Chapter 30 Layla
Layla
I’m two blocks from Loon Landing Café, and Faith picks up on the second ring—thank God.
“Talk to me,” she says. “How are we feeling?”
“Nervous. Good nervous, I think.” My windshield wipers squeak against the drizzle that started early this morning and hasn’t let up. “I feel cute?”
“You’re always cute,” she tells me. “What are you wearing?”
I’m doing it.
Meeting Grady, who moved here two weeks ago from Seattle and has barely unpacked his crap. He works for an outdoor company but remotely, and has wanted to move out of the city for years.
He will be a unicorn in this town when the single women discover him.
Fresh meat. New blood, ha ha.
“Cute boots because obviously it’s raining. And a black turtleneck tucked into jeans.” It’s definitely more chunky-sweater weather, but I did not wear one because I didn’t want this to feel like two pals having coffee. I want to be in the first-date frame of mind . . .
The sign for the café swings in the breeze, and I manage to find a spot out front, easing into it with the ease of someone who enjoys parallel parking. Flipping down the sunshade, I check my lip gloss in the mirror. “I told him I had a half hour.”
Butterflies churn in my stomach.
Hayes’s handsome face flashes in my brain.
“You can do more than thirty minutes,” Faith chastises me. “If it’s great, make it sixty. If it’s weird, fake a headache and text me immediately.”
We go over this drill every time she has a date. She, who is more outgoing and adventurous than I am.
“I’ll text you regardless,” I promise before I end the call, not sure my heart is in this date, but you know what they say: The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.
I repeat that to myself three more times as I pull open the door and step inside Loon Landing, the smell of coffee and hot chocolate assailing my senses, my eyes scanning the place.
A man is seated at a table near the window; he stands as I approach, which earns him several points from the governing board in my head. Flannel, yes. Forearms, yes. In person he has kind eyes, a crooked front tooth—and he’s holding a small bunch of flowers.
The knots in my stomach tighten.
One point for Grady . . .
“Layla?” he asks.
“Yes. Hi!” Oh jeez, my voice is way too high pitched. I was calmer and more comfortable with Hayes when he and I first met, but then again, he was more or less rescuing me. I didn’t have time to be nervous when pumpkins and hay were being blown all over the hotel parking lot.
“Nice to finally meet you,” he says, and the way he holds out the flowers makes my chest go tight. Not roses, not a store bouquet. Just sunflowers and greenery, wrapped in paper from the farmers’ market.
We’re off to a good start.
“Wow, thank you.” I take them, and let myself sneak a peek at him while I lift the flowers to my nose. “This is thoughtful of you.”
Grady is better looking in person than he is online; he is no doubt going to be a hot commodity in Star Lake if he and I don’t have chemistry.
I watch him go to the counter to order our drinks: broad shoulders, easy stride, nice ass. Coach myself to breathe, be present, and for the love of God, stop grading him against a man who lives in another time zone!
When he’s seated across from me, Grady smiles. “So. Come here often?”
I smile back. “Actually, I do—almost every morning. So your odds of seeing me regularly are high, unless you don’t plan on coming into town.”
“Do you live in town?”
I nod. “I do. What about you?”
“Bought a cottage about eight miles away? Closer to the sandbar by Dunham’s Landing.” Dunham’s Landing is the marina where most of the tourists rent Jet Skis and boats, and is situated halfway around the lake toward the other side. He laughs. “Listen to me, trying to sound like a local.”
“You’re getting the hang of it.”
“I’ve already established that the food truck by the marina—the smash burgers—are my new favorite thing.”
“Wally’s.” I nod, very familiar. “Those can be dangerous.”
We settle in. The café hums—milk steaming, spoons knocking. His attention stays on me, not the room, not his phone. The easy back-and-forth calms my nerves, and I realize I like this version of me. She’s the type of girl who enjoys having a bouquet of sunflowers on her table for no reason.
My phone buzzes against my thigh.
I don’t look.
“Am I your first date since moving here?” I ask.
Grady doesn’t even blush at the question. “Nope.” He takes a sip from his coffee. “Had one last week with a woman named Stella.”
I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from blurting out, Oh my God, that’s my best friend Faith’s ex-sister-in-law who cheated on her husband, Ethan!
But I don’t. I manage to keep it all inside.
He smiles. “Date was fine. We didn’t click.”
Yeah—’cause she’s a Cheater! I want to tell him, but again: I keep that shit inside.
“How about you?” he asks. “Am I your first?”
“My first coffee?” I tease. “Today, yes. First date recently? Yes and no.”
Grady tilts his head. “Yes and no? What does that mean?”
“It means . . . I met someone and we hung out, but he’s too far for it to work out.”
“You mean he was a tourist?”
“He . . .” Let’s see, how do I put this? “Was in town for the fall festival, which I’m sure you heard about. And since he’s from Arizona, it was never going to work.”
My date goes quiet for a few moments, and I can see the wheels turning in his brain. “Are you talking about Hayes Fielder?”
Crap. Was that too obvious?
“He and I are just friends.”
“Friends,” he repeats, brows furrowing. “The guy who had people lined up for an hour to take pictures with him, who played in the Super Bowl last year, and who made half the town swoon? That guy?”
Hayes played in the Super Bowl last year? How did I not know that?
Teasingly, I give a little eye roll. “He did not make half the town swoon.”
Grady disagrees. “Men and women drop their shorts for NFL players.” He lets out a low whistle. “If that’s my competition—even as a friend—it sounds like I need to show up with my A game.”
I toy with the handle of my coffee mug, laughing it off. “Competition implies there’s a game.” I scoff, though my cheeks warm. “Grady, please do not compare yourself to Hayes Fielder.” The fact that I’m even uttering that sentence is bonkers to me.
“Uh, correction: Super Bowl Hayes Fielder.” He tips his head, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Tell me the truth: Are you secretly into athletes? Is that your thing?”
My laugh bursts out, too loud for the quiet café, and several heads turn. “No! That’s not a thing.”
“Good.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping just enough to make my stomach flip. “Because I don’t plan on being the guy who lost out to Hayes Fielder.”
“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” I shake my head. “You’re awfully confident for someone who hasn’t even had a second date.”
He studies me like he’s deciding which truth to pick. “Maybe. But I’d like to.” He leans back in his chair. “For the record, I make the best carbonara. From scratch, down to the pancetta. Also, my niece says I’m ‘top-tier’ at winning stuffed animals at the county fair.”
Top-tier.
My chest does an unfair little flutter, reminding me of something Benny would say in her goofy little nine-year-old way because she’s trying to sound older. And cool.
“You said you wanted kids?”
Grady nods. “For sure. What about you?”
Definitely, especially now that I know how fun they are as they get older.
“Two would be neat,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush, eyes straying to his broad chest. His arms. His big, strong hands . . .
Okay. Now I’m doing my best to have dirty thoughts, and all the things he could do with those.
I Am Moving on With My Life!
“Two.” His gaze drops to my mouth, then slides lazily down before meeting my eyes again. “I could get behind that.”
The way he says the words has me squirming in my chair, thighs pressing together under the table. Not because of the kid talk, but because of how my brain wants to spin from the conversation to comparing him to Hayes.
You’re doing great, Layla. This is good.
Faith and Margo are going to be so thrilled you put yourself out there, and the date is going great.
My phone buzzes again, vibrating on the table.
Grady tips his chin at my purse. “You can grab that.”
“I’m good.” I press on the side button to quiet it. “Tell me more about your very impressive résumé: outdoorsy company? Which one? The North Face? REI? Do tell.”
He shakes his head. “How about I tell you more about what a good cook I am. And by ‘cook,’ I mean chef. I meant what I said about carbonara. Can I make you pasta?”
My pulse skips a beat or five. “Like—at some point?”
“Like tonight.” His smile is careful, the kind that says he’ll survive a no but would really like a yes. “If you’re free.”
I am free.
But . . . isn’t it too soon to see him again?
Is this too impulsive? He’s a stranger.
“What if you’re a murderer? All the best serial killers were good looking and handsome, aren’t they?”
“Good looking and handsome?” His grin goes full toothpaste commercial. “Is that two compliments or the same one twice?” His toothy grin has me blushing. “For the record, my knife skills are only deadly in the kitchen.”
“Mm. That’s exactly what a murderer would say.”
“True.” He tips his head. “Or we can push to another night. Or do a walk in public somewhere well lit with many witnesses who could testify against me.”
“Sure.” I feel my head moving up and down. “Yes. Tonight works.”
His shoulders ease. Mine do not. Because I glance at his hands—those capable, competent, “can do so many things with them” hands—and my thoughts go sprinting toward the wrong set of fingerprints.
Relax, girl. They’re just hands.
Besides, there is no way his feel as good as Hayes’s did sliding across your bare skin. And that thing he did with his mouth? Um . . . zero contest.
Stop Thinking About Hayes Fielder!
He is gone, and he’s not coming back to Star Lake. I release what no longer serves me, even if what no longer serves me had a chiseled jawline and soft lips and knew exactly where to put them.
“Six?” he asks, pulling me out of my spiral with a hopeful lift to his eyebrows. “Not too early, not too late. I’ll have wine or hot chocolate.”
“Both sound delicious.”
Grady feels easy.
Solid.
Present.
A man who offers plans instead of uncertainty. A man who didn’t kiss me and make the ground feel unstable.
Which is safe. Which is exactly what I need.