The clerk whipped her head up, scanning Layla with narrow eyes. Then she smoothed her scowl and warily smiled. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Layla returned, completely confused.
The clerk’s forehead creased. “What can I do for you?”
Layla cleared her throat, answering in the clearest voice she could muster. “Large coffee and um…” Damn, she’d forgotten what she wanted. She threw a quick glance at the hand painted menu. Oh yeah. “A piece of the chocolate-hazelnut torte. Please.”
The clerk’s odd expression stayed in place as she repeated the order.
“Yeah,” Layla confirmed, torn between looking at the counter and staring hard into the strange woman’s multicolored eyes.
The clerk totaled up the tab then expertly fixed the coffee and dessert, glancing up often. Layla tried to pretend she didn’t notice the looks, but found her own eyes constantly shifting toward the weird and wonderful woman.
Once Layla had her purchases and her change, she offered the clerk a small smile. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Have a good night.”
“You, too,” Layla mumbled. Then they both furrowed their eyebrows at the same time, sharing one last look of confusion.
Layla turned and scanned the room, quickly choosing a corner table with a clear view of the entire store, including the counter and the woman tending it.
The dessert was excellent—silky smooth and sweet—and the coffee was, in fact, the best she’d ever had. As she ate, she imagined what her parents would look like sitting at each table, but most of them were occupied, and aside from the stunning clerk, no one could compare to her lovely mom and dad.
Until he walked in.
Layla’s gaze was roaming over the front door when it swung open, revealing a man so gorgeous her breath caught in her chest. Her reaction surprised and embarrassed her, but she couldn’t look away as his tall, bronzed body moved with strength, grace and purpose to the counter.
Instead of entering the queue, he moved behind the bar and began helping the clerk. All Layla could see then was his back, but she didn’t mind. She took her time examining his head, shoulders, torso—and by leaning to the left—his hips, butt and legs. He wore a white t-shirt, brown cargo shorts, and flip-flops. Inappropriate for the weather, but fantastic for the view.
Layla cocked her head to the side, appreciating his relaxed style and fine form. Then her gaze returned to his upper half, quite content to do so. White cotton rippled over muscle as he worked. And his thick hair—the color of which was strikingly similar to a pot of strong coffee held up to the light—shimmered in loose waves, sweeping over the nape of his neck.
Just as Layla wished she could see his face again, wondering if it was as beautiful as she remembered, the last customer in line walked away. The female clerk moved to the handsome stranger, and he leaned in, letting her whisper in his ear.
She must be his girlfriend, Layla concluded, swallowed by an unexpected wave of disappointment. Not that she would ever, in a million years, have the courage to talk to someone who looked like him. He could easily be a famous face and paired far better with the stunning clerk.
Layla tried to force her gaze away, but the attempt was unsuccessful and quite pitiful. She really didn’t want to look away. He might disappear.
Suddenly, he straightened and turned, staring right at her.
Layla gasped and looked down, heat flooding her face as her heart thundered. It felt like he’d x-rayed her, peered straight into her soul, and she didn’t dare look up again. Instead, she watched the coffee at the bottom of her cup, mortified to be caught ogling and worried she’d offended his girlfriend.
Layla wanted to leave immediately, run far away from the ridiculous situation and forget it ever happened. She shouldn’t have come, except… well, the coffee was excellent. Damn. She’d blown her chance for a refill.
She took a deep breath, working up the courage to raise her head and leave, but her concentration was blown to bits when a deep voice spoke, quickening her hasty pulse.
“Would you like a refill?”
Layla snapped her gaze up, locking eyes on the most magnificent man she’d ever seen. His front was so much better than his back. “Um… yeah, sure,” she stuttered, feeling like a complete idiot.
He took her cup, a small smile curving over his strong jaw. “I’ll be right back.”
Layla figured he was laughing at her in his head, but she couldn’t bring herself to mind. The tiny smile sent pleasurable goose bumps across her chest and neck.
Once he walked away—for only then did Layla have the brain capacity to ponder anything at all—she wondered what her problem was. Sure, he was the most crush-worthy man she’d ever seen, but she’d lived twenty-one years without getting silly over a guy. Melting like butter when he was near made her feel weak and ridiculous.
When he returned, she looked at the table, sliding figure eights across its polished surface, trying not to make her attraction obvious, but most likely achieving the opposite affect. Who sits around staring at a table while tracing invisible figure eights? Loonies and people trying not to look at something, that’s who.
He sat down in the chair across from her, but he didn’t surrender her coffee. He just watched her with intense brown eyes that were so dark the pupil and iris were barely distinguishable.
“How do you drink it?” he finally asked, holding up her cup.
“Sugar and cream,” she answered, voice cracking.
He gave her another small smile, and Layla couldn’t tell if humor or sympathy played on his lovely lips.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” he said, picking up the cream.
More embarrassed than ever before, Layla couldn’t quit blushing, and her palms were slick with sweat. She wiped them on her jeans and ordered herself to pull it together. If she got any worse, he’d think she escaped a nuthouse.
“I’ll do it,” she offered, taking the cup. “I use a lot of sugar.”
He stayed seated, watching her add the condiments. When she poured the sugar, he raised a dark eyebrow, one corner of his full lips twitching into a smirk. “That is a lot of sugar.”
Layla shrugged, trying not to stare at his mouth. “We all have our vices. Mine’s really sweet coffee.”
He wouldn’t look away long enough for her to take a drink, and she felt stupid just sitting there, so she straightened her shoulders and met his stare. “Do you always sit and visit with your customers?”
“I don’t work here,” he replied.
“Then why are you working?” she asked.
“I’m not. Earlier I was helping a friend. Now I’m a customer sitting with a beautiful woman.”
Layla glanced around the table, half-expecting to find a pretty lady. Then she returned her suspicious gaze to the handsome man. “You’re not a customer,” she said, pointing out the empty table in front of him.
His smile widened, and dimples appeared below chiseled cheeks.
Now that’s not fair, Layla thought, absolutely blown away by the pristine package in front of her. How perfect can one person be?
“Would it help if I got a cup of coffee?” he asked.
“Help what?” she returned.
“Make you more comfortable sitting with me.”
So her embarrassment was obvious. Great. “Maybe, if you tell me who you are and why you’re sitting here.”
“Then I’ll get some coffee,” he said, smoothly rising from his chair. “Be right back.” He walked behind the bar and helped himself, ignoring the pointed looks the clerk threw him.
Layla wasn’t sure what to make of everything. Why was this beyond gorgeous man giving her the time of day? And why was the beautiful clerk reacting so strangely? Layla was stumped; therefore intrigued.
When the handsome man started back, Layla looked away at nothing in particular, waiting for him to sit before looking forward.
His gaze stayed on her face as he added a small amount of sugar to his cup. T
hen he sipped and set the mug aside. “Now, what was it you wanted to know?”
It took longer than it should have for Layla to remember what he was talking about. “Who are you?”
“That’s right.” He flashed dimples as he reached across the table. “My name’s Quinlan, but most people call me Quin.”
Layla tentatively accepted his hand, and his large palm enveloped hers, but his touch was warm and gentle, sliding tingles up her arm to her stuttering heart. “It’s nice to meet you, Quin. My name’s Layla.”
He frowned, his hand and pupils contracting. Then he let her go and looked at his coffee. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Layla. Do you have a last name?”
“It’s your turn to answer one,” she countered.
His smile returned as he looked up. “I guess it is. You wanted to know why I’m sitting here, right?”
She nodded, and he answered without a moment’s hesitation. “Because I’m intrigued by you.”
Layla furrowed her eyebrows, withholding a sarcastic snort. “And what about me intrigues you?”
“Nope. Your turn again.”
Layla puckered, and Quin grinned. “What’s your last name, Layla?”
“Callaway,” she answered.
He looked away again, and Layla took a drink, trying to decipher his reactions. “I’m not satisfied with your previous answer, Quin. Why are you sitting here?”
“Do you want me to leave you alone?”
“No,” she answered, way too quickly, and her cheeks flushed as she bowed her head.
“I wanted to meet you,” he explained, quite simply and with much more confidence than she could ever achieve.
“Oh,” she mumbled, slowly looking up.
He caught her gaze and held it. “I’m in here a lot and I’ve never seen you. Are you from around here?”
That depends on how you look at it, she thought. “No, this is my first time here.”
“Here in Cannon Beach? Or here in Cinnia’s?”
“Both. It’s my first time in Oregon.”
“Are you on vacation?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Quin.”
“Am I bothering you?”
“Not really.” It was a lie. He was bothering her, in very interesting ways.
She cleared her throat, determined to hold a decent conversation with someone other than herself. “Do you live in Cannon Beach?” she asked, keeping her voice steady. A little too steady. It seemed forced. Damn it, Layla, get over yourself.
“No,” Quin answered, leaning forward, and Layla’s lungs froze. “I live northwest of Jewell, a logging community between here and Portland.”
“I saw the junction,” she noted.
“Junction?” he repeated.
“Yeah, the Jewell Junction. On the highway from Portland?”
“Right,” he mumbled. “Is that where you’re staying? Portland?”
“For now,” she confessed. “I moved here on a whim, so I don’t have a place yet. I’m at a hotel until I figure out where I want to live.”
“Is that what you’re doing in Cannon Beach?” he asked. “Looking for a house?”
She hesitated, somewhat suspicious of the handsome man’s motives. “No. I’m here for the coffee. I was told Cinnia’s Cannon Café has the best.”
“Cinnia’s has a good reputation,” he confirmed. “It’s been around for years.”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
“So you drove to the coast just to try Cinnia’s coffee.”
“Well, I also wanted to see the beach.”
“Did you see it?”
“From a distance.”
“Do you have a warmer coat in your car?”
Layla glanced at her hoody, thinking the question odd. “Yes,” she answered, looking back up.
“Good.” He took her cup and stood. “I’m going to refill our coffee. Then we’ll go to the beach and watch the sun set.” And without another word, he walked away.
Chapter 7
He didn’t give her a chance to say no. Not that she would have. Layla knew it was careless to go off with a man she’d just met, but she didn’t sense a threat. Quin’s reactions were weird, sure, but he’d been perfectly nice and polite. Besides, she wasn’t ready to walk away and never see him again, so she put her backpack on and headed for the counter.
Because she was purposefully looking away from him, Layla didn’t realize he was quietly speaking with the clerk until she was within earshot. She tuned out the whispers and turned away, flustered and guilty, but then Quin called her name.
She slowly turned back, cheeks flaming. “Yeah?”
“This is Brietta,” he said, “a close friend of mine.”
Brietta smiled as she held out Layla’s fresh coffee. “It’s nice to meet you, Layla.”
“You, too,” Layla returned, accepting the cup.
Quin walked around the counter, and only then did Layla realize exactly how tall he was. His pecs were right in her line of sight, his sturdy shoulders several inches above her head.
“Ready?” he asked, covering her entire shoulder blade with a large palm.
“Um… yeah,” Layla mumbled, trying to gather her wits. “Bye, Brietta.”
“Bye, Layla. See ya, Quin.”
“See ya,” he returned, guiding Layla out of the café.
As they walked to her car, he remained remarkably close without actually touching her, and his gaze rarely left her long enough to look where he was going. When they crossed the street, one of his palms lightly touched the small of her back, shooting tingles up her spine and vibrating her shoulders. She was sure he felt her tremble, but he didn’t mention the ridiculous reaction.
“How long have you been in Oregon?” he asked.
“Yesterday,” she answered.
“Not very long then. Have you seen anything you like?”
She looked up, blushing as she met his stare. “Yes. I’ve enjoyed everything, even the drive from Idaho. I took a detour to the Columbia Gorge Scenic Highway and stopped at Multnomah Falls. Then I hit Crown Point at sunset. It was amazing—looking out at the gorge as the sky changed colors. Portland’s nice, too. There’s tons of stuff to do, but I’m not used to crowded, one-way streets and no parking.” She paused her nervous rambling, embarrassed. “Anyway, I’m sure you’ve seen it all a million times, but I think it’s fantastic.”
“It’s a fantastic state,” he agreed. “Have you seen anything else of interest?”
“Well, I walked around downtown Portland for about five hours today, so I saw more than I can recount.”
As they approached her car, she hit the unlock button on her key-ring, and Quin took a big step, opening her door.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. What did you think of Multnomah?”
She forced herself to maintain eye contact, smiling despite her flushed cheeks. “It was fantastic,” she answered. Then she slid into the driver’s seat, trying to remember if a guy had ever opened a car door for her. The limo driver at her mom’s funeral. That was it. Until now.
Quin opened the passenger door and climbed in. “We’re only a few blocks from a beachside parking lot,” he said, glancing at the stuffed backseat. “Since we’re here to get your coat, we might as well drive. Take a right out of here and follow the signs advertising Haystack Rock.”
“Will we see it?”
“Yep. So you’ve only been in Oregon for two days, right? Including the drive in.”
“Right.”
“And you’ve seen downtown Portland, the Columbia River Gorge Scenic Highway, the Sunset Highway, and Cannon Beach.”
“Yes. Now I’m visiting the Pacific Ocean for the first time in my life.”
He smiled, exposing killer dimples. “Really?”
“Yes. I’ve seen the east coast a few times, but I’ve never been this far west.”
“You’ve been busy, Layla. Do you always do a lot in a little amount of time?”
“Like what?” he asked, flipping through her CDs.
“I was by myself,” she answered.
“Other people slow you down?”
“Well,” she mumbled, flustered by his interpretation, “it always slows things down when there are others to consider. I’m on my own, running my own schedule.”
“Is that how you like it?”
“Not necessarily, but that’s what I’m used to.” She cleared her throat, quickly changing the subject. “Have you always lived in Oregon?”
“Yes. Well, I moved to Alaska for about a year when I was a baby, but other than that, yes.”
“Same town?”
“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 mean time, 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 one of her CDs.
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, pushing play on her George Winston CD.
“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?”
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