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