Expectations. Brenda Novak

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      Jenna’s eyes darted from the cash register to the pregnancy test

      It seemed to be lying on the conveyor belt screaming, “Jenna thinks she’s pregnant!” She craned her neck down the aisle, and just as she feared, spotted Adam and Ryan on their way back.

      By the time the checker turned her attention to Jenna’s purchases, it was too late to ask her to ring up the pregnancy test separately. Adam and her son were within hearing distance. Maybe they wouldn’t notice it, she prayed, but lost all hope of that when the checker tried to run the package through the scanner and it wouldn’t beep. Frowning, the woman picked up her microphone. “Johnny? Would you get me the price of the First Choice Pregnancy Test? Aisle 9, I think.”

      Jenna took a gulp of air and held it as Adam’s jaw dropped and his eyes flew to her face. She gave an uncomfortable laugh. “Where did that come from?” she asked. “That’s not mine.”

      The checker blinked at her. “You don’t want this?”

      “No, it’s not mine.” Jenna could feel her cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Maybe it belonged to the person in front of me.”

      “Mrs. Jones?” The checker scoffed outright. “She must be sixty-five. I don’t think so, honey.” She shoved the pregnancy test off to one side.

      Jenna wanted only to get out of the grocery store and away from the First Choice box as soon as possible.

      Dear Reader,

      I can’t tell you how happy I am to be a new Superromance author and to be able to share Expectations, my first contemporary romance, with you.

      Not long ago, when I visited the picturesque town of Mendocino along the northern California coast, I knew I wanted to set a book there. Expectations is that book. It’s a story about coming home, about two people who are, for very different reasons, eager to leave the small, close community where they grew up. One ventures into the world and meets with success; the other must come to terms with a failed marriage. But they’re both searching for something when they come home again—and what they find, surprises even them.

      I’d love to hear what you think of Expectations or answer any questions you may have. And I hope you’ll look for my next book later this year. You can contact me at P.O. Box 3781, Citrus Heights, CA 95611, or via my web site at www.brendanovak.com where the dates and titles of my upcoming books will be listed, along with current book-signing information.

      Happy reading!

      Brenda Novak

      Expectations

      Brenda Novak

      To my editor, Paula Eykelhof.

       For her open heart and open mind.

       For treating authors with patience and respect.

       For listening to me when I was an unpublished writer

       fumbling through my first verbal pitch, and seeing the

       potential in spite of the nerves.

      I would like to acknowledge the assistance

       of René Stwora-Hale, criminal prosecutor, for her advice

       on matters legal. And I would like to thank Kim Grace

       for giving me those precious few, guilt-free hours to write

       without distractions. Thanks also to my sister,

       Tonya Schmidt, for her interest in and excitement

       about my work.

      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

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY

      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      EPILOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      WAS SOMEONE BREAKING IN?

      Jenna Livingston stiffened beneath the fluffy comforter of her bed. The Mendocino house, which she helped run as a bed-and-breakfast, was more than a hundred years old. It had its share of nighttime settling noises. And the sea was never silent. Less than a half mile away, surf pounded constantly against the tall black rocks of the Northern California coast, a life rhythm for the small community.

      But this noise…this was different. She might have thought Ryan had awakened, but her son’s room opened off her own and the door between them was still closed.

      Straining to hear beyond the rasp of her own breathing and the thump of her heart, Jenna waited.

      There it was again. Scratching against the side of the house. A bump. Coming from downstairs.

      Had Mr. Durham heard it? Jenna listened for movement in the room across the hall.

      A snore loud enough to reach through two doors answered her. Lyle Durham, the seventy-year-old owner of Victoriana Bed-and-Breakfast, was obviously sound asleep. His sixty-nine-year-old wife, Myrtle, probably snored right along with him. She wore hearing aids, which she removed at bedtime along with her teeth. And there were no paying guests tonight. Tourist season was over. Except for the occasional weekend when visitors again swelled the local population, the advent of autumn left the small town of Mendocino quiet and close.

      Creeping out from under the covers, Jenna pulled on a robe over the tank top and bikini underwear she wore to bed. If her own troubled thoughts hadn’t kept her awake, she doubted she would have heard anything, either. But these days she spent more time tossing and turning than she did sleeping, and the effects were beginning to show. She was jumpy, not yet at peace with the recent changes in her life.

      Another thump led Jenna to the top of the stairs, where she squinted into the darkness below. Running a hand through her long tangled hair, she considered waking the Durhams, then decided against it. Mrs. Durham would call the police, Mr. Durham would insist on going alone to investigate, and if Ryan got up, he’d find himself in the middle of another frightening episode.

      A lot of unnecessary fuss if the trouble turned out to be nothing more than an alley cat getting into the garbage again. Besides, if it came to facing a burglar, Jenna trusted her own skills more than she did the old man’s bravado. She felt almost as protective of the Durhams as she did of Ryan. They had taken her in at a time when she badly needed someone; they treated her like a member of the family.

      The stairs creaked as Jenna descended, one hand on each wall to help keep her balance. The moonlight, which had filtered easily through the sheer curtains of the upper bedrooms, struggled to reach the dark interior of the lower level. Heavy draperies and blinds covered the tall thick-paned windows, but Jenna wasn’t about to give her presence away by turning on a lamp. Not when she already knew where each and every piece of furniture was. After her arrival at the end of August, she’d helped redecorate the place and had selected and arranged its many antiques.

      Tiptoeing past a Louis XVI settee with matching chairs,