“You okay?” he said, his breath in her hair as she slightly staggered, then righted herself, The Bump knocking against him.

“Of course,” she said, meeting his gaze. And this time, his eyes weren’t twinkling. This time, she saw … more. Confusion, maybe. Lust, definitely, which almost made her laugh out loud, considering she felt about as sexy as a bag of potatoes.

Mostly, though, she saw yearning. For what, she wasn’t sure. And neither was he, she imagined. But that longing … it not only touched her heart, but came awfully close to breaking it—

“Hey, lovebirds!” said some paunchy dude on the sidewalk. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to get to my car sometime today?”

“Sure, no problem,” Tyler said, setting Laurel aside to slam shut the open door, then hustling her toward the restaurant before Irked Dude ruptured something. She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or hugely annoyed.

Once inside, however, where they had to wait in the jammed lobby for a free table, she got over herself enough to realize hunger—and, okay, a still-bruised heart—had momentarily made her hallucinate, seeing and hearing things that weren’t there. The longing, yes—that, she hadn’t imagined. But not a longing for her. Big difference.

But you know what? Tyler had already proven himself a good friend. Someone she could rely on. Could trust. And right now, a friend is what she needed, more than anything.

And if she kept telling herself that, she might almost believe it.

More than

She Expected

Karen Templeton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A recent inductee into the Romance Writers of America Hall of Fame, three-time RITA® Award-winning author Karen Templeton has written more than thirty novels for Mills & Boon. She lives in New Mexico with two hideously spoiled cats, has raised five sons and lived to tell the tale, and could not live without dark chocolate, mascara and Netflix.

To Kotie-Pie, my niece’s squishably adorable boxer

Who provided the inspiration for Boomer.

And to my many Facebook friends

Who are always ready

To answer any and all of my dumb questions.

You guys are a lot more fun than Google.

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

Extract

Chapter One

Lightning stabbed Tyler’s eyes an instant before thunder slammed through the house, rattling windows and propelling him off the sofa and through his kitchen to wrench open the patio door. When he’d let the dog out ten minutes ago, it’d been calm and sunny, a perfect June day—

“Boomer! Come on in, buddy!”

But all he heard was the wind ripping at the trees, another skull-shattering thunderclap. Swearing, Tyler stomped out onto the worn deck overlooking his paltry backyard, the sky so black he half expected to see flying monkeys—

“Boomer!” he yelled again, blinking against the brutal wind. This was nuts—how the hell did you lose an eighty-pound dog? Especially one who normally waited out thunderstorms wedged under the bed. Or, more often, against Tyler. “Dammit, mutt—where are you?”

He tromped off the deck and around to the side yard, dodging airborne leaves. From behind a wall of tangled, overgrown pyracantha and Virginia creeper the rickety wooden fence shuddered and groaned, bitching at him for not having fixed it yet. A windsurfing plastic bag plastered to his chest; Tyler snatched it off, balling it up and stuffing it into his pocket as thunder cracked again, too close, making him jump. Where the hell was the dog?

Not in the well leading out from the basement. Or behind the small shed. Or under the deck...

His heart pounding so hard it hurt, Tyler called again as a bodacious raindrop pinged his forehead, instantly followed by a billion of its cousins. Swearing, Ty shoved through the jungle and out the side gate to the front yard, even though it wasn’t like the dog could open the latch, for God’s sake—

“BOOMER!” Ty bellowed, hands cupped around his mouth, water streaming down his face, into his eyes—

“Over here!”

Tyler jerked left, then right—

“Behind you! On the porch!”

He whipped around. And there was his damn dog, shivering to beat the band in his neighbor’s arms—Laurel, he thought she’d said her name was when she’d moved in a few months ago. Floppy ears slicked back, stubby tail quivering, Boomer ducked his smooth, solid head when he saw Tyler, his amber eyes shining like a pair of lights in his sweet, black face.

Soaked, but hugely relieved, Tyler unhooked the short iron gate and forded the instant river surging across the bumpy cement walk. The house was a mirror image of his, a sturdy little Craftsman one-story with a dormered attic, a decent porch. Pretty typical small-town Jersey. Except Laurel’s was all dollhouse colors, pale yellow and blue, where Ty’s was dark and manly. Or something.

“He was scratching at my door,” Laurel said over the rain thrumming on her porch overhang as she smiled at the idiot dog. Dumbass was eating it up, too, licking her face while his butt wiggled so hard it blurred. Laughing, Laurel leaned back on her heels, only to let out an “Oh!” when Boomer knocked her flat on her can.

“Crap, I’m so sorry!” Ty grabbed the dog’s collar, tugging him off the poor woman before she drowned in dog spit. “Get over here—”

“It’s okay,” Laurel said, getting to her feet, still grinning even as she scrubbed the collar of her baggy overshirt across her jaw. Her standard getup, usually worn with those stretchy pants or tights or whatever they were, from what little Ty’d seen of her. He only had a few inches on her, he realized, her nothing-else-but brown hair not short, but not long, either. And straight as a stick, like his was, even in the humidity. She was okay-looking, he supposed, but not what you’d call a knockout.

Except then she met his gaze dead-on, and he nearly tripped over his own dog. While standing completely still. To say her eyes were blue was like... Okay, if angels had blue eyes? They’d be this color—

“Boomer—is that right?—is a real sweetheart. What is he?”

Tyler snapped back to attention. “Mostly boxer. With a little Rottie in there for bulk. And he’s my boy, aren’t you, you big stinker?” he said, taking the dog’s head in his hands to kiss the top of his head. The dog woofed, jowls flapping around his ridiculous underbite, and Tyler caught Laurel’s look of tolerant amusement. A lot like the one his adoptive mother used to give him when he’d screw up. Which’d been about every five minutes there at the beginning.

“What? I love my dog.”

Laurel laughed again—a nice sound, low in her chest. “I can see that. And this is embarrassing. I know you told me your name when we met—”

“Sorry. Tyler,” he said, slicking back his wet hair. “Tyler Noble. And you’re Laurel, right? Laurel... Hold on...” Grinning, he pointed at her. “Kent.”

“Yeah. Wow. Good memory.”

For women’s names? You bet. A skill Ty’d been fine-honing since those first hormones blinked their sleepy eyes when he was ten or eleven or something and whispered, You’re all ours, now. Also, he’d been far more curious about his reclusive neighbor than he should probably admit. She rarely left the house, far as he knew. Not that he was around much during the week, usually, but since his salvage shop wasn’t far he often came home for lunch, and her old Volvo wagon was always in the driveway. And the only visitor he’d seen was some old lady who drove a spiffy new Prius—

Boomer slurped his tongue across Ty’s hand, earning him a glare. “He hates thunderstorms, so why—let alone how—he got out, I have no idea.”

“Um...this isn’t the first time he’s paid a visit.”

Tyler’s eyes shot to hers. “You’re kidding?”

“Nope.” Now, despite the smile—no lipstick, fullish mouth—Ty noticed the caution shimmering in those eyes. And the crows’ feet fanning out from them. A couple years older than him, maybe. So...mid-thirties or thereabouts—? “So you don’t let him roam the neighborhood?”

“What? No!” He looked at Boomer, who’d planted his posterior on the porch floor and was noisily yawning, then back at Laurel, who was somehow getting prettier every time he looked at her. Except she wasn’t his type. He was almost sure. Nor was he hers, he was even more sure—

“The fence!” Ty said, snapping his fingers. “I’ll bet there’s a hole under it somewhere.”

“Oh. Maybe so. And I don’t have a gate on my side yard. Although why he doesn’t just knock on my back door, I have no idea.”

She smiled again, and Ty’s brain checked out for a moment. “Uh...yeah. Yeah.” Dude! Really? “Soon as it stops raining, I’ll check it. Get that sucker fixed so my dog stops bothering you.”

Laurel’s gaze dipped to the dog. “Oh. Well, yes, I suppose you should fix the fence, but...” Her eyes bounced back up to his. Still blue. Still incredible. “Actually, I don’t mind the company.” A long pause preceded, “Um...would you like to come in? I could make tea or something...?”

Way in the distance, thunder softly rumbled. The storm was moving off.

As should you, buddy.

“Nah, thanks, but I’m soaked to the skin. And in case you didn’t notice, my dog stinks. Anyway, you’re probably busy....”

A smile flitted across her lips as she tugged that floppy shirt closed. It’d been a weirdly cool June anyway; now, in the wake of the storm, the damp breeze was downright frigid. “No problem. Another time, then.”

“Uh...sure.” Because that’s what you said when both parties knew “another time” was never going to happen. Especially once he found, and plugged up, somebody’s little escape hatch. He grabbed the dog’s collar and began tugging him down the porch steps, tossing, “You have a good night, okay?” over his shoulder as he made what felt weirdly like an escape.

* * *

Laurel watched as Tyler and the dog trudged back to his house, then let out a whew-that-was-close sigh that fogged around her face in the chilly, damp air. Because, really, what had she been thinking, inviting the man in for tea? If he even drank tea, which she seriously doubted.

Hormones, that’s all this was. Had to be. Only reason she could see for her insane, and totally inappropriate, attraction to her cute, sexy, built, sexy, blond, sexy neighbor.

Her cute, sexy, built, blond obviously younger neighbor, who clearly had a thing for cute, sexy, blonde, petite, obviously-younger-than-he-was girls. Not that they were talking dozens or anything. And Laurel supposed they’d all—well, all two, and not at the same time, to be fair—had seemed nice enough from what she could tell through her living room window. If a little overzealous in the giggling department. One of them, anyway. Who giggled enough for five girls, honestly. But the thing was, they were obviously nothing like Laurel. Nor she, them. Being neither blonde nor petite. Not to mention sexy. So she somehow doubted Tyler would ever be interested in her, in any case.

Even if she weren’t, you know. Knocked up.

Shaking her head at herself, Laurel yanked open her storm door and went back inside, where the symphony of Easter egg colors on her walls, her furnishings, made her smile. Yes, the house was a work in progress, but it was her work in progress. So, bam. Three months since she’d signed the mortgage papers, and she still couldn’t quite believe it, that she’d thrown caution to the winds and bought a house.

Her hand went to her belly, still barely pooched out underneath her roomy top. Speaking of throwing caution to the winds.

But as she walked through the still, silent space, the realization that it wouldn’t be still and silent for very long made her smile. Especially when she came to what would be the baby’s room. Where, leaning against the doorjamb, she shuddered, from a combination of giddy anticipation and sheer terror. As well as the ugliest shade of mauve known to man. Thank you, 1983, she thought, then sighed. Definitely not how she’d envisioned becoming a mother. Sure, Gran would want to help, but Marian McKinney was well into her eighties, for heaven’s sake. Mentally spry, for sure, but Laurel doubted the old girl was up to chasing a toddler—a thought that sent another shiver down Laurel’s spine.

To say this was unexpected didn’t even begin to cover it. But here she was, pregnant, and alone, and you know what? She could either moan and groan about cruel fate or whatever, or she could suck it up, count her blessings—which were many, actually—and make the best damn lemonade, ever.

She smiled. Maybe she should paint the room yellow, like lemonade. Or sunshine—

Her doorbell rang. Frowning, Laurel tromped back down the hall and peered through the peephole, her heart bumping when she saw Tyler. Honestly.

“Found the problem,” he said when she opened the door, all business with his arms crossed high on his chest. He wore his hair long enough that a breeze had shoved a hunk of streaked blond hair across his forehead, making him look about sixteen. The kind of sixteen-year-old boy that made mamas of sixteen-year-old girls chew their nails to the quick. “Wanna come see?”

“Um, sure—”

“You might want to put on some heavier shoes, though,” he said, nodding at her flimsy ballet flats. “It’s pretty wet out there.”

Her feet duly shoved into already-tied sneakers, she followed her neighbor around to her backyard, which desperately needed mowing. Yeah, she’d get right on that. Tyler pointed to a spot near the back corner where the wooden fence leaned especially badly. A lot worse than when she’d moved in, which was saying something. But, hey, it helped her negotiate a lower price, so there ya go.

“Ah.” Laurel sighed. “Guess this means I need to finally fix my fence.”

“Since he’s going under the fence, that wouldn’t help.”

She frowned at her neighbor. Who actually glowed in the sunlight. Dear God. “You never noticed the hole on your side?”

“Um...” He clasped the back of his neck. “I might have a slight...bush problem there. Anyway...here’s my idea. Even if I trim back the jungle, and you fix your fence, and we fill the hole back up, dog’s probably just gonna dig a new hole, right? So what I’m thinking is, how’s about I build a cinder block wall instead?”

Laurel made a face. “Prison chic? I’m thinking no.”

Tyler laughed. And, natch, he had a great laugh. And dimples. Right out of the devil’s toolbox, those dimples. “Doesn’t have to be gray, there’s all kinds of colors now. Since I’ve got brick, anyway, on the other two sides, maybe something that’ll kinda match? Then you can ditch that thing—” he nodded at the pathetic wood fence “—and not have to worry about another one for a long, long time. If ever.”

Man had a point. “I suppose that might work. When could you do it?”

“Next weekend, if it doesn’t rain?” Then he grinned at her. And winked. “You can help, if you want.”

Oh, hell...he was flirting? Then again, flirting was probably his default mode. Part of his genetic makeup, like the surfer blond hair. And—she couldn’t help but notice—the gold-flecked hazel eyes, twinkling in the late-afternoon sunlight...

Sighing—at her own foolishness, mostly—Laurel forced her gaze away from those twinkling eyes and back to the muddy hole. A symbol of her life if ever there was one. “Not sure I’d be much good,” she muttered. Which would have been true even if she hadn’t been pregnant. Upper body strength was not her strong suit. Then, mustering her courage, she looked at him again. “You can really build a wall?”

Ty put his hand on his heart, looking stricken. “Aww...you don’t trust me?”

“Since we’re talking many hundreds of pounds that could potentially topple over on my...” She caught herself. “On me, it seems prudent to ask.”

“Fair enough. But yeah, I can. A damn good one, too. Got my start working construction, first year was doing masonry—”

“Is there something you could show me? So I could see your work for myself?”

“Wow. Tough customer. Nobody’s gonna pull one over on you, huh?”

He should only know. “Just being practical. Well?”

He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “Actually...I built one for...someone not that long ago. She doesn’t live too far away. I could take you over to see it, if you like. You could even push on it, make sure it stays put.” When she laughed, he added, “Afterwards, how’s about we go pick out the blocks together? So you get the color you want. Because I don’t care, frankly.”

“Sounds like a plan. But...since it’s a shared wall, and you’re going to be doing all the work, at least let me pay for the blocks.”

“And since we wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for my dog, I’m gonna have to say ‘no’ to that.”

“Don’t be silly. If I can’t physically help, the least I can do is contribute to the cost. Which I would’ve done, anyway. No, I mean it,” she said to his snort. “I won’t feel right otherwise.”

That got a long, assessing look before he finally said, “How about a home-cooked meal in exchange? Would that work?”

A laugh pushed through her nose. “Considering my extreme lack of culinary skills? Probably not.”

Ty looked so disappointed she nearly laughed again. “You don’t cook?”

“As in, taking random ingredients and turning them into something palatable? Not so much.” She paused, then said, “But since I do eat—” Every hour, on the hour, these days. Not something he needed to know. Or that the idea of Tyler Noble sitting at her kitchen table made her slightly dizzy. “—I’m sure I can come up with something. That’s why God made delis, right?”

He grinned. An endearing grin, the kind that probably turned his mother to goo when he was a kid. Since it was making Laurel more than a little gooey herself. “Absolutely.”

She smiled back, then took a deep breath—because she had a hunch whatever was going on here had precious little to do with being neighborly, and what on earth was she supposed to do with that?—and said, “So...when can we go see this wall?”

His smile dimmed slightly. But only for a moment. “I’ll give her a call, see if we can go over sometime tomorrow. If that works for you?”

“Absolutely,” Laurel said.

Because the sooner they got this little folderol over with, the better.

* * *

His butt-ugly face wedged between the bucket seats, Boomer alternated hot-breath panting with slurping in his drool as Tyler pulled his pickup into Starla’s short driveway. On the other side of the dog, Laurel sat with her giant purse on her lap, staring out the windshield. Ty didn’t think she’d said ten words in the past ten minutes, despite her having been chatty enough the day before.

Normally this wouldn’t be a problem—his teachers used to say he talked enough for ten people, anyway—but her silence was a touch unnerving. Was it him? Had he done or said something to make her clam up? Not that he should care. They were neighbors, that’s all. Neighbors only going to look at a wall.

And besides, he could tell this one was classy. Not in a la-di-da, designer duds kind of way, but for real. Something Tyler had never been and never would be. Not that he was scum—although he’d skirted close enough, from time to time, to make his parents despair, he was sure—but no matter how often you prune a wildly growing bush in an attempt to tame it, its roots stay the same. Meaning, left to its own devices, it’ll always revert to its wild nature. And while those wild roots didn’t seem to be an issue for a lot of the women he’d known over the years, he was pretty sure they would be for Laurel.

So if his ego was whining because Laurel was apparently the first woman since his adoptive mother to be impervious to his blarney....well, his ego could shut the hell up, is what.

“Cute house,” Laurel said, popping open the car door. Yesterday’s storm had left behind clear blue skies and a cool, brisk breeze, making it feel more like fall than early summer. Starla’s little white bungalow—a dream come true for her, he knew, thanks in no small part to a leg up from the state for first-time home buyers—gleamed in the strong afternoon sunshine, the new windows Tyler’d installed glimmering like diamonds.

“Yeah. It is,” he said. Only he must’ve sounded funny, because Laurel gave him a weird look. But with a little shake of her head, she lowered herself from the passenger seat, the dog shoving past her and over to Starla, who’d come outside to greet them, all smiles as usual. She’d just gotten off work, still in jeans and a plain white polo shirt, her long blond hair pulled back from her still-pretty face. It was weird, how sometimes she looked far younger than her forty-eight years, while other times she seemed so much older.

The drugs’ toll, he supposed.

Now she untangled herself from the dog’s exuberant greeting to hold out her hand to Laurel. “So nice to meet you, honey! Can I get you something to drink? Iced tea? A Coke—?”

“We’re only here to look at the wall,” Tyler said quietly, reminding her.

Hazel eyes flashed to his. “What? She can’t sip on a soda while she looks?”

Laurel smiled. “Thank you, but I’m fine. Really. Except...would you mind if I used your bathroom?”

“Not at all! Come on in...”

Tyler frowned. It’d barely been ten minutes, if that, since they’d left Laurel’s house. And the plan—his plan—had been to show her the wall, let her shove on it, then get out again. Before anybody started asking questions. Questions he’d rather not answer, if he didn’t have to.

His forehead still pinched, he followed the women—and his dog—inside, where Starla steered Laurel down the hall and Boomer moseyed on over to the sofa to mess with Mrs. Slocombe, Starla’s megasized gray tabby. Who’d been peacefully napping until this dumb dog stuck his nose in her face—

“I take it she doesn’t know?” Starla said behind him.

Tyler turned, leaving the hissing cat and barking dog to work it out between them. “Why should she? She’s only my neighbor.”

Starla crossed her arms over her rib cage, her gaze razor-sharp. A helluva lot more than it used to be, that was for sure. But there was a sadness behind the sharpness he couldn’t deny. Especially because he’d put it there. At least partly.

“You’ve done so much for me, Ty,” she said softly. “A lot more than I ever would have expected. So why can’t you get past this? I mean, seriously—what difference does it make? It’s not like it would change anything, right?”

As often as the subject came up, you’d think by now he’d be inured to the pain. The guilt that he couldn’t let it go. And yes, the anger, since he’d told her why, every time she’d asked. And every time, they’d come to the same impasse, where she’d ask for forgiveness and he’d restate the conditions for her exoneration, and she’d give him the same, unsatisfactory answer—sometimes tearfully, sometimes wearily, often angrily—to the same nagging question:

“Who’s my father?”

And he was hardly going to get into it again with Laurel right down the hall. In fact, he heard the door open, sensed her stop to glance at one of the few photos Starla had from before. Nothing that would mean anything to Laurel, he wouldn’t imagine. Then she was there, in her skinny black pants and another floppy top in some blah color, no makeup, no jewelry, smiling at him—a friendly little grin, no biggee—and some crazy feeling that was almost unpleasant plowed right into his gut.

“All better?” Starla said.

“Much.” Then, to Tyler: “So lead me to this wall.”

“Sure,” he said, taking her through Starla’s orange-and-aqua kitchen, the window over the sink so choked with plants the light could barely get through, and out the sliding glass door. Like his, the yard wasn’t much to speak of, the small, grassy plot balding in places. But Ty took a lot better care of Starla’s yard than he did his own—since he didn’t have time for both—and the blooming rosebushes crowded against the wall certainly seemed happy enough.

Wordlessly, Laurel tramped across the damp grass and, yes, pressed both palms against the wall. Then she sidled close between his mother’s Mr. Lincoln and Chicago Peace and looked toward the far end—to check that it was straight, he assumed.

Then she gave him a thumb’s-up, and he chuckled.

He heard the patio door slide open, saw Starla come out onto the tiny patio with a tray holding a pitcher, some glasses, a plate of something. She’d changed out of her work clothes into something flowy and long, her hair hanging loose. What she called her “hippy dippy” look. An homage of sorts to her long-dead parents, he supposed.

“I know, I know,” she said, setting the tray on a small glass-topped table. “But if somebody doesn’t help me eat these cookies, I’ll end up sucking them all down myself. And that would be very bad.”

“Cookies?” Laurel said, hustling across the yard.

“Butterscotch chocolate chip,” Starla said, and Laurel looked like she might cry.

“You made these?”

“I sure did, honey.”

Almost reverently, Laurel lifted one from the plate and took her first bite. “Oh. My. God. These are incredible!”

“Thank you!” Starla beamed. “It’s my own recipe! Please—take as many as you want!”

Laurel laughed, that deep, genuine sound Ty was already coming to like way, way too much. “You might regret saying that,” she said, and picked up two more. Without even a single, “I really shouldn’t...”

“Here, let me put some in a bag for you...”

Starla scooted back inside, her dress billowing behind her, and Ty said, “You must be really hungry.”

Laurel grinned...and chomped off another bite. “These are really good. I mean, insanely good. Here—” She held one out. “Taste it—”

“Not a huge fan of butterscotch, but thanks. You, however, have made Starla’s day.”

Her forehead crimped. “The cookies are wonderful. So I told her so. No big deal.”

For her, maybe not.

Tyler thought about the girls he usually went with, with their done-up hair and made-up faces and pushed-up boobs, and how he’d always liked that, how they’d make all this effort to look good for him. How they’d have a little fun, for a little while, only then somebody would get bored, and it’d be all “No hard feelings, ’kay?” and that would be that. Because life was just easier with built-in expiration dates.

Except here comes this chick who clearly doesn’t give a crap how she looks, she’s not trying to impress anybody, especially not him, and suddenly it’s all wham-a-bam-ding-dong inside his chest? What the hell?

Starla returned with a plastic zipper bag, filling it with most of the cookies as her instant fan kept on with the gushing. And Tyler had to admit, it wasn’t exactly breaking him up, to see how happy that made the older woman. Who he knew hadn’t had a whole lot of happy, for a very long time.

Not wanting to think about that, however, he returned his attention to Laurel. “So. Does my work meet your exacting standards?”

A breeze came up, sending a strand of hair into her mouth as she chewed. She yanked it out, making a face. “Not that I know from walls, really, but...sure. Let’s do this. You said the block yard’s not far?”

“Maybe ten, fifteen minutes. Our houses are on the way, might as well drop off the dog. We can go ahead and order everything now, if you want.”

“Sounds good.” She hesitated. “Soon as I take another potty break.” Another faint blush swept across her cheeks. “That’s what I get for drinking way too much tea earlier, sorry.”

He watched her walk back into the house, thinking, this was somebody who was cool with who she was. What she was. Who could talk about peeing without getting all coy about it...who Tyler guessed never faked anything. Which, even more than all the surface stuff, was why this wham-a-bam business was for the birds.

Because Tyler didn’t know who he was. Not entirely. His whole life...it was like one big lie, wasn’t it? Okay, maybe not a lie, exactly. A mystery, then.

He looked at Starla, snapping the top back on the cookie container, the only person in the world, as far as he knew, who held the key that would unlock that mystery. And until that happened—if it ever did—the Laurels of the world were strictly off-limits.

No matter how warm inside their laughs made him feel.

Chapter Two

“Mind if I put on some music?” Tyler asked when they got back in his truck. Because right now, his brain—among other things—needed to chill. And if he couldn’t make Laurel stop smelling so good, or her eyes less blue, or her laugh less arousing, maybe music would distract him from noticing. At least, not as much.

“Not at all,” she said, clutching her giant purse like it might make a break for it if she didn’t. And yes, he caught the slight smile when, from his docked iPod, his favorite band started playing. Followed by an almost-imperceptible headshake.

“You don’t like Green Day?” he asked.

“It’s just been a while since I listened to them,” she said, still with the irritating little smile. Tyler tapped the button on the steering wheel, turned the music off.

“No, it’s okay, you don’t have to—”

“Wasn’t in the mood, anyway.”

They reached the end of the block, turned onto the main drag. Behind them, the dog panted. Laurel shifted a little in her seat. “Starla’s certainly a sweetheart, isn’t she?”

Great. Now she decides to talk. When talking was the last thing he wanted to do. Being around Starla did that to him, never mind how annoyed he got for letting it—her—get to him. However, instead of taking his noncommittal grunt as her cue to drop the subject, Laurel said, “She reminds me a little of my mother. Although Mom would’ve been, let’s see...sixty-one by now. Wow. There’s a weird thought.”

Tyler glanced over, frowning. “Would have been?”

“Yeah,” she said on a sigh. But not one of those pouty, poor-me sounds that drove him nuts. “She died when I was eleven.”

“Oh.” He looked back out the windshield. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, it was a long time ago. More than twenty years. Speaking of weird. They say time heals everything, but I’m not sure that’s true. Wears down the sharp edges, maybe, so they don’t hurt anymore. Or at least not as much...” She pressed her fingers to her lips. “And I’m rambling, sorry. Must be the sugar rush from the cookies.”

“No problem.” Since as long as she talked, he didn’t have to. Or deal with the crazy thoughts swirling inside his head. But since she’d brought up the subject...

“And your dad...?”

She hesitated, then said flatly, “Heart attack when I was fifteen. But I didn’t see him much, anyway, after my mother died.”

Pain flashed, like stubbing an already-sore toe. “Why not?”

“Who knows? Wasn’t as if we ever discussed it. Although my guess is that he couldn’t see himself as a single father. Or any kind of father, frankly, since he’d never been real hands-on before.”

He spared her a quick glance. “So where’d you end up living?”

“With my grandmother. My mom’s mom.”

“And was that...okay?”

“Actually it was the best thing that could have happened. I adored her, for one thing. And at least she wanted me. My father obviously didn’t. And since my grandfather had died a year or so before, well...we kept each other from falling apart. I know Gran did me, anyway.”

They stopped for a red light. “What a crappy thing to do to a kid. Your dad, I mean.”

She was quiet for a moment, then said, “People are who they are. They don’t change simply because you want them to.” Her shoulders bumped. “So like I said, it worked out the way it was supposed to—”

Boomer started barking at some dog in the car next to them. Tyler reached around and yanked the mutt back from the window. “You don’t own the street, dumbass— Hey! Knock it off! Lay down!”

On a frustrated sigh, the dog obeyed. Only to whumph-whumph under his breath for the next several seconds, making Laurel chuckle.

“So is your grandmother still around?” Tyler asked as the light changed.

“Oh, yeah. You might’ve seen her. Tiny, white-haired? Drives a Prius?”

“That’s your grandmother’s?”

“Yep. She sold her house a few months ago and moved to Sunridge—”

“The retirement community over by the outlet mall?”

“The very one. You ever been there?” When he shook his head, she chuckled. “I swear, if the age limit wasn’t fifty-five, I’d be tempted to move in. Gran says it’s to prepare everyone for heaven, since it’s highly doubtful it could be much better than Sunridge. Anyway...so that’s when I bought the house.”

“Wait—you’d been living with your grandmother all that time?”

“Oh, I was away for a few years, during college, and then after, when I lived in the city. Then I moved back,” she said without a trace of shame in her voice. “One, because I couldn’t stand the thought of her being alone as she got older, and, two, because staying there let me sock away a nice chunk of change for my down payment. Between that and the low interest rate I got on my mortgage, my payments are like nothing.”

“But wasn’t that a little hard on, um, your personal life?” At her silence, he sighed. “And I just stepped way over the line, didn’t I?”

Another light laugh preceded, “That’s assuming I have one.”

“A line? Or a personal life?”

“Either. Both. Although Gran always made it clear my life was my own. Well, within reason, of course. And not until I’d reached what she called the ‘age of reason.’ But she always encouraged me to make my own choices, to do what feels right for me, without worrying about what anyone else thinks of those choices. So it was my choice to move back to Jersey, to stay with Gran as long as she wanted me around.”

“Then she moved out on you.”

“Pretty much. Said I was cramping her style. But we still see each other at least once a week. She’s my rock,” she said softly, then smiled. “Even if she does drive me nuts on a regular basis. And it sure beats talking to myself all the time.”

“You don’t date? Go out?” She gave him another look, her mouth twitching at the corners. “Hey. You’re the one who said there’s no line. So I’m curious why you’re always home. Since you seem really nice,” he pushed on. Because he was an idiot, for one thing, and it wasn’t like he ever intended to make a move on the woman, for another. “And you’re okay looking—”

She laughed again. “So much for thinking you were one of those charmer types.”

“And you’ve got a really nice laugh—”

“Dude. Awesome last-minute save.”

“Not to mention a pretty decent sense of humor.”

“Why, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He paused. “You think I’m a charmer?”

“I’ve seen you with your lady friends. From time to time. So, yeah. You definitely know how to work it.”

“You’ve been spying on me?”

“Says the man who wonders why I’m always home.”

“Touché.” They turned back down their street. Sensing they were almost home, Boomer plopped his drooly chin on Tyler’s shoulder, whining softly. “Still. You make it sound like your grandmother’s the only person you ever see. Which—no offence to your grandmother, I’m sure she’s a great lady—but—”

“I like being alone,” Laurel said quietly. “Not all the time, no, but...alone is my safe place. Really. Besides which, I’m a writer. I don’t go out much because I work from home. And my girlfriends—from school, from when I worked in the city—they’ve all moved on. Or moved away. They got married, started families... I mean, sure, we all meant to keep in touch, but then everyone got busy, and...” As they pulled into Tyler’s driveway, she shrugged. “That’s life, right?”

Not sure what to say to that, Tyler mumbled a noncommittal “I guess,” then got out of the car, herding the dog back inside the house and quickly shutting the door. Much offended howling ensued.

“Puppy’s not happy?” Laurel said when he returned.

“What was your first clue?” he said, backing out of the driveway again. “And he usually goes with me wherever, but I don’t know if I can take him in with us at the brickyard, and I don’t like leaving him in the truck.”

“I don’t blame you,” she said. “So I take it you’ve known Starla for a while?”

“Jeez, lady—signal before you turn, okay?”

“Sorry, got tired of talking about myself. Another hazard of living alone, you forget the finer points of human interaction. And being a novelist, curiosity is my default mode. Relationships fascinate me. People fascinate me.”

“You think I’m fascinating?”

“I was talking about Starla?”

“Oh. Right.”

“I’d love to know her history. What, or who, made her who she is today. It’s like...her past shimmers through her. Don’t you think?”

He had to laugh, even though the conversation was making his chest ache. “You got this from like five seconds?”

“Well, it does. And anyway, I pretty much think that about everyone I meet. I love people.”

“Just not being around them?”

Now she laughed. “Guess that does sound a little weird, huh? But as I said, she reminds me a little of my mother. That whole free spirit thing she’s got going on. Love it. Especially since I’m so not a free spirit.”

“Judging from this conversation? Don’t underestimate yourself. And didn’t you say you live life exactly the way you want to? How much freer could you be?”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t like structure. Or order. I’m a bit of a neat freak, actually. In fact, sometimes I think that’s why I like living by myself, because I’m sure I’d drive someone else nuts.” She wrinkled her nose. “God knows I did Gran.”

An image flashed through Tyler’s head, of his own house. A neat freak, he wasn’t. “So I’m guessing you’re not a risk taker?”

He’d only meant to tease, to follow the lead Laurel had given him. So her stillness threw him, made him glance over at her. “Not generally, no,” she said quietly, then offered him a slight smile. Facing front again, she nodded toward the brickyard’s large sign about a half block away. “Is this it?”

“Uh...yeah.”

Tyler pulled the pickup into the parking lot, inexplicably annoyed that Laurel didn’t wait for him to come around and open the door for her. Even though there was no reason for her to wait. Or for him to play the chivalry card.

Same as there’d been no real reason for him to sidestep her completely innocent query about Starla. Other than habit. And self-protection. Which he supposed was the habit. He’d just never been keen on talking about stuff he hadn’t worked through himself. Especially with strangers. He did wonder, however, as he grabbed the glass door to the showroom before Laurel could, whether she realized he’d dodged her question.

And why, even if she did, that should bother him.

* * *

The block yard blew Laurel’s mind.

Mountains of the things, in a staggering number of colors, shapes and sizes, stretched before her like some ancient religious site. Oh, sure, she and Tyler had settled on brown, rather than prison gray, but what shade of brown? Light, dark, reddish, taupish...?

She jumped, knocking into Tyler when a forklift beep-beeped right behind her, then rumbled past them across the packed dirt field. He caught her long enough to steady her, to slightly rattle her...to remind her of their conversation in the truck coming over. The thrust and parry of it, the gentle, comfortable teasing—which she’d never experienced with any guy, ever—interspersed with the occasional avoidance. As in, Tyler’s—

“You okay?” he asked, still gripping her shoulders.

Oh, my. “Sure.”

Not that either of them owed the other anything, of course. Whatever he chose to tell her, or not, was his business. They were only here to buy blocks. To build a fence. So his dog wouldn’t get loose anymore—

“So whaddya think of this one?”

Tyler had walked over to a display of the various offerings, centered by a largish, gurgling fountain, to point to a row of clay-colored blocks that actually looked...not terrible. “Sure—”

“Or...I dunno.” Bending over, he rested his palm on one that was a lighter color, more beigey. Guy had a nice butt, she had to say. Well, think, anyway. “Maybe this?”

Laurel dislodged her eyeballs from his tush. “Which goes better with what you already have?”

He straightened, dusting his hands. “Either would work. You?”

“Same here. Price?”

“They’re the same. But you know...” He slugged his fingers into his jeans’ pockets. Which already sat kind of low. Then he looked at her with a little-boy grin that, when paired with the streaked, dirty-blond hair—not to mention the low-slung jeans—got all sorts of things fluttering and sighing and giggling. How old was she, again? “No reason we couldn’t do both.”

The baby stirred, jolting her back to reality. “Both?”

“Use two colors, make a pattern. Nothing weird or wild, just...not boring. It won’t look stupid, I promise.”

“Then...sure. Why not?”

More grinning. “Yeah?”

Honestly. The kid in the ice-cream store, getting to pick two different flavors for his ice-cream cone. Laurel laughed. “Yes. Because you’re right. One color would be boring.”

She laughed again when he did a quick fist-pump, then pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket he’d shown her earlier, with all the specifications already figured out. Fifteen minutes later, their order placed and delivery arranged, they were back in the truck, Tyler practically buzzing with excitement as he went on about how he’d demo the old fence that night, if it was okay with her, then get started digging the trench for the new wall so he could get on it by the weekend.

His enthusiasm, if not contagious, was definitely endearing. Except then he seemed to catch himself. “And you’re not the least bit interested in any of this, are you?”

“In how this wall is going to happen? Not really. But I think it’s terrific you are. Seeing as you’re the one who’s going to make it happen.”

With a grin and a shrug, he looked back out the windshield. “I like...putting things together. Making the pieces fit. Even if it’s only a wall. Because there’s something really satisfying about building something from nothing, you know? No matter how long it takes, or how much you might swear in the process,” he said, and Laurel chuckled.

“I can relate, believe it or not. Even though I’m working with words and ideas and not cement and blocks, it’s sort of the same thing, isn’t it?”

“I never thought about it like that, but...yeah. I guess so.”

They rode in silence for a while until she said, “You know, that Green Day song you were playing earlier? I haven’t heard it in forever. You mind putting it on again?”

Tyler frowned over at her. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

A moment later, the cab was filled with sounds from Laurel’s past, from a time when her future stretched out in front of her, ripe with promise. Not that it still didn’t—the baby shifted again, bumping almost in time with the music—but boy, could her life be any more different than she’d imagined?

“Hey...you okay?” Tyler asked, which is when she realized her cheeks were wet.

Laurel dug in her purse for a tissue, wiped her eyes. Blew her nose. “I’m fine. This takes me back, that’s all.”

“To a better time?”

“To...a different one, maybe. But not better.” She paused. “Or worse. And I have no idea why I’m reacting like this,” she said with a little laugh. “It’s only a song, for heaven’s sake. And it’s not like I don’t listen to old music all the time. Music I have a connection with, even. Like the music my grandmother played—old jazz, Big Band. Perry Como,” she said, chuckling. “But...that was her past, wasn’t it? Her nostalgia? Not mine.”

“I...guess?”

“Sorry. Another hazard of living alone, I spend way too much time in my own head. And it can get kind of creepy in there.”

“Tell me about it,” Tyler muttered as they pulled into her driveway. From his house, they could hear Boomer barking. “Dumb mutt recognizes the sound of my car.”

“Which would make him not dumb at all. Confused, though, since it’s in the wrong spot.”

“You’re probably right.”

And that should have been where she got out of the truck, he switched from her driveway to his and that was that. A total nonevent.

Not their facing each other at the same moment and her saying, “Wanna get a hamburger or something? My treat.”

The music stopped. The dog kept barking, barking, barking...

“Uh...it’s only three o’clock?”

“Oh.” Laurel mentally slapped herself. And not only for not knowing what time it was. “Of course, you’re right. But tell that to this...my stomach.”

“Actually,” he said—very gently, like the way you talk to the crazy woman, “I gotta get back to work for a little bit—”

“Of course, sorry—”

“No, it’s okay. Another time, though?”

“Sure, absolutely.” She climbed out of the truck as gracefully as she could, which wasn’t saying much, and shut the door.

Tyler leaned across the gearshift to talk to her through the open window. “But I’ll still start taking down the fence this evening. You don’t have to be around or anything. If the noise gets too loud, though, let me know—”

“I’ll do that,” she said, backing away, suddenly anxious to get back to her own safe little space, where she could coddle her embarrassment without witnesses. “Thanks. For everything.”

With a little wave, he pulled out of her driveway, and Laurel mustered whatever vestige of dignity she had left to sedately walk across her yard and up her steps.

Instead of, you know, bolting like a freaked-out rabbit.

* * *

“Jeez, what’s with the frowny face?”

With a grunt, Tyler walked past his sister Abigail, sitting cross-legged on the dusty warehouse floor as she sanded flaking black paint off a late-nineteenth-century, wrought-iron chandelier, which she’d then refinish and slap up on eBay...and probably resell for ten times what they paid for it. Naturally, she got up and followed him to the office, a blond terrier in a ponytail and combat boots.

“So did you get the blocks and stuff for the wall?” He threw her a look. “I think that’s called an opening gambit,” Abby said, and he grunted again. “Oooh...frowns and grunts?” She planted her skinny butt on the crappy folding chair across from his equally crappy metal desk. This was a salvage company, not some chi-chi Manhattan office. “Intriguing. But God forbid you clue me in.”

He caught the edge to her voice, tossed it aside. Whatever was going on inside his aching head—and right now, he couldn’t explain it even if he wanted to—it was none of his sister’s business.

“Back off, Abs,” Ty said, reaching for a bottle of pain reliever in his desk. He dumped out a couple of pills, tossing them back without water. With a pushed-out sigh, Abs got to her feet; a moment later he heard the water cooler’s glug-glug as she filled a paper cup.

“Here,” she said, handing him the cup, which he drained.

“Anything of interest happen while I was gone?”

“Not really. Couple of lookie-loos. One couple redoing their house, though, looking for some vintage stuff. I think they’ll be back.” She paused, her gaze sharpening in a way that put Tyler on immediate alert. “The bank called.”

Crap. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” His sister crossed her arms over a paint-blotched T-shirt that emphasized how uncurvy she was. “Why didn’t you tell me you tried to renegotiate the loan?”

Tyler sighed. “Meaning they said no, I take it.”

“I don’t know, they wouldn’t tell me. Since you didn’t include me from the get-go—”

“I was putting out feelers, Abs. That’s all. To see if it was even feasible. I didn’t sign anything, so it’s not like I left your name off—”

“No, you just left me out. As usual. I thought we were supposed to be partners? I mean, are we having trouble making the payments? Not that I’d know, since when I tried to get into the accounting program, you’d changed the password.”

Tyler frowned. “I changed that password a month ago. And I told you the new one. Which you obviously never tried to use.”

Her mouth thinned. “Maybe I didn’t think I needed to. Because I trusted you.”

“Or because, as you’ve said countless times, you hate numbers.”

“I hate going to the dentist, too, but I deal. And I have a right to know what’s going on. Without having to look it up for myself in some cockamamie computer program that makes my eyes cross. Dammit, Ty—I’ve worked every bit as hard as you to get this place up and running! Invested every bit as much in it, too! Emotionally and financially!”

And those pain meds could kick in anytime now. “I know you have, honey. Which is why I didn’t want to say anything until there was something to say. I didn’t want to worry you—”

“Because...you didn’t think I could handle it, what?”

“So sue me for wanting to protect you—”

“I don’t need to be protected, I need to be included! And not only when it suits you, dumbbutt. But why am I wasting my breath? Since you never have, not really. Hell, none of you have—”

“What are you talking about?”

“You, Ethan, Matt, even Bree...it’s like the four of you are all in this secret club or something, because you’re all adopted and I’m not. And I’m the baby. So double whammy, right?”

Tyler almost laughed, which only got him more glaring from his sister. “If it makes you feel any better, we don’t share much with each other, either. Except for maybe Sabrina and Matt, because they’re twins. But the rest of us...” He shook his head. “Trust me, you’re not missing out.”

Breathing hard, Abby kept her gaze glued to his for several seconds, then marched back to the cooler to get her own cup of water, which she downed in three swallows. “You know what?” She crumpled the tiny paper cup, slam-dunking it into the garbage can by Ty’s desk. “You’re right,” she said, sounding a little less steamed. “Because this whole family’s a bunch of emotional retards, aren’t we?”

“What?”

“No, it’s true. We all talk at each other, but nobody talks to anybody. Not really. Well, I don’t know about Matt, now that he’s got Kelly and the kids, maybe he’s loosened up a bit. I hope so, anyway, for their sakes.” She sighed. “And I get it, that simply because we’re family, that doesn’t mean we’re obligated to talk about our innermost feelings and all that crap. And I’m every bit as guilty of that as the rest of you. But...”

Planting her hands on the desk, Abby leaned forward. “This is supposed to be a partnership. So no more keeping secrets about the business, or I’m outta here.” She straightened, her arms crossed. “Got that?”

Tyler kept his smile under wraps, that the toddler who used to follow him around like a puppy—when he was a hard-assed adolescent who definitely did not want some baby tagging along behind him—had turned into such a fierce little thing. He also knew her threat was a lot of hot air, because, like she’d said, she’d poured her heart and soul into making this venture work. Sometimes, even more than Tyler. So it would probably take a lot more than his occasionally keeping her in the dark to make her walk away. Piss her off, absolutely. But she wasn’t going anywhere.

Any more than he was about to change how he did things. Not anytime soon, at least. Because as smart as Abs was, and as good an eye as she had—and as much as Tyler truly respected both of those things—his sister also had a bad habit of letting her feelings get the best of her...an indulgence Tyler hadn’t allowed himself since the fourth grade. He had no problem with Abby giving her heart free rein as far as the esthetic side of things went. But the business end, the money end—for that, you needed a clear head. Focus. Not muddied emotions.

Because all emotions did was mess things up. Make you feel like you’d lost control. Not going back to those days, boy. Ever.

So, yeah—the nuts and bolts that kept this whole thing going, and from going under...that was his province. And he wasn’t about to give it up. However...in the name of familial, not to mention workplace, peace, he supposed he could throw the glowering young woman in front of him a stick.

“Got it,” he said, then picked up the phone, punching the conference call button. “Wanna listen in while I talk to the bank?”

After a moment, Abby nodded, then sat back down, apparently mollified, and Tyler released a long breath that took at least some of the headache with it.

Chapter Three

Seated at her kitchen table, Laurel grinned over her cup of tea as she watched her grandmother contort her eighty-five-year-old body to look out the kitchen window while she washed up the lunch dishes. At, it wasn’t hard to guess, Tyler digging a trench for the wall.

“You do know I have a dishwasher, Gran, right?”

“And you do know he’s taken his shirt off, right?”

“I do now.”

Marian McKinney twisted to frown at Laurel over her shoulder. “And you don’t want to come see?”

“Not particularly,” Laurel said with the most nonchalant shrug she could manage. Tyler in a muscle-hugging T-shirt already left nothing to the imagination. Tyler without the T-shirt...

Yes, she—and her bouncing baby hormones—had gotten over whatever had sent her into a tizzy a few days ago. But still. Some things were best left unseen.

Or thought about.

“And you, Gran, are a dirty old lady.”

Her grandmother swatted in her general direction, flinging water and Palmolive suds across the floor. She had a hot date later, apparently, so was all decked out in a bright purple pantsuit and the diamond studs Grampa had given her for her fiftieth birthday, her glistening white hair appropriately poufed for the occasion.

“I’ll take dirty over dead any day, believe me.”

“Does what’s-his-name know this?”

“Thomas. And if he doesn’t—” she turned, her pale blue eyes twinkling behind her trifocal lenses as she dried her hands on a dish towel “—he’ll soon find out.”

“You hussy.”

“Damn straight,” Gran said, neatly folding the towel before hanging it back up, then carrying her own tea over to sit for a few minutes before she left. Every Saturday, come hell or hurricane, they had lunch—a tradition they’d started when Lauren was in kindergarten, only broken during those years she lived in New York. This time was theirs...and Laurel wasn’t sure which one enjoyed it more.

Despite Gran’s oft-verbalized discomfort with Laurel’s decision to be a single mother. Not because her grandmother was a prude—obviously—but because—

“What did you say his name was again?”

“Tyler. Noble.”

Gran’s forehead crinkled. “Noble, Noble...” She snapped her fingers. “One of Preston and Jeanne Noble’s kids?”

“I have no idea. Who are Preston and Jeanne Noble?”

“He’d just retired from the air force when I met them, oh, way back. Before you came to live with me, when Harold was still alive. Jeanne and I were both working on some fund-raiser or other, Harold and I had dinner with her and the Colonel one evening.” She laughed. “They spent the whole night talking about ‘their’ kids—they’d been fostering for a while by that point, but had adopted two or three as well, as I recall. Not as babies, either, as little kids. Wonderful people,” Gran said on a sigh. “Especially her. I would have loved to have kept up with them, but then Harold got sick and...” She shrugged. “So wouldn’t that be funny, if Tyler was one of theirs? I mean, he’s such a nice young man....”

“Which you could tell after, what, twenty seconds when you took him a sandwich?”

“You’d be surprised how much you can tell in twenty seconds,” she said, and what could Laurel say to that? “Especially when you get to be my age and can spot the BS within ten. And if he is one of the Colonel and Jeanne’s brood—”

“Gran. Honestly.”

“You could have at least invited him in to eat with us—”

“And I already told you, Ty said he only had a few hours to work. He has to go see a client later—”

“Oooh...Ty, is it?”

“For the love of Pete, Gran,” Laurel said, laughing. “Give it a rest.”

“But honey...it’s so hard, raising a child on your own—”

“You managed.”

“You weren’t a newborn. That would’ve killed me.”

“I somehow doubt that.” Laurel got up to rinse out her cup, taking care to avert her eyes from the glorious, slightly sweaty sight twenty feet past the window. After stealing the quickest peek. Long enough to see him bopping his head as he measured, she presumed in time to whatever music was coming through his earbuds. Inwardly sighing, she turned back to her grandmother. “But it’s not as if I’m a teenager, or penniless. Or homeless—”

“No. Just stubborn.”

“Gee. Can’t imagine who I got that from.”

Gran’s grimace bit into a face already deeply lined from too many summers spent on the shore when she was younger, and Laurel smiled. “Besides,” she said gently, “Tyler’s obviously younger than I am, and—”

“Oh, pish. Harold was six years younger than I was. No big deal.”

Laurel’s brows crashed. “I never knew that.”

“Yeah, well, neither did he. Because I lied about my age,” she said with a little “no biggee” flick of her hand. “It was easier to get away with back then. Nobody checked. And since I handled all the household stuff, he had no reason to ever find out. So thank God he went before I did, or that could have been really embarrassing. But anyway,” she said on a huff of air, “Harold could keep up with me, if you get my drift. Until he got sick, anyway. Until then, however—” she did a coy little shoulder wiggle “—ooh-là-là.”

“Except I’m not looking for ooh-là-là.”

“Don’t kid yourself, sweetheart,” Gran said, getting to her feet and collecting the pink quilted Kate Spade bag Laurel’d given her for her eightieth birthday and which she was now never seen without. Thing was getting a little dingy, truth be told. “Everyone’s looking for ooh-là-là.” She nodded pointedly at Laurel’s belly, the pooch still barely visible underneath her roomy—and fortuitously fashionable—top. “Even you, at one point. Obviously.”

“And look how late it is!” Laurel said, ushering her grandmother toward the door. “If you don’t leave now, you won’t make your movie!”

Fully aware of Laurel’s diversionary tactic, Gran chuckled. But at the front door, the older woman turned and grabbed Laurel’s hand. “I can’t help it...I worry about you, baby.” Behind her silver-framed glasses, her eyes filled. “I always have.”

“Then you need to stop,” Laurel said gently. “I’m not that eleven-year-old girl anymore. And believe it or not—” she cupped a hand over The Bump “—I’m happy. Really.”

“But not as happy as you could be.”

Laurel leaned over to kiss her grandmother’s cheek. “I’m fine. Really. Now go have fun with your gentleman friend and I’ll talk to you later.”

“You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

“I learned from the best.”

On another air-swat, Gran turned and descended the porch steps, still on her own steam but definitely more carefully these days. But there was nothing cautious about her sure handling of her brand-new Prius as she smartly steered away from the curb and down the street...even if the car’s stereo was loud enough to hear even with the windows up. Billie Holiday, sing your heart out.

Shaking her head, Laurel went back inside, where her laptop glared balefully from her coffee table. Swatting at it much like her grandmother had at her, she walked back into the kitchen. To...put the washed dishes away, that was it. And if her gaze happened to drift out the window...well. Gaze-drifting happened.

Her cell phone rang, startling the bejesus out of her.

“Hey,” Tyler said. “Your grandmother still there?”

“No, she just left—”

“Got a sec, then? Cause I need you to make a design decision.”

“Seriously?”

“You’re gonna see far more of this wall than I am, so get out here and tell me how you want this pattern to go.”

Laurel shoved her bare feet into a pair of leather flip-flops by the patio door, grabbed a bottle of tea out of the fridge, then went out onto the high-railed deck, mostly in shade this time of day thanks to the thirty-foot sycamore planted smack in the center of the yard. Next summer, she could put a portacrib out here, she thought with a little smile, where the wee one could nap while she wrote....

Tyler turned, grinning and sweaty and glistening, and she actually gulped. So wrong. Because, really, how old was this guy? Twenty-five, twenty-six...?

“Looking good,” she said, then blushed. “The trench, I mean.” Since that’s all there was, at this point. Still grinning, the goofball shook his head, clearly finding amusement in her discomfiture. She held up the tea. “Thirsty?”

“That looks amazing. Yes.”

Laurel skipped down the deck’s stairs—something she probably wouldn’t be able to do for much longer—and crossed the small yard, the cool, too-long grass tickling the sides of her feet. Since she still hadn’t mowed. But the idea that she could mow her own yard...the thought still made her a little giddy.

She handed Tyler the tea, watching the muscles in his damp neck stretch as he tilted his head back, rhythmically pulse as he swallowed. Suddenly not feeling too steady on her pins, she sank onto the bench of her grandmother’s old redwood picnic table a few feet away, grateful for the cool breeze meandering through the leaf-dappled sunlight. Tyler joined her to set the half-drunk tea on the table, then reached behind them for the tablet hidden underneath his rumpled, abandoned T-shirt, and Laurel thought, Whoa. Because, although the bloodhound sense of smell had diminished somewhat after the first trimester, thank God, after a couple hours spent working in the hot sun, the man’s pheromones were singing like the chorus in a Verdi opera.

And she did love her some Italian opera, boy.

“Man, that feels good,” he said, shutting his eyes for a moment as another breeze drifted through. Opening his eyes again, he picked up the T-shirt and swiped it across his chest, and Laurel nearly passed out.

“Nice yard,” he said. “Was it like this when you moved in?”

Yard, okay. That, she could talk about. “The bones were there, but it’d been badly neglected. And of course I moved in during the Winter That Would Not End. Every time I thought I’d get out and start puttering, it’d snow—”

Or she’d feel like the walking dead, tossing her cookies every morning.

“—but now that Mother Nature’s finally stopped with the schitzo routine, I’ve been working on it, little by little, to make it my own. Well, to make it look more like my grandmother’s yard, which I loved. Hers was bigger, though. Much bigger. This is just right, though. For me.”

“Your grandmother’s something else, isn’t she?”

“That’s one way of putting it.” She grinned. “You better watch out—she likes you.”

“I know, older women can’t keep their hands off me,” he said, grinning back. “It’s a curse.”

“I’ll bet,” Laurel said, inwardly sighing as Tyler handed her the tablet and she got another whiff of hot, damp male. One who did not—thank you, Jesus—douse himself in man-stink cologne.

“I was playing around with some design ideas last night, this is what I came up with. But nothing’s set in stone,” he said, then groaned at his own lame joke.

She chuckled then forced her attention to the designs on the screen. “I think...this,” she said, pointing to the top one, all one color except for two rows near the top, where the dark and light blocks alternated, checkerboard style.

“Yeah? Me, too. And you know what else would be really cool, right over there?” Leaning his elbows on the table, Tyler nodded toward the middle of the wall. “A fountain. Like you’d see in an Italian garden. Or English, maybe.” He grinned at her, his mouth adorably lopsided, his hair adorably messy. She could say the feelings surging inside her were more of a maternal nature, but she’d be lying. “You know, where the water’s coming out of the lion’s mouth or something?”

“And where would I get one of those?”

“Actually there’s one at the shop—”

“Of course there is.”

“No, hear me out. It was part of a huge haul from a property over in Weehawken, from like a year ago. If you like it, I’ll let you have it for really cheap.” He winked, and she laughed—because the flirting, it was absurd, really— before, with another smile, he reclaimed the tablet. “Here, let me show you...” He scrolled through his photos, then turned the screen back around.

“Oh, my. That’s quite lovely, isn’t it?”

“I know, right? And it would look perfect there, with some rosebushes and sh—stuff planted around it. You can’t really tell much from the picture, though, you should really see it in person. If you’re interested, I mean.”

“Well...I suppose that depends on the price?”

“Like I said, it was part of a huge haul, we’re already in the black with it. So...twenty bucks?”

“You can’t be serious?”

“Too high? Fifteen?”

“No! Tyler! For heaven’s sake...you can’t tell me you’d normally price something like that so low. Why on earth would you basically give it to me?”

He got quiet, then said, “It’s a really cool piece, for sure—at least, I think so—but to be honest, it looks like it’s a hundred-plus years old. Part of the lion’s nose is missing, and it’s got a lot of dings and cracks. It works fine, but it’s not...perfect.”

“But isn’t that what gives it character?”

“You would think so, yeah. And it’s not like we haven’t sold stuff in worse shape. Far worse shape. I don’t know why this guy hasn’t moved. Unless...” He looked at her from underneath his shaggy hair. “Unless he was waiting for his right home.”

“And you think my wall is it?”

“Could be,” he said with a shrug—and another wink—before getting up again, grabbing the tea to finish it off. Laurel sighed.

“What?” he said, twisting the cap back on.

“Are you even aware you’re flirting with me?”

He actually blushed. “Sorry, I... No. I mean, that’s just me.” Which was exactly what she’d thought. “Didn’t mean to offend you or anything—”

“Oh, I’m not offended at all. Amused, perhaps. And I was going to say flattered.” She sighed. “Until you made it clear it’s not personal.”

“It’s not. I mean...please don’t take this the wrong way, but—”

Yes, that was the story of her life, wasn’t it? And again, exactly as she’d figured. “S’okay, I totally get it. Really. But you might want to pull back on the flirting thing. Because someday, somebody is going to take it the wrong way. And that wouldn’t be good.”

“No, ma’am, it sure wouldn’t.”

Thirty-five, and already ma’amed. So sad.

“So. Anyway,” he said, “I’ll get the footing poured tomorrow. Once that’s set I can start building the wall in the evenings. I don’t intend for it to take too long, though—I miss my dog too much.”

“Oh, that’s right—where is Boomer?”

“At my brother’s. Matt’s Newfoundland and Boomer are best buds—”

“A Newfie? Wow.”

“Wow, is right. Alf’s paw’s about the same size as Boomer’s head.”

Laurel stood as well, the breeze messing with her loose top. “So you have a brother?” At Tyler’s puzzled frown, she smiled. “I’m an only. The idea of siblings always intrigued me.”

With a slight snort, Tyler grabbed the shirt, yanked it over his head. “Actually, I’ve got two. And two sisters.”

“Seriously? Kudos to your mom.” Little Bits started up with his jazz routine, but Laurel stopped herself from laying a hand over her tummy. Even though she had no idea why, it wasn’t as if this was a secret. “That’s a lot of babies to push out.”

“Actually, she didn’t. Except for Abby, the youngest, the rest of us were adopted. And there was always the occasional foster, too—”

“So your family is the one Gran was talking about!”

“Excuse me?”

“When I told her your name, she wondered if your dad was Preston Noble.”

“That’s him, yeah. He—they—adopted me when I was ten.”

“She remembered briefly meeting him and your mom, when my grandfather was still alive. So, years ago. How are they?”

“Pop’s doing okay, I guess. But Mom...she passed away several years ago.”

“Oh...I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, it was rough on the old man. And Abs, she was only fourteen, fifteen, something like that.” He paused then said quietly, “It’s rough, losing your mother when you’re still a kid. Which I guess you know all about, huh?”

“Yeah.”

He picked up the tablet, tucking it to his side. “Mom was great,” he said softly. “Not that the Colonel wasn’t—isn’t—but she was more about going with the flow. Pop’s...he’s a good man, don’t get me wrong, but he had pretty definite ideas about how things should be done—” His phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket, frowned. “Damn, it’s later than I thought. I really need to go—”

“No, it’s okay. I didn’t mean to keep you.”

“Look, I meant it, about wanting you to come see that fountain. Make sure you really like it before I lug it over here. Whenever you want... Here.” He dug in the same pocket for a business card. “If I’m not there, Abs will be. So. Deal?”

“Deal,” Laurel said, and he smiled. Like, right into her eyes, smiled. Then he hopped over the trench and up on his own deck before she finally hauled herself onto hers and back inside, where she turned on the central air the previous owners had installed, bless their hot little hearts.

Unbuttoning her blouse, she stood in the middle of the living room, where cool air washed over her bare, bulging belly. Not as much as some bellies bulged at five months, perhaps, but she definitely no longer looked as though she’d just gone on a doughnut binge.

As in, soon people would start noticing.

Like, say, hunky neighbors and such.

Hunky neighbors who were surprisingly easy to talk to, given how uneasy and tongue-tied and awkward she usually felt around men.

Not bothering to button her top—like who was gonna see?—Laurel returned to the kitchen for her own bottle of tea, reminding herself that even if she hadn’t been pregnant, Tyler and she would have never happened. For a whole slew of reasons, spoken, unspoken, sort-of spoken...whatever. That, frankly, as sweet a kid as he was—and as much as her libido was letting her fantasies run amok—compared with her, he was a kid. And she hadn’t been a kid since...well, ever, really.

She twisted off the cap, took a long swallow, then rubbed the cold, smooth bottle to her overheated forehead. Because for too many years—and except for one single, if major, lapse of judgment—she’d been about what made sense. What was practical.

Which Tyler Noble was definitely not.

On her return to her living room, her laptop once more caught her eye. She should really try to get at least a couple pages done today. Except, you know what? Her deadline wasn’t for another month. And last week the words had flowed quite nicely, thank you. So if all went well she’d get the next book in well before the baby came, and then...

And then, she thought on a sharp intake of air.

Her life would change forever.

A little freaked, truth be told, Laurel plopped on her sofa and grabbed the remote, clicking through the menu until she found, of all things, a cooking show. Since, if she was going to be somebody’s mother, she should probably learn how to feed the kid.

Because that was the practical thing to do.

* * *

Judging from the sounds and scents when Ty stopped by his brother Matt’s after work to pick up the beast, everybody was in the backyard, where Matt’s fiancée’s kids rushed him and both dogs serenaded him like they’d been apart for years.

In front of the grill, Matt was tending enough burgers to feed all of Maple River. Boomer duly acknowledged and reassured, Ty scooped Aislin, Kelly’s curly-headed three-year-old, into his arms and marched over, his stomach rumbling and his head fizzing a little, like it always did when he was around kids. Especially cuties like this one.

“Weren’t expecting you ’til later,” Matt said, flipping the sizzling meat and sending a plume of cow-scented smoke wafting into the humid, early-evening air. “Thought you had a date.”

“She canceled,” he said. Matt gave him a look; Ty shrugged. “It was pretty much done, anyway.” His older brother gave a low chuckle. “What?”

“Nothing. You wanna stay for dinner? Kelly made potato salad that’ll make you weep, no lie. And some ridiculous dessert.” Ty’s future sister-in-law was a caterer. Damn good one, too. “Seriously, if you don’t help us eat this stuff, I’m not gonna fit in my uniform anymore.”

“Can’t stay. Since, now that I’m free—”

“Again. Or is that still?”

Tyler ignored him. “I might as well start on the wall. And you’re a detective, when was the last time you wore a uniform?”

“Whatever—”

“Hey, Uncle Ty!” Tyler grinned over as Cooper, Kelly’s eight-year-old son sprinted across the grass, the late-day sun glinting off his glasses, his warm brown curls. Ty gave the kid a high five.

“How’s it goin’, dude?”

“Great! Dad said he’s gonna set up one of those big swimming pools, right over there!” He pointed to the far corner of the yard, where the Boomer and Alf were noisily wrestling. “Cool, huh?”

“Very cool,” Ty said, shooting his brother a glance. Then, to Coop again: “You can swim?”

“Not yet, but Dad signed Linnie and me up at the Y for lessons—”

“Hey, sport, these are almost done. Go see if your mom’s got the rest of the food ready.”

“On it!”

Linnie squealed to get down; Ty obliged, watching the kids bound off before turning back to his brother. “Dad?” he said, shoving aside the strangest twinge of...something.

Underneath a dark beard haze that passed five-o’clock shadow at least three days ago, Matt grinned. “It just popped out the other day. Not sure which of us was more surprised.”

“I can imagine. How’s it feel?”

His brother lowered the lid on the grill, then crossed his arms. “Amazing? Scary? Humbling, for sure.” Matt glanced toward the house. “I only hope I don’t screw it up.”

Like Tyler, Matt—and his twin sister, Sabrina, who lived in Manhattan—had been adopted when they were older, in their case after their parents died in a car crash. And, since Matt never mentioned his father, Ty suspected there were some unresolved issues there. True, they’d only been six when their folks died, but some things imprint early. He should know.

“Screw it up? Are you kidding? You’ve so got this, man.” Ty clapped his brother’s shoulder. “Seriously.”

Matt sighed, but through a crooked smile. Dude was the happiest Ty had ever seen him. After his skank ex had cheated on him like that? On somebody who, as far as Ty knew, had never done anything wrong in his entire freaking life? He totally deserved to be happy—

“So you ready for the wedding?” Matt asked.

“Hey. All I have to do is show up.” He snatched a piece of American cheese off the plate by the grill. “You’re the one getting married. Again.”

“Your time will come, buddy. Yes, it will, don’t give me that look. You sure you don’t want to stay for dinner? Or you just gonna eat all my cheese?”

“Don’t hold your breath, no, and don’t get your boxers in a bunch, there’s still four pieces left. Okay, three,” he said, stuffing another slice in his mouth.

“Why aren’t you staying?” Kelly appeared like an apparition, setting a bowl of creamy potato salad flecked with bits of red and green something or other on the tempered glass table beside him.

“The wall,” he said, trying not to drool, and she nodded.

“Right. Forgot. Then at least let me send home a doggie bag—”

“You don’t have to do that...”

“No arguments. There’s plenty. And if you stare any harder at the potato salad you’re going to meld with it. Coop, honey? Go get... Oh, never mind, I’ll do it.” She patted Ty’s shoulder. “Do not move.”

After she tromped off, her red curls bouncing between her shoulder blades, Matt chuckled. “The woman lives to feed people. I am so blessed.”

It was true, Ty thought later, as, laden with enough rations to see him through next winter, he parked in his driveway, Boomer panting his head off behind him. His brother had been blessed, in ways Matt probably couldn’t have imagined a few months ago. But then, he’d always wanted a family. Kids. And Ty had no doubt his big brother, who used to keep an eye on all of them like a frickin’ sheep dog, would make a damn good father. Ty, however...

The very thought made him shudder. Not that he wasn’t crazy about his nieces and nephews—their oldest brother, Ethan, had four kids—but having his own? No way. As far as that went—he shoved the dog’s head out of the bag of food, grabbed it and got out of the car—he definitely knew who he was. Or, in this case, wasn’t—

“Boomer! What the hell? Get over here!”

Halfway to Laurel’s, the dog stopped in his tracks, turned around. But only to plant his butt in the grass, then look over his shoulder. Then again at Tyler, all jowly pleading. In the distance, thunder rumbled from black-as-soot clouds, threatening another storm. So much for working outside tonight. Although, truth be told, by the time he finished eating it’d probably be too dark—and he’d be too wiped out—to get much done, anyway.

Then, faintly, even over Laurel’s rumbling air conditioner unit and another round of thunder, Tyler heard music. Not clearly enough to make out what it was, even when he went closer—to get his mule-headed dog—but definitely not punk rock.

He grabbed the dog’s collar and marched him back to the house and up the steps...where he looked over at Laurel’s prissy little house, which sat more forward on the lot than his did. Meaning he could see in her side window pretty good. She had a lamp on, her back to him as she worked at her computer. She’d bunched her hair into a pair of ridiculous-looking ponytails sticking out on either side of her head...and she was swaying to the music. Like, from the depths of her soul.

And...singing?

She stretched out her arms, her head falling back... Yep. Singing.

He laughed out loud.

And Boomer whined, straining to break free of Ty’s grasp. He looked at those pitiful yellow eyes, that even more pitiful underbite...and Kelly had hooked him up with so much food, he’d never be able to eat it all...

This, he could share. In fact, it would be wrong not to.

Phone in hand, he scrolled through his contacts and pressed Send, smiling when he saw Laurel jump. She fumbled for her phone beside the laptop, but he couldn’t see her expression when she checked the display.

“Ty? What—?”

“You eat yet?”

She paused, still staring at her computer screen. “Why?”

“Turn around.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just do it.”

She did, gasping a little when she saw him watching her. The phone still to her ear, she got up, came to the window. Opened it. Now he could hear the music, some kind of jazz. Sultry. Blood-stirring. Was she wearing...pajamas? Hard to tell behind the screen.

“What are you doing?”

Pocketing his phone, Tyler held up the bag. A rain-scented breeze skirted across the porch, messing with his hair. “Inviting you to share a feast. And you can put down the phone now.”

“Oh. Right.” She did. “What kind of feast?”

“Burgers. Potato salad. Regular salad with homemade ranch dressing. And some dessert that defies description.”

“Where did you—?”

“From my brother and sister-in-law. Well, soon to be. In a month. She’s a caterer. As in, her cooking kicks butt. You do not want to pass this up, believe me.”

Laurel lifted her hand to the back of her neck. Apparently felt the ponytails. “I’m already in my jammies,” she said, yanking out first one, then the other, band. She ruffled her hair. To make it lay down again, he supposed. Didn’t work.

“So I see,” he said. “You do realize it’s only seven-thirty?”

“Since I wasn’t expecting company, what’s it to you?”

He grinned. “Should I put mine on, too?”

“Let me guess. You don’t wear any.”

“You spoiled the surprise,” he said, and she laughed. “So. You want to help Boomer and me eat this stuff or not?”

“Do I have to get dressed?”

“Not on my account. Do I have to stay dressed?”

“Yes.”

“Party pooper,” he said, and she laughed again.

“Bring the dog. We’ll eat outside!”

* * *

Laurel’d eaten dinner already, of course. Hours ago. But the budding baby carnivore in her womb leaped at the prospect of hamburgers. And potato salad. As long as the salad was fresh and the hamburgers well-done. Because she wasn’t taking any chances.

As if she hadn’t done that already, she thought, ramming a comb through her sticky-outty hair. And was doing it again, since simply letting Tyler come over was a challenge to what little was left of her hormone-ravaged sanity.

She tossed a lightweight robe on over the pajamas, a set of her grandfather’s she found while packing up Gran’s house. Silk, no less. Comfy as hell. And roomy enough to hide an elephant in. Or, in this case, her little passenger.

The doorbell rang. The loose robe flapping around her thighs, she tramped barefoot through the house and opened the door, bending to get kisses from Boomer before grinning up at Tyler. All nonchalant and stuff.

“I thought the deal was, you were supposed to build the wall and I’d supply the food?”

“And you still can. Just not tonight.” He came in, handing her the bag. “You sure about outside? Sounds like a storm’s coming in.”

“Not here yet, is it?”

“True.”

She carried the food to her kitchen, Boomer keeping her company as she emptied the bag of its carefully packed goodies—still-warm burgers swaddled in heavy-duty foil, the salads in plastic containers inside a thermal lunch box. With an ice pack. Laurel smiled: Whoever this chick was, she already liked her.

“Nice place,” Tyler called from the living room.

“Isn’t it exactly like yours?”

“Not even remotely. I mean, your place actually looks like a grown-up lives here.” He came to the door, leaning on the jamb with his thumbs tucked in his pockets. Grinning. Sexy as hell. “Although the colors are a little girlie for my taste.”

“Well, since a girl lives here, it’s all good. Let’s see...I’ve got tea, milk or water to go with. Name your poison.”

“No beer? Or even soda?”

“’Fraid not,” she said. “Hate the taste of beer, and I stopped drinking soda years ago. Although...hang on...”

She opened the fridge, rummaging about for a moment until she found the half-drunk bottle of white wine, way in the back. She pulled it out, triumphant. “Ta-da!”

Tyler looked like he was trying not to laugh. “Really?”

“What?”

“A, white wine with burgers? And B, how old is that?”

“Okay, you might have a point. Or two.”

He chuckled. “Tea’s fine.” He pushed away from the door and over to the counter, where he started opening containers, and she thought, In another life...

“Silverware’s in that drawer right in front of you,” Laurel said, pulling out another bottle of tea for Tyler, water for herself. “Paper plates in the cupboard above...”

A few minutes later, the storm having moved off to torment someone else, they were out on the deck, the setting sun beginning to tinge the quivering sycamore leaves an apricot gold. Laurel planted herself in one of the two wicker rockers she’d also taken off her grandmother’s hands, while Ty took the other one, setting their food and drinks on a small wrought-iron table between them. Out on the lawn a pair of robins scampered in opposite directions, occasionally stopping, heads cocked, before jabbing their beaks into the grass for a juicy earthworm.

As ravenous as those birdies, Laurel unwrapped her burger, checking to make sure it was cooked through before biting into it. Tyler, who’d chomped down willy-nilly, frowned over at her.

“S’it okay?”

“Delicious,” she said, chewing. “Thank you.”

“Matt tends to cook ’em to death, sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. Really.”

Tyler took a swig of his tea, then leaned back in his chair. “So...you said you were a writer?” Her mouth full, Laurel nodded. “What do you write?”

She swallowed, then grabbed a napkin to wipe ketchupy juice off her chin. “Young adult novels. For hire, though, not really my own stuff.” At his frown, she smiled. “And...you have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Umm...I’m guessing somebody pays you to write books for them?”

“Pretty much, yeah. My publisher gives me the storylines and I flesh them out. For a series aimed at tweens—nine-to twelve-year-old girls. The Hamilton High Good Luck Club. I’m guessing you’ve never heard of it?”

“Um...no. But I’ve got a fifteen-year-old niece... Maybe she has.”

“Very possible. The series has been going for nearly twenty years now. But I’ve only been writing for it for five.”

“Impressive.”

“Not really,” she said with a light laugh. “I write fast, and it pays fairly well. And I don’t have to worry about—” She caught herself. “Traffic. Or clothes.” She plucked at her attire. “Or office gossip. In some ways, it’s the best job in the world. For me, anyway.”

“So you’re cool with telling somebody else’s stories?”

“Oh, I’ve had a couple of other things published. Made bupkiss with them. Love to write, not a big fan of starving. So for now, this is good. And does Boomer always stare like that?”

Because he was sitting in front of them, mouth open, drooling, his eyebrows twitching as he looked from one to the other.

“God, dog,” Tyler said, “you are beyond pathetic. Go lay down!”

On a groan, the dog chuffed over to the railing and collapsed on the boards...but without taking his golden eyes off the burger in Laurel’s hands.

“Oh, come on,” Laurel said. “How can you say no to that face?”

Ty stuffed the last of his burger into his mouth, reached for his plate of salads. “That face is what got me into trouble to begin with.”

“Trouble?”

“Yeah. Okay, so a couple years back, I was dating this girl who decided she wanted a dog. So she asks me to go to the pound with her, help her choose. I say, sure, whatever. And while she’s looking at all these little rat dogs—you know, with those yippy little barks?—I turn around and see this thing sitting in his cage, just...watching me.”

At that, Boomer lifted his head, his attention fixed on Tyler. Whose attention was every bit as fixed on the dog. Laurel smiled.

“He knows you’re talking about him.” Grunting, Tyler dispatched another bite of potato salad. “So what happened?”

“I looked away. Because the dog was creeping me out, staring at me like that. And those teeth.” The dog cocked his head, and Laurel nearly choked on the bite in her mouth. “So anyway, the girl—Hannah—she picks out her dog, we do all the paperwork, and then we leave—”

“You left him there?” Ty looked at her, then tipped his tea bottle at the dog, and Laurel nodded. “Right. Sorry. Continue.”

“Anyway...so I take Hannah and the rat dog back to her house, and then I come home, and I can’t get the damn dog’s face out of my mind. That one, not hers. Hers, I forgot about the minute I dropped her off. But I’m thinking, I don’t want a dog. Don’t need a dog, don’t want the responsibility, the pressure of having to keep something alive...” He blew out a breath. “But that face. Yeah,” he said when Boomer heaved himself to his feet again and came over, his whole back end shimmying as he laid his chin in Tyler’s lap. “This face,” he said, cupping the saggy-jowled head in his hands. “Suckered me right in.”

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