Page 47 of Carry on Wayward Son

Layla was poking her salad with the focused attention of someone entirely absorbed in her food. Her foot pressed once against mine under the table.

“What about you?” I said. “You’ve been here, what—six years? Seven?”

“Six.” He leaned back slightly. “I was looking for somewhere to put down roots that wasn’t a city. Found Hatterwick by accident, honestly. Came for a weekend and started thinking about what it could be.”

“And the Bistro was the first thing?”

“First thing I opened. I have a few other interests on the island.” He said it the way people said things they didn’t need to explain. “The marina, for one. I’m one of the partners in the group that’s been running it for the past several years.”

Layla’s fork stilled for just a fraction of a second. Then she took a bite and chewed thoughtfully and said, “It must be interesting to be involved in something so central to how the island functions.”

“It has its challenges.” Teller looked at her with the slightly recalibrated attention of a man reassessing a woman he’d initially filed under decorative. “The previous ownership left some things in less than ideal condition. It’s been a process.”

“A process,” I said.

“These things always are.” He smiled again with the same practiced ease. “But the island is worth it. I believe that.”

The conversation moved on. By the time the main course arrived we’d covered the new trolley system Willa had secured grant funding for, a proposed waterfront development that had stalled under the new mayor, and whether the ferry company expansion Willa was considering would affect parking on the south end of Front Street. Teller had opinions on all of it. Informed opinions, the opinions of someone who paid close attention to everything that happened in a place he had interests.

When Layla excused herself, I watched her cross the room and noted the heads that turned. More than a few. Her movement was purposeful, contained, entirely unaware of or indifferent to the effect she had.

One of the men at the bar tracked her all the way to the back hallway.

I kept my eyes on Teller, and my attention on the bar.

A few minutes later, Layla came back through the hallway, and the man at the bar stood up. I was already putting my napkin on the table when he stepped into her path and put his hand on her shoulder from behind.

What happened next took about two seconds.

She turned, her hand closing on his wrist. Her body pivoted, compact and precise, and slammed his head against the empty table hard enough to rattle the centerpiece. She held him bent over with his arm torqued behind him and a grip on his neck that had the entire room’s attention.

The man was stammering something that contained the word sorry.

Even from across the room, I could see the slight wildness of her eyes and the faint tremor in her frame. She inhaled a controlled breath and stilled, her face shifting to her captive with growing alarm.

I closed the distance between us as she slowly flexed her hands open and stepped back, releasing him. His wary eyes swung from her to me as he straightened up, rubbing his wrist.

I planted myself between him and Layla without touching her. “I don’t know what you thought was going to happen, but putting your hands on a woman without her consent is a good way to end your evening badly. As you’ve just discovered.” What little remaining color in his cheeks fled at my conversational tone. Or perhaps the death threat I telegraphed with my eyes. My own hands itched to finish the lesson more permanently. But that wasn’t what was needed here.

I flashed a shark’s smile. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”

From our table, Teller watched with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Something shifted beneath the practiced surface of him. Surprise? Assessment?

I glanced at Layla, who hadn’t moved since the asshole had scurried away. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes still a little vacant. Time to get the fuck out of Dodge.

Walking quickly back to the table, I scooped up Layla’s handbag. “I think we’re going to call it an evening. Marcus, this was great. We’ll do it again.”

He stood and shook my hand and said something gracious and looked at Layla one more time with that recalibrated attention. “Remarkable,” he said, which could have meant the evening, or the woman, or something else entirely.

Outside, the cold air struck immediately. Layla walked beside me to the truck without speaking. I opened the door for her. She slipped in, not meeting my eyes. I came around and sat behind the wheel without starting the engine.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.” She looked straight ahead through the windshield. “I’m sorry. That was⁠—”

“Don’t apologize.” I turned to glance at her. “He put his hands on you.”

“I know. I just—” She stopped. “I didn’t make a choice. It was just there before I decided anything.”