Descension (10 page)

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.

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?”

“I don’t know. It didn’t seem like a lot. Maybe I accomplished more because I didn’t have anything slowing me down.”

“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?”

“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 man 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.