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 framed 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 8
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 twenty-one years of silence, Layla had returned.
Quin had been dreaming about the mysterious Layla his entire life, but his dream Layla never had a face, just a magnificent blur of beautiful colors. The real Layla’s face did not disappoint. Exceeding even his greatest expectations, her heavenly visage soared beyond the realm of imagination.
Quin’s thoughts drifted to the past, to his earliest recollections of the dreams—a comforting rainbow of soothing hues with a lovely little voice that couldn’t enunciate words. As he got older, he overheard his parents talk about Layla and somehow knew they were one and the same—his dream girl and the lost girl. When her musical coos became enchanting words, she confirmed her identity, and from then on he called her Layla.
In more recent years, she’d wreaked havoc on his sex life. Understandably, his dates didn’t like him mumbling another woman’s name in his sleep. But while other women came and went, his dream girl remained. He and his mysterious Layla grew up together, and more than anything else, the visions were a source of comfort in times of need.
Bringing his mind out of dreamland, Quin recalled the moments he’d spent
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 framed 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 8
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 twenty-one years of silence, Layla had returned.
Quin had been dreaming about the mysterious Layla his entire life, but his dream Layla never had a face, just a magnificent blur of beautiful colors. The real Layla’s face did not disappoint. Exceeding even his greatest expectations, her heavenly visage soared beyond the realm of imagination.
Quin’s thoughts drifted to the past, to his earliest recollections of the dreams—a comforting rainbow of soothing hues with a lovely little voice that couldn’t enunciate words. As he got older, he overheard his parents talk about Layla and somehow knew they were one and the same—his dream girl and the lost girl. When her musical coos became enchanting words, she confirmed her identity, and from then on he called her Layla.
In more recent years, she’d wreaked havoc on his sex life. Understandably, his dates didn’t like him mumbling another woman’s name in his sleep. But while other women came and went, his dream girl remained. He and his mysterious Layla grew up together, and more than anything else, the visions were a source of comfort in times of need.
Bringing his mind out of dreamland, Quin recalled the moments he’d spent
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