ponytails. “I’m already in my jammies,” she said, yanking out first one, then the other, band. She ruffled her hair. To make it lay down again, he supposed. Didn’t work.
“So I see,” he said. “You do realize it’s only seven-thirty?”
“Since I wasn’t expecting company, what’s it to you?”
He grinned. “Should I put mine on, too?”
“Let me guess. You don’t wear any.”
“You spoiled the surprise,” he said, and she laughed. “So. You want to help Boomer and me eat this stuff or not?”
“Do I have to get dressed?”
“Not on my account. Do I have to stay dressed?”
“Yes.”
“Party pooper,” he said, and she laughed again.
“Bring the dog. We’ll eat outside!”
* * *
Laurel’d eaten dinner already, of course. Hours ago. But the budding baby carnivore in her womb leaped at the prospect of hamburgers. And potato salad. As long as the salad was fresh and the hamburgers well-done. Because she wasn’t taking any chances.
As if she hadn’t done that already, she thought, ramming a comb through her sticky-outty hair. And was doing it again, since simply letting Tyler come over was a challenge to what little was left of her hormone-ravaged sanity.
She tossed a lightweight robe on over the pajamas, a set of her grandfather’s she found while packing up Gran’s house. Silk, no less. Comfy as hell. And roomy enough to hide an elephant in. Or, in this case, her little passenger.
The doorbell rang. The loose robe flapping around her thighs, she tramped barefoot through the house and opened the door, bending to get kisses from Boomer before grinning up at Tyler. All nonchalant and stuff.
“I thought the deal was, you were supposed to build the wall and I’d supply the food?”
“And you still can. Just not tonight.” He came in, handing her the bag. “You sure about outside? Sounds like a storm’s coming in.”
“Not here yet, is it?”
“True.”
She carried the food to her kitchen, Boomer keeping her company as she emptied the bag of its carefully packed goodies—still-warm burgers swaddled in heavy-duty foil, the salads in plastic containers inside a thermal lunch box. With an ice pack. Laurel smiled: Whoever this chick was, she already liked her.
“Nice place,” Tyler called from the living room.
“Isn’t it exactly like yours?”
“Not even remotely. I mean, your place actually looks like a grown-up lives here.” He came to the door, leaning on the jamb with his thumbs tucked in his pockets. Grinning. Sexy as hell. “Although the colors are a little girlie for my taste.”
“Well, since a girl lives here, it’s all good. Let’s see...I’ve got tea, milk or water to go with. Name your poison.”
“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!”
