotional minefield, the voice of reason when reason is lost.”

“Sad thing is, she believes it, Mick.”

I rolled my eyes. “Stop being a sore loser and buy me a drink.”

“Marriage ain’t what it used to be,” the priest grumbled. “Mick, a bourbon for the shark here.”

“Actually, just a Pellegrino, Mick. And Father, I’m going to strike that last moniker from the record.” I smiled generously. Of course I was a shark. All the best divorce attorneys were.

“I take it you lost again, Father?” Mick said, adding a slice of lemon to my sparkling water.

“Let’s not discuss it, Mick. She’s gloating as it is.”

“I’m certainly not gloating,” I objected, reaching over to move another patron’s beer, which was in danger of being knocked into Father B.’s lap. “I have nothing against marriage, as you will soon see. But in the case of Starling v. Starling, these two were doomed from the day he got on bended knee. As is one in three couples.”

Father Bruce closed his eyes.

Though on opposite sides of the divorce issue, Father B. and I were old pals. But today, Joe Starling, a lifelong parishioner in Father Bruce’s parish, had come into my office and asked me to begin divorce proceedings. There’d actually been a race to my door, and Joe won. He was…let’s see…the ninth parishioner in the past two years to do so, despite Father B.’s best efforts at weaving together the fraying bonds of matrimony.

“Maybe they’ll have a change of heart,” Father Bruce suggested. He looked so hopeful that I didn’t remind him of one hard fact: not one of my clients had ever backed out of proceedings.

“So how’s everything else, Father?” I asked. “Heard you gave a killer sermon last weekend. And I saw you power walking the other day. Your new heart valve must be working great.”

“Seems to be, Harper, seems to be.” He smiled—he was a priest, after all, and had to forgive me. “Did you perform your random act of kindness today?”

I grimaced. “No. It was a senseless act of beauty.” Father Bruce, viewing my soul as a personal campaign, had challenged me to, in his words, “offset the evil of your profession” by doing at least one random act of kindness each day. “Yes, yes,” I admitted. “I let a family of six go in front of me at the café. Their baby was crying. Does that pass?

“It does,” said the priest. “By the way, you look nice today. A date with young Dennis?”

I glanced around. “More than a date, Father.” Wincing as John Caruso accidentally-on-purpose bumped into my back, I pretended not to hear his muttered epithet. One grew used to such slurs when one was as successful as I was. (Mrs. Caruso got the condo in the Back Bay and the house out here, not to mention a very generous monthly alimony payment.) “Today’s the day. I plan to present the facts, make a convincing case and wait for the verdict, which I completely expect to be in my favor.”

Father Bruce raised a bushy white eyebrow. “How romantic.”

“I think my view on romance is well documented, Father B.”

“One would almost pity young Dennis.”

“One would, except the boy has it made, and you know it.”

“Do I?”

“Please.” I clinked my glass against Father Bruce’s and took a drink. “To marriage. And speak of the devil, here he is now, all of four minutes early. Will wonders never cease.”

My boyfriend of the past two and a half years, Dennis Patrick Costello, was…well. Picture every fantasy you’ve ever had about a hot firefighter. Uh-huh. That’s right. Eye candy didn’t even begin to cover it. Thick black hair, blue eyes, the ruddy cheeks of the Irish. Six-two. Shoulders that could carry a family of four. The only fly in the ointment was a rattail…a long, anemic braid to which Dennis was senselessly attached and which I tried very hard to ignore. Be that as it may, his physical beauty and constant affability always gave me a little thrill of pride. There wasn’t a person on the island who didn’t like Dennis, and there wasn’t woman who didn’t break off midsentence when he smiled. And he was mine.