By Betty Neels
Christmas: a mystical time while goals rather can come true…
The Mistletoe Kiss
Emmy Foster works patiently as a receptionist in London's St. Luke's clinic, and can't think why good-looking yet boastful Professor Ruerd ter Mennolt might take an curiosity in a rustic mouse like her. but if the professor invitations her to his domestic in Holland for Christmas, Emmy can't deny the spark that blossoms among them….
Roses for Christmas
Eleanor hasn't noticeable her early life neighbor Fulk van Hensum for two decades, yet she nonetheless recalls what a horrid boy he'd been…and it takes merely mins to find that he's grown into an both horrid guy. no matter if he's handsome…and the hot medical professional on the sanatorium the place she's a nurse! He hasn't replaced a bit—so why can't Eleanor cease brooding about him?
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Additional info for A Christmas to Remember: The Mistletoe Kiss \ Roses for Christmas
All of this and m o r e I could get the world to do for m e , a n d at the same time all of it w a s going on, I could walk d o w n the street, u n b u r d e n e d with the niceties of the individual tasks, living m y life! I felt like a n efficient shortorder cook, having eight or nine different egg orders working at once, dropping the toast, rolling the sausages, setting u p the plates, flicking the switch that illuminated a waitress's n u m ber. It w a s the rubber stamp specifically that pushed the advance over the top, because, in bearing m y n a m e , the stamp s u m m e d u p all of this action at a distance, a n d was itself a secondary, life-ordering act, w h i c h h a d taken time n o w , but w h i c h w o u l d save time later, every bill I paid.
A battery for your second smoke a l a r m . " "That's right! No, actually Russ b o u g h t extras. He's smart, you k n o w ? " " S m a r t g u y , " I said, tapping m y temple as she had. " "CVS, m a y b e ? There's a shoe repair place over by Delicato's—no, that's closed. " I p u t d o w n the date-stamper in its correct position o n her desktop. " B y e . " "Did you sign o u t ? " I said I had. She wagged her finger at m e . "I have to watch you every m i n u t e . Have a nice l u n c h ! " I stepped a w a y t o w a r d the m e n ' s room, and the lunch h o u r beyond.
Or the depressed w o m a n at work, did next. They swept. In the kitchen closet I found a practically n e w b r o o m (not o n e of the contemporary designs, with synthetic bristles uniformly cut at a n angle, but one just like the kind I h a d g r o w n u p with, with blond smocked twigs b o u n d to a blue h a n d l e by perfectly w r a p p e d silver wire) that o n e of m y h o u s e m a t e s h a d bought. I got to work, reminded of a w h o l e chain of subsidiary childhood discoveries, such as putting to use o n e of m y father's shirt cardboards as a dustpan, a n d bracing the b r o o m with a n armpit in order to sweep the dust o n e - h a n d e d o n t o the shirt cardboard; and I found that the act of sweeping a r o u n d the legs of the chair and the casters of the stereo cabinet a n d the corners of the bookcase, outlining t h e m with m y curving broom-strokes, as if I w e r e putting each chair leg a n d caster a n d doorjamb in quotation marks, m a d e m e see these familiar features of m y r o o m with freshened receptivity.