What Was Your Favorite Part of Christmas?

Jean C. Gordon here. I hope you all had a nice Christmas. My favorite part was having my whole immediate family come to Christmas Eve Service with me and returning home afterwards to each open one gift—a tradition my parents started once none of us kids still believed Santa brought our gifts.

To continue the giving spirit, I have an excerpt from my new Love Inspired Romance A Mom for His Daughter for everyone and a copy of the book for one reader who shares her or his favorite part of this Christmas in the comments. I'll randomly pick the winner tomorrow evening by 8 pm and post back here in the comments.

Chapter One

Everything Marc Delacroix had always thought he wanted rode on decisions he and his business partners would make in the next few hours. And he couldn’t care less.

Oh, he’d gone through the motions yesterday of meeting with Fiona Bryce, the Cornell farm-to-table consultant. He owed his partners that much. They’d been picking up slack for him even before Cate’s death. The lump that formed in his throat when he thought about his wife didn’t choke off his windpipe anymore, which he guessed was progress. This Lake George restaurant launch his partners had sent him north for felt a lot like a get-yourself-together or sell-out proposition. He curled his lip. Maybe he should sell out.

His cell phone jolted him from his thoughts. He glanced at the caller ID. Mom. Just what he didn’t need when he was rushing to get his daughter, Stella, dressed and to her first morning at preschool in Schroon Lake. But he couldn’t ignore her. She was his mother.

“Hey, Mom. What’s up? I only have a minute if I’m going to get Stella to school on time.”

“But she’s not quite three yet. So little for preschool,” his mother protested.

While he listened to his mother’s opinion on Stella and preschool for the third time, his thoughts drifted back to yesterday. Although he only had a vague idea of what Fiona’s program could do, he’d forwarded her presentation with his positive recommendation to his partners. He’d been unexpectedly mesmerized by the woman—her features, her movements—and had paid more attention to her than to what she’d said.

“Marc?”

“Yes, I’m here, Mom. I was thinking about my meeting at the research farm yesterday.”

“I’m glad you’re taking an interest in your work again,” she said.

More like an interest in my potential business consultant. But it was something. Better than the apathy that had paralyzed him for the past months.

“You know I don’t mind watching Stella,” his mother said. “I’m free today if you want to get some work in. I usually don’t schedule any bookkeeping on Wednesdays to have a day free for errands and other things.”

That was the drawback and blessing of having moved Stella from New York City to his hometown of Paradox Lake in the Adirondack Mountains. Lots of people always ready to help. Mom with her offers to take care of Stella. His twin sister pressing him to socialize, meet new people—Fiona, her coworker at the Cornell Research Farm in Willsboro, popped into his mind again—and encouraging him to get started on La Table Frais, his restaurant project.

Cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder, Marc picked up Stella’s shoes, slipped them on her feet and pressed the Velcro fasteners. He was inclined to agree with his mother, but his youngest sister, Renee, a child sociologist, had convinced him that being with children her age would help get Stella up to speed with the age-appropriate behavior she’d fallen behind on.

“It’s a play group for two- and three-year-olds. And Andie will be there.” His older sister was one of the teachers at The Kids Place, the childcare center at Hazardtown Community Church, where he and his family attended services.

“Stella. Red,” Stella said, pointing at her belly and her red T-shirt in a basket of clothes he had folded, ready to put away.

“Okay.” Marc hoped he wasn’t pushing Stella too hard. Her speech development had stalled since Cate died. But referring to herself in a baby-like third person was something new he’d noticed since they’d moved here last month.

“Pardon?” his mother said.

Stella scampered over to the basket, pulled off the shirt he’d put on her and worked at putting on the red one.

“Stella wanted to wear her red shirt instead of the one I put on her.”

He could imagine the expression on his mother’s face about letting Stella have her way. Marc grabbed his phone from his shoulder. But the counselor they’d seen downstate after Cate’s death had said to choose his battles with Stella, and he wasn’t about to do anything to set her off before he even got her to The Kids Place.

“I don’t want to upset her, Mom. She had a meltdown yesterday at the grocery store. Someone Stella didn’t know said hello to her, and Stella went ballistic. You know how reluctant she can be about talking to new people.” Or anyone other than him—even his family.

“That’s what I mean. Stella may need more time with family to adjust to her new home. School’s off today for a teacher’s workday or something. I could have Robbie come and play with her.”

Yeah. A playdate with his toddler cousin wasn’t likely to be at the top of seven-year-old Robbie’s wish list.

“I need to go, Mom. I’ve got work to do after I drop off Stella.” He strained to hide the catch in his voice on work. How many times had he said that to Cate, to Stella, thinking there would be time later? Then Cate was dying, and there were no more laters.

“Daddy!”

He turned. Stella had her arm through the head of the shirt.

“And Stella needs help with her shirt.”

“Okay, and as I said, if you want to go work on the restaurant this afternoon, I’ll be here for Stella.”

“Thanks, Mom.” But he was the one who ought to be there for his daughter. “I’ll let you know. Bye. Hang on, sweetpea. I’ll give you a hand.” He pulled Stella’s arm out of the head hole, and she slipped her arms in the sleeves.

“Stella do it.”

“Yep. Good job.” Edginess fired through his veins. He could only hope he was doing as well.

“Church. Singing,” Stella said a few minutes later when he pulled into the church parking lot and stopped in a space near the church hall.

Marc hopped out and released Stella from her car seat. “I don’t know about singing today.”

His wife’s beautiful voice singing “On Eagles’ Wings” with their church choir floated through his head. Stella had loved Cate’s singing, so much so that he’d avoided taking Stella to church after Cate’s death for fear the music would set Stella off. Regret squeezed his chest. But he couldn’t avoid church services here. Nor did he want to. And Stella had been fine when they’d attended church with his parents last week.

The corners of Stella’s mouth turned down.

“But we’ll see. There might be singing.” He lifted her from the car.

“Stella walk.”

He set her down and took her hand. “Okay.” Slowly, they made their way to the hall door. Marc opened it.

“London Bridge is falling down, falling down…” A group of preschoolers was playing London Bridge in the hall.

“See, Daddy, singing.”

“You’re absolutely right.” His heart lightened. “Let’s go talk with Aunt Andie about school.”

“`Kay.” Stella’s voice lacked the enthusiasm of a minute ago.

Andie walked over to them. He held his breath when she crouched to Stella’s level.

“Hi, Stella. We’re coloring our class banner.” Andie pointed across the room to several kids Stella’s age sitting at a table with a long sheet of white paper. “Want to help us?”

Stella looked up at him. “Daddy color?”

“Remember, Daddy has to work this morning.” He planned on talking with his partners. “You can color with Aunt Andie.” The counselor had told Marc that the little girl might feel more secure with him telling her what to do, rather than asking—at least for a while.

Stella stared at him silently for so long his heart stopped. Then she nodded and took Andie’s hand.

“She’ll be fine,” Andie said.

“Right.” He resisted looking back at Stella as he left the hall. Stella knew Andie. Andie was great with kids of all ages, and she had his number if there was any problem.

Marc dragged his feet walking out to the car. He needed to occupy his mind with something more than concerns about Stella. That fixation wasn’t good for her or him. He’d taken his first reluctant step yesterday toward an opportunity he would have jumped at in a New York minute two years ago. Marc wanted that excitement back. For too long, he’d been plodding through life placing one foot in front of the other.le

He made his decision. He needed to get in the race again, call Fiona and let her know she could write up a consulting contract for La Table Frais. His partners would probably celebrate his taking the initiative to make the decision, rather than waiting for their approval.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, he thumbed to the Cornell Research Farm’s number on his phone, picturing Fiona, her coppery curls, wide-set hazel eyes and vivacious mannerisms. She was a stunning woman, and the first woman he’d noticed since Cate had died.

If he were honest with himself, that scared him. He closed his eyes. His main focus still had to be Stella, but to be what his daughter needed, maybe he needed something for himself.

He didn’t have to throw himself into the new restaurant twenty-four seven as he had with his work in New York. And having an adult relationship, a non-pressure business relationship that had nothing to do with his daughter, might give him a balance between family and work.

Available Now—Buy Links to Favorite Vendors

KNOCK, KNOCK...

How would you like to knock on a door and find that face on the other side? In the opening pages of Alaskan Hero, my upcoming May release from Love Inspired, that's exactly what happens to heroine Anya Petrova.

Sort of.

What she really finds is a man dressed in a bear costume.

Some might say that's more disturbing than coming across an actual bear. Why would anyone in his right mind walk around dressed as a grizzly? And just what does he look like underneath that bear head?

Find out in this excerpt from Chapter One of Alaskan Hero:

Anya Petrova shoved her mittened hands in the pockets of her parka as she stood on Brock Parker's threshold and tried not to react. The man had answered the door dressed in a furry bear costume. It wasn't every day that she knocked on a stranger's door and found a grizzly bear, albeit a fake one, on the other side. Even in Alaska.

She pasted on a smile. "Hi, I'm Anya Petrova. I emailed you about my dog. You're Brock, right?"  

He nodded, but made no move to take off the bear head.

Super. Anya had to stop herself from exhaling a frustrated sigh.

She'd expected someone normal, especially considering Brock Parker's reputation. He was new in town, an avalanche search and rescue expert and alleged dog genius, at least according to what Anya's friend Clementine had told her. Anya had been trying in vain to reach him for the past two days, but he appeared to be a mystery. He didn't even have a locally listed phone number, and he'd yet to make an appearance in town. And she'd been looking—hard—because a dog genius is exactly what she needed at the moment.

Fortunately, Clementine had managed to procure Brock's email address. Anya had fired off a message and was thrilled when he agreed to meet with her. Clementine had predicted he would turn out to be the answer to Anya's prayers. What she'd failed to predict was that Brock Parker would be dressed head to toe in a grizzly bear costume when he answered his front door.

The odds are good, but the goods are odd.  

Some considered it Alaska's best kept secret.

The rest of the free world seemed all too aware of the fact that men outnumbered women in the Land of the Midnight Sun. So much so that sometimes the statistics Anya Petrova saw on the subject made her shake her head in disbelief, if not snort with laughter. Fifteen to one? Did people in the Lower 48 really believe that?  

Anya had lived in Aurora, Alaska, since the day she was born. She even had a dash of Inuit blood in her veins, and she knew as well as every other Alaskan woman that such statistics were exaggerated at best. At worst, they were baloney. In any event, the exact ratio didn't make a bit of difference. Because the men of Alaska weren't like other men. The majority of them, anyway. Like anything else, there were exceptions.

A few.  

A very few.

The odds are good, but the goods are odd. Or, to put it nicely, Alaskan men could be eccentric. And it wasn't just the locals. Sometimes the transplants could be even worse. There seemed to be something about Alaska that attracted independent spirits, adventurers…and oddballs. Case in point—the man standing in front of her in a bear costume.

Not that she cared a whit about Aurora's bachelor population, strange or otherwise. She'd learned a long time ago that men were trouble. In her infancy, actually. Being abandoned by her father at three months of age didn't exactly set her up for success in the man department. Neither did being unceremoniously dumped on top of the highest mountain in Aurora for the entire town to witness. More than the town's population, actually, because television cameras had been involved.

As a result, dating wasn't anywhere on the list of things that mattered most to Anya. Her life was simple. She cared about three things—God, coffee and her dog.

She had a good handle on the coffee situation. As the manager of the Northern Lights Inn coffee bar, she was given free rein to develop all sorts of lattes, mochas and espresso drinks. Whatever struck her fancy, really. She enjoyed it. And she was good at it. Sometimes—particularly on days when all she did was serve up cup after cup of plain black coffee—she wondered if there was something else she should be doing with her life. Something more meaningful. But that was normal, wasn't it? Did people really ever feel completely fulfilled by their jobs?

The God thing was new, so she really couldn't say how that was going. But it mattered to her. More than she ever knew it could, so it went on the list.  

But the dog was another issue entirely. And that's where Brock Parker came into the picture, or so Anya hoped. Clementine had been so sure he could help her. She'd used the word genius to describe his proficiency at training.  

He sure didn't look like a genius standing there in his doorway in that bear costume. Then again, what did Anya know about geniuses? Hadn't she read somewhere that Albert Einstein couldn't tie his own shoes? Maybe Einstein had a bear suit too.  

She glanced down at Brock's feet poking out from the dark-brown fur. He wore hiking boots, and they were indeed tied.  

Was that a good thing? Who knew?  

She inhaled a deep breath of frigid winter air and tried again. "I have a very anxious dog, and I was told you might be able to help me. I'm kind of desperate."

She'd planned to tell him more, but suddenly her eyes burned with the telltale sting of tears. To say she was desperate was an understatement. Things seemed bad enough when she'd first rescued Dolce. The poor thing hid under the bed all the time. Anya barely saw her. Little did she know Dolce's shyness was the least of her problems.  

The tiny dog also howled at the top of her canine lungs. At first, Anya had been able to convince the people at the Northern Lights Inn—who were not only her employer, but also her landlord—to give the dog some time. Surely Dolce would settle down.  

She hadn't. Not yet anyway. And the hotel management had run out of patience. They'd finally given her an ultimatum—give up either the dog or her rent-free cottage.  

The choice was hers. She had a mere fourteen days to fix the problem or lose her dog or her home. She'd pinned her last hope on Brock's purported genius, and from the looks of things, that might have been a mistake.  

She sniffed and willed herself not to shed a tear. Desperate or not, crying in front of a man dressed as a bear was simply out of the question.  

She heard a sigh. Brock's furry chest rose and fell. Then—finally—he removed the bear head, exposing his face.

Anya wasn't altogether sure what she'd expected, but the cool blue eyes, straight perfect nose and high cheekbones that looked as though they'd been chiseled from granite were most definitely not it. The man resembled some kind of dreamy Nordic statue. Anya had to blink to make sure she wasn't seeing things.  

"You say your dog is anxious? How anxious?" He spoke without cracking the slightest smile, which only made him look more like something Michelangelo had carved out of stone.

Anya swallowed. Her mouth had abruptly gone dry. The snowflakes floating against her cheeks felt colder all of a sudden, and she realized her face had grown quite warm. "Very. I rescued her from a bad situation, and unless she's attached to a leash, I can't get her to come out from under my bed. She even eats there and only in the dark."  

It was pathetic. Every night when Anya drifted off to sleep, it was to the sound of poor Dolce crunching on kibble.

"But that's not the worst of it. She howls. Rather loudly." Anya's voice grew wobbly. "I'm about to be kicked out of my cottage."  

"I see." Brock nodded, and a lock of his disheveled blond hair fell across his forehead.

She'd heard of bedhead, but never bearhead. It, too, appeared to have its charms.

Alaskan Hero, Coming in May from Harlequin Love Inspired. Available for pre-order now!