Books 1-3

by B. C. Burgess

  “Same place, same house.”

  Layla threw him a sideways glance. “You still live with your parents?”

  “I do. Does that worry you?”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Because I don’t need to move,” he answered. “I have a great relationship with my parents and all the freedom and privacy I want. Until I have a reason to go, I’ll stay.”

  “You guys don’t get on each other’s nerves and fight about petty stuff? Like most families?”

  “We don’t fight,” he claimed.

  “Ever?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s unusual.”

  “Maybe,” he conceded, “but it’s always been that way for me. I’ll move out when I need to. In the meantime, I enjoy living at home.”

  If he was telling the truth, sincerely unashamed that he enjoyed his parents’ company, Layla found that he lived with them endearing.

  “Liz Story?” he asked, holding up her phone.

  Layla looked over, cheeks flushing. “She’s a pianist.”

  “I know,” Quin replied. “She plays beautifully. I’m just surprised to find her in your selection. Have you heard George Winston’s Autumn album?”

  Layla looked over, baffled by his knowledge of American pianist. Then she reached out, cueing up George Winston.

  “Guess that’s a yes,” Quin said, returning her music to her center console. “Do you play?”

  “I wish,” Layla replied, “but I had too much going on to squeeze lessons in as a child, and I didn’t want to learn if I couldn’t devote myself to it. You?”

  “A little,” he answered, pointing out her turn, “but I’m by no means devoted.”

  After parking next to the beach, Layla grabbed her coat and exited the car, determined not to sit around long enough for him to open her door. She slipped the jacket on as she walked around the bumper. Then she paused at the open passenger door, curiously tilting her head.

  He’d removed his shoes and was tucking them in a black leather bag tied to his waistband. When he straightened, he ran his gaze from her head to her toes.

  “You should leave your shoes in the car,” he suggested.

  “We haven’t made it to the sand,” she objected.

  Quin ignored her protest and knelt, undertaking the task himself. “Lift your foot,” he instructed, patting the top of her right shoe.

  Oh—my—god. This beautiful guy was removing her stinky shoes and socks. “I can do that, you know,” she challenged.

  “Just lift your foot,” he returned, grinning up at her.

  She reluctantly obeyed, blushing like mad as he slipped off her shoe. His hand slid over her ankle, and she rolled her eyes at the sky, refusing to look as he searched for the top of her sock. When his fingertips brushed her leg, her heart raced and her throat swelled.

  “Here,” he said, laying her sock flat on the cement, “stand on this while I get the other one.”

  Layla did as she was told. “The ground’s freezing,” she pressed.

  “You won’t be on it for long,” he countered, removing her other shoe, and Layla furrowed her eyebrows, wondering what he meant.

  Once she was barefoot and standing on two socks, he straightened, sweeping her off her feet as he rose. By the time she found her wits, she was cradled against his chest, her flaming face a mere inch from his. She barely breathed, ignoring the lump in her throat lest he notice her gulp it down.

  She’d never met anyone like him, an extraordinarily gorgeous gentleman, and she couldn’t believe he was holding her in his arms on a beach in Oregon. The moment was surreal, something a person reads about in books or sees on movies, but never actually experiences, yet here she was. Unless she was having a vivid and fantastic dream.

  “Put your arms around my neck,” he instructed.

  “What?” she squeaked, eyes widening.

  “Hold on to my neck so I can pick up your socks.”

  Layla hesitantly wrapped her arms around his neck, taking a big, shaky breath filled with his earthy scent—leather, amber and cedar… and a hint of citrus.

  She barely felt movement as he tossed her discarded footwear into the passenger seat and closed the door.

  “How are your feet?” he asked, returning his arm to her back.

  Layla lightly cleared her throat as she reluctantly loosened her grip. “Chilly, but tolerable.”

  “Tell me if that changes,” he insisted, leaving her car behind.

  Despite the fact that he was barefoot and never looked where he was going, he navigated over rocks with ridiculous ease. “You’re stunning, Layla,” he noted, like it was something people said every day. “And the longer I look at you, the more beautiful you become.”

  Layla tried to maintain eye contact, but couldn’t.

  “You’re not used to compliments,” he concluded.

  “No,” she confessed, looking back up. “Not ones like that.”

  “That’s too bad,” he scowled, but then he raised his eyebrows. “We’ll have to change that.”

  Layla’s cheeks flamed, and he grinned, overtly amused by her embarrassment. “Should I keep carrying you?” he asked.

  Layla looked down, surprised to see sand. “I’ll walk. Until my feet succumb to frostbite.”

  “I’ll warm them up when I give you a ride back,” he offered, lowering her legs.

  Layla smiled and wiggled her feet into silky smooth sand, receiving a chill when the freezing silt slipped between her toes. It felt wonderful despite the cold, or perhaps because of it. “Now I see why you told me to leave my shoes in the car,” she conceded, walking toward the water. “This feeling is definitely worth the shock.”

  “I think so, too,” he approved. “Everyone should try it at least once.”

  They quickly approached the high tide line, outlined by lumps of dark kelp, so they halted, looking out at the turbulent ocean. The sun had fallen beyond a line of deep purple clouds, a mere sliver of electric orange peeking from stormy depths, and Haystack Rock—a towering basalt monolith—was cast in pitch black shadows, contrasting beautifully with the colorful horizon.

  “Wow,” Layla breathed, grabbing her ponytail so the wind would stop toying with it.

  “We missed the final plunge,” Quin noted. “You would have had a more detailed view ten minutes ago.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Layla replied. “This is perfect. Well,” she added, wrinkling her nose, “a little fishy.”

  Quin smiled and breathed deep. “Can’t avoid that. You’ll want to be careful if you come here alone. Keep your eyes peeled for sneaker waves and debris. It’s common for entire trees to wash up.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” Layla mumbled, looking east for the moon, but she couldn’t find it through the clouds.

  “It can be,” Quin confirmed, tucking his hands in his pockets.

  Layla looked back to the horizon, watching the sun’s final flicker fade into the sea. Then Quin’s voice broke through the chorus of crashing waves.

  “Why did you move to Oregon, Layla?”

  She abandoned the ocean view, tilting her head back to find a better one. In the dark, Quin’s eyes were like shiny, onyx marbles framed by black velvet lashes. “I heard it’s a nice place to live,” she answered, short of breath.

  “Where were you living?” he asked.

  “Oklahoma.”

  “That’s a long way away. Don’t you have people there who’ll miss you?”

  “Sure. My friends Travis and Phyllis will miss me.”

  “No family?”

  “No.”

  His forehead creased, but he didn’t press for an explanation. “Still, that’s a big leap of faith—moving halfway across the country for no reason.”

  “Is it not a leap of faith even if you have a reason?” she countered.

  He pulled his right hand from his pocket and slowly reached up, halting an inch from her face. Then he moved his fingers to a spiral that had escaped her ponytail. “I guess it w
ould be. Did you have a reason?”

  “I wanted to get out of Oklahoma,” she answered, more enraptured by him than the world’s largest ocean.

  “And you heard Oregon was nice,” he returned, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

  Layla chewed her lip, wondering how much she should divulge. Then she took another leap of faith. “I recently found out I have family here.”

  “There it is,” he approved. “Are you here to see them?”

  “Um . . . not really. I don’t know their names, let alone their addresses, so I’ll probably never meet them. It was just time for a move, and Oregon was as good a place as any.” She glanced at the ocean then back to his face. “Better actually.”

  They silently watched each other for several seconds, Layla’s heart beating madly as Quin wrapped a curl around his finger, sending chills through her scalp. When goose bumps tickled her spine, she shivered, and her cheeks flamed as she tore her gaze from his.

  “What about you?” she asked. “Do you have family here? Besides your mom and dad?”

  “I have a very large family,” he answered.

  “That’s nice.”

  “I think so.”

  Layla liked that he spoke politely about his family. She felt it spoke volumes about his maturity. “Do you work anywhere?” she asked. “Besides the café?”

  He laughed, and Layla grinned at the sand, wondering how such a strong guy could sound so sweet.

  “I work with my parents,” he answered. “You could say we’re contractors, but we also design and decorate the spaces we construct.”

  “The whole nine yards, huh? Did you go to college for that?”

  “No. I’ve been involved in the business my entire life. After I graduated high school, my parents made me a partner.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Sure. It’s creative work, and I get all the days off I want.”

  “That is a perk,” she laughed. “Do you think that’s what you’ll always do?”

  “Unless something better comes along. What about you? Do you have a career?”

  Embarrassed by her answer, Layla looked away. “No. I was a waitress. Not a career waitress, a diner waitress.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “I didn’t hate it. I worked with the friends I mentioned—Travis and Phyllis, so it was a pretty easygoing atmosphere.”

  “It helps to like the people you work with.”

  She nodded her agreement. Then there was another lull in the conversation, but Layla soon swept the uncomfortable silence away. At least she found it uncomfortable. He seemed content just staring at her. “I haven’t asked what your last name is,” she remembered.

  “Kavanagh,” he answered, “with a K.”

  “How old are you, Quinlan Kavanagh?”

  “I turned nineteen last Saturday. You?”

  “I turned eighteen on the third.”

  “Happy late birthday,” he offered.

  “You, too,” she returned.

  He gently pulled his forefinger from her hair then took her cheek in his large palm. “Do you have to go back to Portland tonight?”

  Layla swallowed, trying to breathe evenly. “If I want to sleep, I do.”

  “My aunt owns an inn here,” he revealed, “right down the street. She would gladly give you a free room.”

  “I don’t want to impose.”

  “You wouldn’t be,” he insisted. “You’d be doing me a favor.”

  “How so?”

  “I want to see you tomorrow.”

  Layla’s heart stuttered then raced. “Um . . .” She didn’t want to seem too willing, but the idea of seeing him again was her idea of heaven. Besides, she was dreading the dark and curvy drive back to Portland. “Okay, but I’m paying for the room.”

  “That’s not necessary,” he assured.

  “Yes it is,” she argued. “I won’t stay otherwise.”

  “If you must,” he caved, “but she’s going to give you a discount.”

  “Fine,” Layla sighed, feigning annoyance.

  Quin laughed as he glanced at her car. “I guess you have clothes with you?”

  “Everything I own is in there,” she confirmed.

  “If you’re missing something, we can stop by one of the shops.”

  Layla offered him a knowing grin. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “I’m going to try one more time,” he quietly persisted, moving a little closer. “Then I’ll give it a rest. Will you let me buy you breakfast at Cinnia’s in the morning?”

  Layla didn’t have to think too hard about that one. “Throw in a cup of coffee and it’s a deal.”

  Quin’s dimples deepened, and Layla stared at them for a long moment before looking to his eyes. What she found in their dark depths captured her undivided attention, and the rest of the world melted away. Until a damn yawn obstructed the gorgeous view.

  “Ready for your ride back?” he asked, reaching into his bag.

  Layla didn’t want the night to end, but the thought of seeing him in the morning made it easier. Plus, her feet were freezing, so she nodded her agreement.

  In the blink of an eye he’d swept her into a cradle hold. Then he knelt, bracing her weight on his knee as he wrapped her feet in a piece of black velvet, which was the same temperature as his body—weirdly warm in a wonderful way.

  Layla knew she must look like a fool as she gawked at his handy work, but she was blown away by his oddly thorough and romantic demeanor. By the time she shook her dumb expression away, he was lithely carrying her across the beach, watching her face instead of his path.

  Quin showed Layla to his aunt’s seaside inn then dug her largest suitcase from her trunk, carrying it through a wide, wooden arch into a quiet lobby.

  A tall, slender woman occupied the stool behind the desk, absorbed in a leather-bound book, and she, like everyone else Layla had met that evening, was incredibly beautiful. What’s with this place, Layla wondered, feeling like she’d stumbled into a secret commune of models.

  “Hey, Quin,” the woman greeted, barely glancing up. Then she did a double-take, snapping her book shut as she scanned Layla from head to toe.

  “Dion,” Quin returned. “This is Layla. She needs a room for the night.”

  “Sure,” Dion murmured, blindly picking out a room key. “Nice to meet you, Layla.”

  “You, too,” Layla offered, wondering why everyone looked at her weird when they were the anomalies.

  Dion’s intrigued gaze never wavered as she handed the key across the desk. “Room 203.”

  “She insists on paying,” Quin said, taking the key, “but she’ll accept a discount.”

  “Oh,” Dion mumbled. “Thirty dollars?”

  Layla dug into her bag, coming out with two twenties. “Keep the change. I know these rooms are more than forty dollars.”

  Dion threw Quin a glance then placed the money in the till. “Need anything else?”

  “Yeah,” Quin answered, pointing behind the counter. “Do you have one of Morrigan’s CDs back there?”

  Layla looked at him in confusion, but apparently Dion knew what he was talking about, because she swiveled on her stool and opened a drawer of CDs. “Here it is,” she said, passing him a plain white case with the name Morrigan hand-written across the front.

  “Great,” he approved, smiling at Layla. “Ready?”

  Layla nodded and waved goodbye to Dion. Then she followed Quin to the second level.

  “Who’s Morrigan?” she asked, pointing at the CD.

  “The best pianist I’ve heard play,” he answered, unlocking room 203.

  Layla’s mouth fell open. “And you know her?”

  “Yep,” he confirmed, holding the door open.

  Layla entered the room and slowly spun in a circle, scanning the tidy yet cozy décor. With its high ceiling and unique furnishings, the elaborate space felt more like a master bedroom than a hotel room.

  “Is Dion your aunt?” she asked, admiring the fram
ed art work.

  “No,” he answered, laying her suitcase and room key on the bed. Then he walked to a corner desk, propping Morrigan’s CD against a stereo. “My aunt’s name is Karena. She tries to avoid working nights. What time would you like breakfast?”

  Layla looked at the clock—half past eight. And it would undoubtedly take her a while to fall asleep. “How about nine?”

  “Great,” he agreed, showing himself out. Once he was in the hallway, he turned and pointed toward the threshold. “I’ll be here at 8:45.”

  “I’ll be ready,” she replied, stunned by the night’s events. She felt like she was dreaming. Perhaps she was. Maybe she’d still be in Portland when she woke up. As she watched Quin’s alert and shiny eyes, she sincerely hoped not.

  “Goodnight, Layla Callaway,” he whispered.

  “Goodnight, Quinlan Kavanagh,” she returned.

  He grinned and reached for the doorknob, giving her a heart-melting wink as he shut himself out.

  Chapter Nine

  Quin stared at Layla’s closed door for a long time before walking away, trying to absorb and accept reality. Not an easy thing to do when reality had once seemed impossible.

  The further away he traveled, the quicker his steps became, his muscles tense and edgy as he leaped over a railing and down the stairwell. He had no idea how this would play out, which pissed him off. One wrong move and she could flee.

  He was within sight of the front desk, but he didn’t slow down.

  “What’s going on, Quin?” Dion asked. “Who is she?”

  “She’s harmless,” he assured. “But you need to keep this meeting to yourself. If she leaves, call me. See you tomorrow.” Then he was out the door.

  He looked around, finding the parking lot deserted, so he dug into the bag at his waist, pulling out a black velvet cloak much larger than the satchel from which it came. Within seconds he was bathed in black, practically invisible. Then he shot into the air on wings of magic.

  A profusion of thoughts swarmed his head as he flew northeast, and he paid close attention to all of them, determined to handle the situation as wisely as possible.

  He knew it was her as soon as she said her name; though he’d already been clued in by her honey voice and astounding beauty. Further questioning was unnecessary, but on this he couldn’t be negligent, so he’d found out more, and all of it fit. After eighteen years of silence, Layla had returned.