More Than She Expected

“No beer? Or even soda?”

“’Fraid not,” she said. “Hate the taste of beer, and I stopped drinking soda years ago. Although...hang on...”

She opened the fridge, rummaging about for a moment until she found the half-drunk bottle of white wine, way in the back. She pulled it out, triumphant. “Ta-da!”

Tyler looked like he was trying not to laugh. “Really?”

“What?”

“A, white wine with burgers? And B, how old is that?”

“Okay, you might have a point. Or two.”

He chuckled. “Tea’s fine.” He pushed away from the door and over to the counter, where he started opening containers, and she thought, In another life...

“Silverware’s in that drawer right in front of you,” Laurel said, pulling out another bottle of tea for Tyler, water for herself. “Paper plates in the cupboard above...”

A few minutes later, the storm having moved off to torment someone else, they were out on the deck, the setting sun beginning to tinge the quivering sycamore leaves an apricot gold. Laurel planted herself in one of the two wicker rockers she’d also taken off her grandmother’s hands, while Ty took the other one, setting their food and drinks on a small wrought-iron table between them. Out on the lawn a pair of robins scampered in opposite directions, occasionally stopping, heads cocked, before jabbing their beaks into the grass for a juicy earthworm.

As ravenous as those birdies, Laurel unwrapped her burger, checking to make sure it was cooked through before biting into it. Tyler, who’d chomped down willy-nilly, frowned over at her.

“S’it okay?”

“Delicious,” she said, chewing. “Thank you.”

“Matt tends to cook ’em to death, sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. Really.”

Tyler took a swig of his tea, then leaned back in his chair. “So...you said you were a writer?” Her mouth full, Laurel nodded. “What do you write?”

She swallowed, then grabbed a napkin to wipe ketchupy juice off her chin. “Young adult novels. For hire, though, not really my own stuff.” At his frown, she smiled. “And...you have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Umm...I’m guessing somebody pays you to write books for them?”

“Pretty much, yeah. My publisher gives me the storylines and I flesh them out. For a series aimed at tweens—nine-to twelve-year-old girls. The Hamilton High Good Luck Club. I’m guessing you’ve never heard of it?”

“Um...no. But I’ve got a fifteen-year-old niece... Maybe she has.”

“Very possible. The series has been going for nearly twenty years now. But I’ve only been writing for it for five.”

“Impressive.”

“Not really,” she said with a light laugh. “I write fast, and it pays fairly well. And I don’t have to worry about—” She caught herself. “Traffic. Or clothes.” She plucked at her attire. “Or office gossip. In some ways, it’s the best job in the world. For me, anyway.”

“So you’re cool with telling somebody else’s stories?”

“Oh, I’ve had a couple of other things published. Made bupkiss with them. Love to write, not a big fan of starving. So for now, this is good. And does Boomer always stare like that?”

Because he was sitting in front of them, mouth open, drooling, his eyebrows twitching as he looked from one to the other.

“God, dog,” Tyler said, “you are beyond pathetic. Go lay down!”

On a groan, the dog chuffed over to the railing and collapsed on the boards...but without taking his golden eyes off the burger in Laurel’s hands.

“Oh, come on,” Laurel said. “How can you say no to that face?”

Ty stuffed the last of his burger into his mouth, reached for his plate of salads. “That face is what got me into trouble to begin with.”

“Trouble?”

“Yeah. Okay, so a couple years back, I was dating this girl who decided she wanted a dog. So she asks me to go to the pound with her, help her choose. I say, sure, whatever. And while she’s looking at all these little rat dogs—you know, with those yippy little barks?—I turn around and see this thing sitting in his cage, just...watching me.”

At that, Boomer lifted his head, his attention fixed on Tyler. Whose attention was every bit as fixed on the dog. Laurel smiled.

“He knows you’re talking about him.” Grunting, Tyler dispatched another bite of potato salad. “So what happened?”

“I looked away. Because the dog was creeping me out, staring at me like that. And those teeth.” The dog cocked his head, and Laurel nearly choked on the bite in her mouth. “So anyway, the girl—Hannah—she picks out her dog, we do all the paperwork, and then we leave—”

“You left him there?” Ty looked at her, then tipped his tea bottle at the dog, and Laurel nodded. “Right. Sorry. Continue.”

“Anyway...so I take Hannah and the rat dog back to her house, and then I come home, and I can’t get the damn dog’s face out of my mind. That one, not hers. Hers, I forgot about the minute I dropped her off. But I’m thinking, I don’t want a dog. Don’t need a dog, don’t want the responsibility, the pressure of having to keep something alive...” He blew out a breath. “But that face. Yeah,” he said when Boomer heaved himself to his feet again and came over, his whole back end shimmying as he laid his chin in Tyler’s lap. “This face,” he said, cupping the saggy-jowled head in his hands. “Suckered me right in.”