Page 46 of Carry on Wayward Son

The dress was dark green, fitted from shoulder to mid-thigh, and did things for her that I was going to be thinking about for the foreseeable future. Her hair was up, a few pieces loose around her face, and she’d done something to her eyes that made them seem even darker than usual. She was wearing heels, which put her closer to my eye level than she usually was, and she was looking at me with the satisfied smirk of a woman who had no regrets about what she’d done.

I opened my mouth. Nothing useful came out.

Maybe the dinner could wait.

She reached up and tapped my jaw lightly with two fingers, painted nails, the gesture pulling my mouth closed. “You’re going to have to wait, sailor.”

“Did you wear that to torture me?”

“Side benefit.” She picked up a small bag from the table by the door. “I wore it in case our host is a typical male who’ll underestimate a pair of breasts and talk more.”

“At the risk of being a typical male.” I made myself look at her face. “They’re really excellent breasts.”

“I’m aware. You can show me your appreciation later.” She stepped past me toward the truck, and I watched her go and made a decision about my priorities.

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

Koa watched us leave from the window with an obvious canine scowl that said he’d been left behind under false pretenses and intended to remember it.

“So, how exactly did this dinner come about?” Layla asked.

“I reached out to Teller through the island business association. Officially, I asked him for a conversation about local investment because I’m back on the island, thinking about what comes next, interested in what opportunities exist for someone with my family’s history here. It’s close enough to the truth to hold up and vague enough to go anywhere.”

“And my role tonight?”

“You’re not a reporter,” I said. “You’re with me.”

“I can work with that.” She was looking out the window at the Christmas lights on Front Street. “What do you know about him?”

“Smooth, by all accounts. Careful. Very good at being exactly what he appears to be.” I turned into the Bistro’s small parking lot. “He’ll know who I am. He’ll probably know who my father is.”

She glanced at me. “Does that complicate things?”

“It might be useful. My father has development interests. Teller’s in development, among other things. It gives him a reason to be friendly that has nothing to do with us sniffing around his other business.” I cut the engine. “Let me lead. You read him.”

“That was already the plan,” she said, and got out.

The Pelican Point Bistro was the nicest restaurant on Hatterwick by a significant margin, which on this island meant mood lighting, actual tablecloths, and a wine list that had no business existing this far down the Outer Banks. For a weeknight in December, it was doing reasonable business—half a dozen tables occupied, four stools taken at the bar running along one wall. The kind of place that stayed open year-round because it had cultivated the right clientele and made them feel like insiders.

Marcus Teller was already at the table. Mid-fifties, well put together in the way of men who had decided that looking effortless required effort and committed to it. He rose when we approached, and his eyes moved over Layla in exactly the way she’d predicted—appreciative, assessing, landing on me a half-beat late.

“Jace Hollingsworth.” He shook my hand with the grip of a man who had practiced making that grip mean something. “Good to meet you. And this is?”

“Layla Murphy.” She offered her hand and a smile that was warm, slightly deferential, and about as authentic as a stage prop. Teller took it and held it a half second longer than a handshake required.

We sat. Teller had already ordered wine. We settled into the easy preliminary conversation of people getting comfortable. The island in winter, the upcoming Christmas market, how the Brewhouse had changed things for the local food scene. Teller was good at this. He had the unhurried attention of a man who understood that the preliminary conversation was where you gathered the information that mattered, and he gathered it without appearing to.

“Your family’s been part of this island since the beginning,” he said, somewhere into the first glass of wine. “That’s a rare thing. Most of the people who matter to a place like this have been gone for decades.”

“My sister came back,” I said. “She’s the one who kept the thread.”

“The sanctuary.” He nodded. “I’ll admit I was disappointed when that land went that direction. It’s extraordinary property. But I respect the vision.” A pause, perfectly timed. “Your father had different ideas about it, as I understand.”

There it was. Casual, friendly, the mention of a known thing. Not a probe exactly. More like the placement of a card on the table to see what I’d do with it.

“My father has a lot of ideas,” I said. “Most of them involve turning a profit.”

Teller smiled. “John Hollingsworth is a pragmatist. Nothing wrong with that. I’ve crossed paths with him at a few events over the years. Impressive man.”