More Than She Expected. Karen Templeton

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      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.