Karen Templeton - More Than She Expected

“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 Templetonhas 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.

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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.”