CHAPTER TWELVE
Moira~
He was outside in her garden. At this time of year twilight was not far off. Quinn was early. Very early. Had she mistaken the time? No. He was just early. Eager. Or hungry.
He was standing on the patch of lawn directly beyond her front door gazing at her cottage. He wasn’t being furtive, but he was hard to pick out among the long shadows cast by the trees. Somehow he had not triggered her motion sensitive lights. This predatory stillness came so easily to him, she couldn’t believe how long it had taken her to realize he was a hunter.
She was glad to see that he had lost his filthy smock and changed into the casual dress clothes of the northwest. Pants of some dark fabric and a button-front shirt worn under a sports coat. He must have trimmed his beard too, for it had a defined shape that ended in a tidy point. All to the good. At least she would not have to blush for him at the Crab Hut.
Of course, you could wear anything to the Hut. As long as you had a covered chest and something on your feet, you were golden. Fancy it was not. But she wasn’t used to going out with men who looked like buccaneers and smelled like derelicts. Her pulse shouldn’t race when unkempt Quinn waltzed into her store. Her reaction to him was strange. And scary.
This new friskiness of hers was unsettling. As unlike her as her anxiety about Adrian had been. Fairies were notorious for long periods of asexuality. She was relatively young to have suddenly started noticing the opposite sex. But she would have thought her type would be someone like Adrian Whitlock.
Adrian might be a con artist and a liar, but he was also conventionally handsome, and his clothes were as polished as his manners. He was only a couple of inches taller than her, and slightly built. There had been nothing surprising in her initial attraction to her partner.
Quinn was an uncouth mountain of muscle. She had no business developing a crush on a guy that huge. He was going to squash her. Except that she didn’t feel imperiled by him. Quinn made her feel safe and protected. As if his bulk stood between her and a dangerous world. Clearly she was infatuated. Childishly infatuated with a freaking, ginormous hunter.
Even before she had met Quinn, she had been having dreams about children. Vivid dreams that left her floating in contentment when she woke. Of course, fool that she was, she had assumed her intuition was confirming that Adrian was her one true love. If she was destined to marry a liar, she would rather remain single and celibate for the rest of her days.
Compared to humans, shifters were long lived. But the Fae cast the extra decades racked up by shifters into darkness. At a mere sixty-two, Moira was still in the first flush of her youth. She had stopped aging in her early twenties and would retain her present appearance for decades more – unless she chose to sail west as her parents had.
Her aunt looked forty, perhaps forty-five in a strong light. She was at least ten times that old. Maybe more. It was not unknown in the old days for fairies to live for a millennium or two. Moira had no desire to live that long, but she had no intention of dying at a mere century, as very aged mortals did.
Ah, well, if Quinn was here early, she should put on her wrap and shoes and join him. Bearing in mind that they had no kind of long-term future. But he would certainly serve as a tasty treat to cut her newly developed sweet tooth on.
Quinn took a step backward when she came out of the house. He raised a hand in greeting, but made no move to come up on the porch. Giving her space, yet standing guard and making her feel protected. She locked her door – city life had made her vigilant even here on West Haven. Besides, the inn and other cottages were full of off-islanders. Who knew how nosy or light-fingered those strangers were?
He had not just changed his clothes, he had showered and barbered himself too. He no longer reeked of stale alcohol and cigarettes. Now he smelled of sandalwood and leather. And that potent masculine aroma that was uniquely his. He was still too big, but he no longer looked homeless. Perhaps she could help him make this improvement permanent.
“I rushed you,” he apologized.
“It doesn’t matter, I was ready,” she admitted.
“Will you be warm enough with just that thing?” He rubbed the corner of her silky shawl between two fingers.
Her shawl was cashmere. And if it needed to be warmer, she would make it warmer with her talent. “I think so. It is late May.” Of course in the San Juans that meant this warm summery evening could suddenly change to a chilly drizzle.
Quinn smiled his sensual smile and crooked an elbow. She laid a hand lightly in the curve of his arm. A pleasant spark zapped her newly awakened senses. He smiled down at her. A long way down. Damn. She should have kept her heels on.
“Do you want to walk down to the harbor, or take my truck?” he asked.
“It’s not far.” Nothing was in Mystic Bay. “Let’s walk.”
He adjusted his stride so as not to outpace her short legs. She liked that. They strolled between the cottages and out to Main Street. As they went past the inn, Moira glanced up at the windows of Robin’s apartment. The lights were off, but she thought her aunt was watching them leave. On Main, only the display windows of the shops were lit. Even the street lights weren’t on yet.
“Everything rolls up at six, doesn’t it?” Quinn remarked.
“Mystic Bay is the original small town.”
“So it is. Do things stay open once the season starts?”
“Some stores do a good business in the evenings. I don’t think Fairchild’s Art Supply will be one of them.”
“I guess not,” he responded. “Although you do have those hand-painted greeting cards. They should go down well with the tourists. Have you thought of also dealing in small canvases or panels?”
“I’m out of the gallery business,” she said lightly. “Besides, I wouldn’t want Hope Greene to think that I am competing with her.” The Greene Gallery had been selling handicrafts and artwork for years.
Quinn made a dismissive noise and dragged her across the empty street to the Greene Gallery window. “Look at that garbage,” he said. Behind a profusion of key chains and carved duck decoys, a row of easels with seascapes cluttered the tiny window.
“Pretty sketches of the harbor. Knickknacks. Nothing but tourist trash. Souvenirs.” He made souvenirs sound like a swear word.
“I’m not thinking of expanding the art supply,” she said firmly.
“It would be a natural addition to your business,” he argued as they continued down Main.
She stopped dead. He kept moving, realized she was not budging, and strode back to her.
“I’ll ask for advice if I want it,” she said mildly.
For a second he looked baffled. Then he nodded. “Sorry. It’s just that I’ve been looking for places to show my pictures. I didn’t mean to be pushy.” His apology sounded sincere.
“You could try Greene’s.”
“No.” Just the flat word, unsoftened by any explanation.
Belatedly it dawned on her that Hope Greene was a gazelle shifter. It was very likely that a hunter client would make her even more uneasy than a second gallery on Main Street. If Quinn had wandered into her store, Hope would have undoubtedly refused to do business with him. Or maybe he was too picky to place his work among souvenirs.
“Your aunt has offered to hang some of my stuff in the inn restaurant – after the art show. She doesn’t want to play favorites beforehand.”
“You could try some of the other restaurants,” she suggested, her mind still busy imagining jittery Hope confronting Quinn.
“Not the right milieu,” he said. “My work is too sophisticated for family restaurants.” He wasn’t bragging, merely stating a fact. And he was correct. In the wrong setting, under the wrong lighting, his subtle forest scenes could come across as mere cheesy horror.
He helped her navigate the slight curb and then the stairs down to the pier where the Crab Hut was located. The low clapboard building was festooned with old crab pots and rotting fishing nets. A new clapboard extension didn’t quite match the weathered boards of the original. Quinn opened the door and they walked into a brightly lit space.
This early in the year there were only locals in the dining room. Everyone stared when they came in. Faces lit up. It was the Bean all over again. They were the evening’s entertainment. Quinn acted as if he didn’t notice the interest, but she was fairly sure he was faking his obliviousness.
They were met at the door by a pretty young woman with a stack of menus and a big smile. Moira recognized her as one of the Merryman children. A mermaid. The hostess’ blue eyes widened when she saw Quinn and her professional smile faltered. She took an involuntary step backwards.
“How m-m-many?” she stammered.
“Two, please. By the window, if it’s no trouble.” Quinn’s deep voice was oddly tranquilizing.
The hostess turned on her heel and led them to a table by the window as if she was sleepwalking. Her aura was eerily even, as if she were drugged – or hypnotized. “Belinda will take your order,” she announced before walking away.
“What did you do to her?” Moira hissed as soon as the hostess was out of earshot.
He narrowed his eyes. Firmed his lips. But he answered – in a voice pitched just for her ears. “I only calmed her nerves. She has no more reason to be afraid of me than you do.”
Which wasn’t saying much. She ought to be running for her life.
Quinn opened his menu. “What are you going to have?” he asked.
“Crab cakes and salad.” It was what she always had.
“I’ll join you.”
Belinda came over to the table. Her shirt was embroidered with her name. She was also one of the local kids. The teen-aged daughter of sorcerers. She didn’t seem alarmed by Quinn.
“Hi,” she said. “My-name-is-Belinda-and-I-am-your-wait-person-tonight. Have you decided?”
“We’ll both have the crab cake platter,” Quinn said. “With salad. Hot sauce with mine. Moira?”
It was the first time he had said her name tonight. Her toes curled inside her shoes. “Yes, please. And blue cheese dressing on my salad.”
He looked pleased. “I’ll have that too.”
A shared taste in blue cheese dressing and hot sauce wasn’t much to base a relationship on. And yet her heart warmed.
“Something to drink?” Belinda asked. Moira realized that the Hut had a newly acquired liquor license. Her heart sank.
“Moira?” Quinn murmured.
“Just water,” she said.
“A bottle of sparkling water, please,” Quinn said. “And two glasses.”
“I’ll be right back,” Belinda said.
Better ignore the booze issue. “Is that going to be enough food for you?” Moira asked. He was a big guy. The crab cake platter wasn’t that large. Belatedly she remembered that like all artists just starting out, he was probably cash strapped.
“Probably not. But if I ask for double portions, the cakes will get cold before I finish my dinner. I’ll order more when she brings the first lot.” His voice was unruffled. But he was not trying to soothe her. Just stating a fact.