Neighbor, handyman and…husband? One woman finds her heart’s desire right in her own backyard in award-winning author Karen Templeton’s newest addition to her popular miniseries Jersey Boys!
He’s just a friend! is the mantra pregnant Laurel Kent lives by while pretending not to stare at sexy Tyler Noble, the gorgeous neighbor who’s been all-too-kindly playing Mr. Fix-It in her house. After all, she needs the help more than she cares to admit—her sharp-tongued grandmother is her only family. But it’s getting nearly impossible to ignore the sparks and butterflies she feels in her tummy every time he smiles at her…and that’s not the baby talking!
It’s ironic to Tyler that he’s repairing the fence separating his yard from Laurel’s when all he wants is zero barriers between them! Sure, she’s pregnant, and no, she insists she’s not looking for Husband #2. But he knows if she’d give him a chance, he could prove that he’s the missing piece needed to complete her new family….
“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.
Dear Reader,
I’m sure nearly every woman reading this has thought at some point—after asking a spouse/spawn/underling for the thousandth time for help with something—“You know what? Forget it. I’ll just do it myself.” Because so often that seems like the easier, and less stressful, route to take, right? Except then we not only burden ourselves with all the stuff we shouldn’t be doing, but we’re denying others the opportunity to step up to the plate.
Not an easy lesson to learn, though. Especially for Laurel Kent, who, after being left in the lurch far too often by people she should have been able to count on, has decided going it alone is much more preferable to putting her trust in somebody else…and then being disappointed. What she doesn’t realize, however, is that by letting Tyler Noble into her and her baby boy’s life, she’s actually giving her cutie-patootie younger neighbor the chance to grow from man-child to man…and to be far more than either one of them would have ever expected him to be. And that’s never a bad thing. ;-)
I hope you enjoy this story of unexpected opportunity and answered dreams as much as I loved telling it.
Blessings,
Karen Templeton
MORE THAN SHE EXPECTED
Karen Templeton
Books by Karen Templeton
Harlequin Special Edition
§Husband Under Construction #2120
+Fortune’s Cinderella #2161
¤The Doctor’s Do-Over #2211
¤A Gift for All Seasons #2223
¤The Marriage Campaign #2242
§§The Real Mr. Right #2313
§§More Than She Expected #2324
Silhouette Special Edition
**Baby Steps #1798
**The Prodigal Valentine #1808
**Pride and Pregnancy #1821
ΩDear Santa #1864
ΩYours, Mine…or Ours? #1876
ΩBaby, I’m Yours #1893
§A Mother’s Wish #1916
§Reining in the Rancher #1948
ΩFrom Friends to Forever #1988
§A Marriage-Minded Man #1994
§Welcome Home, Cowboy #2054
§Adding Up to Marriage #2073
Harlequin Romantic Suspense
∆Plain-Jane Princess #1096
∆Honky-Tonk Cinderella #1120
What a Man’s Gotta Do #1195
Saving Dr. Ryan #1207
Fathers and Other Strangers #1244
Staking His Claim #1267
♦Everybody’s Hero #1328
♦Swept Away #1357
♦A Husband’s Watch #1407
Yours Truly
*Wedding Daze
*Wedding Belle
*Wedding? Impossible!
**Babies, Inc.
∆How to Marry a Monarch
*Weddings, Inc.
♦The Men of Mayes County
ΩGuys and Daughters
§Wed in the West
+The Fortunes of Texas:
Whirlwind Romance
¤Summer Sisters
§§Jersey Boys
Other titles by this author available in ebook format.
KAREN TEMPLETON
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 Harlequin. 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
Excerpt
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?”
&nbs
p; 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 he
rself, 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.”
More Than She Expected Page 1
