Terry Mclaughlin - A Small-Town Reunion

“Sometimes the answer is right there in front of you.”

“You’re right, Addie.” Dev caught her wrist as he rose from the stool. “Sometimes it is. All you have to do is look. I’ve been looking for a long, long time. And look what I’ve found.”

He released her wrist to raise his hand to her hair. He’d been wanting — waiting, for a lifetime — to pull those clips and bands from the top of her head, to watch the sunshine-bright strands fall around her shoulders, to plunge his hands into her thick, luscious hair. And now she was here, standing before him with her eyes wide and locked on his and her lips parted in a breathless surprise that matched his own.

Her lids fluttered closed as his thigh brushed hers. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Yes, you do. We could start with a kiss and go from there.”

“A kiss?”

“Do you need a demonstration?”

She huffed out a shaky little breath and opened her eyes, tilting back her head to give him a sassy smirk. “I know what a kiss is.”

“Yes, but you’ve never been kissed by me.”

TERRY MCLAUGHLINspent a dozen years teaching a variety of subjects including Anthropology, Music Appreciation, English, Drafting, Drama and History to a variety of students from Kindergarten to college before she discovered romance novels and fell in love with love stories. When she’s not reading and writing, she enjoys travelling and planning house and garden improvement projects. Terry lives with her husband in northern California on a tiny ranch in the redwoods. Visit her at www.terrymclaughlin.com.

Dear Reader,

When people ask me what I do for a living, I tell them I write love stories. I always enjoy seeing their faces light up at my response — at the idea of having a justifiable excuse to spend lots of time in my own make-believe worlds with characters whose struggles always end happily. Writing — and reading — love stories is a terrific way to spend the day, don’t you think?

In A Small-Town Reunion, I enjoyed creating a world in which a first love gets a second chance. And I got the opportunity to experiment with a craft I’d always wanted to learn: making stained glass windows. You see, I had one of those justifiable reasons to satisfy my curiosity: the heroine in this book is a stained glass artist. Sometimes I not only create interesting careers and adventures for my characters — I get to share in a bit of them, too.

I always love to hear from my readers! Please come for a visit to my website at www.terrymclaughlin.com, or find me at wetnoodleposse.blogspot.com or www.superauthors.com, or write to me at PO Box 5838, Eureka, CA 95502.

Wishing you stories with happy endings,

Terry McLaughlin

A SMALL-TOWN

REUNION

TERRY McLAUGHLIN

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

For Rick at The Glass Works

with gratitude for his patience with all my questions

and for the stained glass beauty he’s added to our home.

AN EXPLOSION JOLTED Addie Sutton awake to a shuddering, dark world of groaning woodwork and rattling windowpanes. Her bedroom floor jerked and pitched in nauseating waves, and her tall oak dresser pitched forward and slammed against the iron frame at the foot of her bed.

Not an explosion.

An earthquake.

“Dilly!” She grabbed her oversize cat before he could leap from his spot beside her. A dresser drawer jounced open, wedging against her foot and spewing socks and lingerie over the quilt. The lamp on her nightstand toppled and smashed on the wood floor. Shards from the Tiffany-style shade skittered and danced across the hardwood planks, spreading in a path that threatened to shred bare feet and paws.

She clasped the hissing, struggling cat to her chest, shrinking against her pillows to wait it out. For how long—twenty seconds? Thirty? How strong were the tremors? Where was the epicenter? It could be anywhere—this stretch of the northern California coast was a crazy quilt of fault lines.

Another crack-and-jerk rammed the headboard against the folding screen behind it, toppling the divider separating her sleeping alcove from the living area of her small apartment. Somewhere in the kitchen something fell and shattered. How much more broken glass would she find in her shop?

“The shop,” she whispered in the sudden silence marking the end of the final tremor.

A Slice of Light—her stained glass shop in Carnelian Cove. She stared at the jagged, moonlit pieces on her floor and wondered if she’d find more costly rubble scattered about the workplace beyond her apartment door. She had to get out there, to check on her projects and supplies, to try to salvage and stow what she could before the aftershocks hit.

With a quake that strong, aftershocks were sure to follow.

She kicked free of the quilt, slid across the mattress and carried Dilly to the armoire angled in one corner of her bedroom space. She managed to keep her grip on her squirming pet while she slipped into a pair of flip-flops, and then she dumped him into the cramped closet area.

“Sorry, Dill,” she said as she shut the door. “You may develop a case of kitty claustrophobia, but it’s better than slicing up your paws.”

She shoved the dresser upright with a grunt, then carefully picked her way around the remains of the lamp shade. Edging past the fallen screen and into the open living space, she flipped the switch for the chandelier swaying above her kitchen table. “Oh, no.”

The pretty little pitcher she’d stuffed with marguerites the evening before had broken in a dozen pieces when it hit the floor. Books had slumped and slid from their shelves, and two of them lay facedown in the puddle of flower-specked water. She plucked them from the wet mess and mopped at the pages with a corner of the tablecloth before spreading them open to dry.

Behind her, the cell phone on her nightstand trilled an inappropriately cheerful tune. She lifted the screen as she moved toward her bedroom area, folding it so it would stand upright and out of the way. Soft light from the chandelier fell across the face of the old enamel clock hanging on the wall opposite her bed, and she squinted to make out the time. Five forty-three. It would be light soon; sunrise came early in late June.

She picked up the phone and returned to the kitchen. “Hello?”

“Addie.” Lena Sutton, her mother, had always been able to inject galaxies of worry and relief—or impatience and annoyance—into that one word. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” Addie rolled her tiny island butcher block back into place and frowned at the remains of a fruit bowl at her feet. “I’ve found a broken lamp and a vase and bowl so far, but I managed to catch Dilly before he stepped on the pieces. How about you?”