Oh, how they had kissed.
At the memory of how quickly things had escalated, her skin flushed and felt stretched too tight. It had been no tentative experiment, no first-time fumbling to find the right fit. His lips had touched hers and she’d thrown herself into the wonder and the heat without worrying for an instant about the subsequent burn.
That, she’d done for about half the night afterward, reliving those moments.
“Let go,” Uncle Phil murmured.
Startled, she blinked, noticing he was trying to wrestle the lemon from her grasp.
“You’re going to strangle the innocent thing,” her uncle said. When she still didn’t release it, he tugged again and her fingers finally loosened. He glanced down at the rescued fruit, then cocked a brow at her, his expression half-humorous. “You know what Buddha would say.”
Reading the direction of his mind, she made a face at him, then glanced up at the statue of the spiritual leader sitting high on a shelf above them. “I was lost in thought—lost in thinking up a recipe. I don’t have an attachment to that lemon, Uncle Phil.”
“Buddha tells us it’s not good to have an exaggerated attachment to anything...or anyone.”
She slid a guilty glance toward the laptop. Had he seen the address line on the email? Weeks back, she’d admitted to him that she’d been typing messages to her dead father. “I know it seems crazy, but—”
“Layla,” Uncle Phil said quietly. “I miss him, too.”
Ignoring the press of tears behind her eyes, she smiled softly, suddenly remembering sitting between her father and Phil at the kitchen table, playing hearts. The two men, so different in temperament and ambition, had come together seamlessly over one thing—Layla. They’d both cheated like crazy to ensure she always won.
On impulse, she hugged her uncle, and he gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder then moved away.
She watched as Uncle Phil took a seat at the small table adjacent to the baking area, drawing close one of his travel guidebooks. He opened it, but she didn’t think he was seeing the words any more than she’d absorbed her cupcake lineup.
Her uncle grieved for her father.
And it made her ache not only for him, but for what was going on between Vance and his brother. Sure, Fitz hadn’t been particularly polite to her, but the expression on his face as he’d looked at “V.T.” had spoken of something deep and painful running beneath the surface.
Of course, Vance hadn’t shed any light on the situation.
Of course, she hadn’t pressed, either. She had basically attached her hip to Addy’s and counted the minutes until she could escape to her room and try to figure out what came next.
Did he assume they’d share more kisses...and beyond?
Or were they going to pretend that night never happened?
Layla liked the latter option. It avoided embarrassing conversation. It was safe. Because no matter how attractive the man, how hot the kisses, two things stood out.
He was a soldier. And at the end of the month he’d be out of her life.
She glanced over at Uncle Phil. In a month, where would he be? He seemed to be more attentive to his book now, and was making notes in the margin. His lifelong dream of world travel was almost in his grasp.
When he left, who would Layla have?
Her mother had gone away long ago.
Her father was never coming home again.
A dark desolation threatened to sweep over her. She straightened her spine, holding steady against it. Don’t think about being alone, she told herself, pressing her fingertips to her forehead to contain a rising sense of panic. Instead, think about...think about Vance and his brother.
Fitz’s attitude and Vance’s near-violent tension told her there was great emotion there. A bond. And didn’t she, with so little family remaining, know its value? Instead of focusing on her loss, maybe she could do something to heal the rift between the combat medic and those who cared for him.
Crossing to her laptop, she flipped it open and gazed on the email she’d written to her father.
Dear Dad,
Did you send Vance to me for a reason?
Her fingers flew over the keys, altering the question.
Dear Dad,
Did you send me to Vance for a reason?
Love, Layla.
Then she clicked Send.
* * *
THOUGH HE’D BEEN WAITING on Layla’s return to Beach House No. 9, Vance jumped when she pushed open the sliding glass door and entered the living room from the deck. “Jesus,” he muttered.
“Did I scare you?” she asked.
He would never admit it. Instead, he grunted, lifting the newspaper in his lap and pretending absorption in the headlines. “You’ve made yourself scarce all day.” The sun was now low in the sky and as usual she’d left the house not long after dawn.
That’s when he’d finally managed a little sleep. In the dark hours of the night, when normal people took their shut-eye, he’d lain awake staring at the ceiling.
The only noise in the house had been the wet rush of the waves against the sand, but he could have sworn he heard Layla breathing, as well.
He’d imagined it, anyway, her breath warm on his bare chest as they lay entwined in his bed. The weight of her head on his shoulder had been nearly palpable, as well as the silky coolness of her hair between his fingers as he toyed with it in postcoital contentment.
Yeah, he’d imagined that, too—the whole thing, from foreplay to afterglow.
So the truth was, she scared him all right. Because, of all the promises he’d made her father, getting naked with the man’s daughter wasn’t one of them.
As Vance still pretended avid interest in the news of the day, the sofa cushion beside him bounced. Glancing over, he confirmed that Layla had taken the seat beside his.
That was good, he guessed, directing his attention back to the paper. He’d been concerned when she hadn’t arrived back at the house after her morning baking, afraid awkwardness over the kiss had driven her to avoid him. But she looked unruffled. Serene. Apparently she wasn’t embarrassed, nor was she experiencing the same aftereffects as he.
So, yeah, good. It made him effing thrilled to know she wasn’t suffering from the I-want-mores.
“I need a taster,” she said, in that slightly scratchy voice of hers.
His whole body jolted, the L.A. Times in his hands rattling. A taster? Her mouth? Or— Dropping the newspaper, he whipped his head around.
Her expression innocent, Layla gazed on him, a plate of small, two-bite cupcakes in her hands.
I’m a very bad man, he thought. I’m a very bad man and an idiot. He cleared his throat. “What do you have there?”
“A new flavor,” she answered, holding the plate closer. “Tell me what you think.”
What I think? I think you’re incredibly beddable, with those big brown eyes and that lush, top-heavy mouth and—
“Vance?”
With a grimace, he reined back his wayward mind. If Layla could waltz in, apparently unaffected and feeling no residual weirdness, surely he could act like a civilized human being. Blessing the newspaper that hid his overeager hard-on, he reached for one of the treats. His nose told him... “Lemon?”
“With a hint of candied ginger.”
He took a bite. Tart yet delicate, the flavor spread on his tongue and was so delicious he resisted swallowing for a moment. Then he popped the rest in his mouth, chewing as he reached for another.
“Good?” she asked, a hint of laughter in her voice.
“Great.” Possibly addictive.
Now she did laugh. “Slow down. You’re getting crumbs all over yourself.” Her hand reached out and her fingertips grazed his bottom lip.
Vance stilled. So did Layla, her gaze shifting upward to lock with his. They stared at each other and their kiss played out in his memory once more. He recalled the sweet warmth of her mouth, the smooth skin of her shoulder, her moan that he felt on his tongue
as he thrust deep.
The walls seemed to close in, the room becoming a bubble that contained only him and Layla. And a driving need for sex.
Of all the promises he’d made her father, getting naked with the man’s daughter wasn’t one of them.
Slowly, as if a sudden movement might shatter his tenuous restraint, Vance returned the cupcake to the plate. Her hand dropped from his face, but her big eyes remained trained on him.
It was up to him to end this dangerous intimacy.
“We need to go outside,” he said. “I’ll get a blanket. You put on a sweatshirt.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“Time to put another check mark on the Helmet List.”
It was the plan he’d come up with when he’d woken, bleary-eyed and nearly strangled by the disordered sheets. Getting on with the Helmet List would remind them both of their purpose at Crescent Cove.
Which wasn’t to forge an unwanted closeness.
He snagged a bottle of wine and a couple of plastic glasses. They weren’t elegant, but the alcohol might blunt the edge of his need. Just beyond the deck steps, he spread the blanket on the beach, then settled himself on it, assuming Layla would join him there when she was ready.
But after a few minutes he found himself impatient and he glanced around, just in time to see her put her foot on the sand. She wore a pair of stretchy exercise pants that clung to the slender length of her long legs. A matching zippered sweatshirt covered her top half. They were a striking shade of blue-green and with her wavy brown hair sliding against her shoulder, she looked like a landlocked mermaid.
Jesus, she was sexy. The way she walked gave her hips just the slightest sinuous swing, and it made his belly clench. What worried him more was the accompanying gnawing want that he found harder and harder to ignore. He’d spent years indulging every reckless urge: fast cars, extreme sports, hard drinking. He was much less practiced at self-denial.
It’ll be good for your soul, he told himself. You’ll be a better man for it.
But the man in him wasn’t any better once Layla gracefully settled onto the blanket beside him. He stared at her bare ankles and toes and thought about her legs twined around his hips and those pretty feet crossed at the small of his back, bringing him deeper inside the wet and heated softness of her. Closer. As intimate as two people could be.
Damn.
He put several more inches between them, then snatched up the bottle of wine and poured two glasses. Without looking her way, he passed one over, then drank deeply of his own. Her gaze was on his face, he could feel it, so he gestured toward the horizon with his wine. “We’re here to see the green flash at sunset.” An object of myth and superstition, the flash was a real but rare optical phenomenon. As the trailing edge of the sun appeared to hit the water, a green light could sometimes be seen shooting upward.
“Oh.” She was silent a long moment. “I’ve never caught sight of one. Dad—” She broke off, her breath a little hiccup that was almost a sob.
The sound made his chest ache. He looked over at her. “Honey...”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, straightening her posture as if under inspection. Her attention was focused westward, at the sun already half-hidden by the horizon line. The wind fluttered the ends of her hair. Then, as he watched, a single tear crested her lower eyelid, turning gold as it caught the last rays of light.
Vance didn’t even think before sliding close and then circling her waist to draw her against him. It killed him when she lifted her shoulder in a quick surreptitious gesture to blot her cheek.
So intent on hiding her emotions. In a professional soldier’s household any sentimental display had likely been looked upon as weakness.
She cleared her throat. “My father told me about one he witnessed in Iraq,” she said, her voice a deeper rasp than usual. “You can see them over the tops of mountains and even clouds, did you know that?”
Vance shook his head, struck by the beauty of her face as a second golden tear rolled down her skin. His fingers itched to touch it, to brush it away, but suddenly that seemed like the most intimate act of all.
Her hand lifted her glass, but she lowered it before taking a sip. She stared at the sun as it sank lower. “Jules Verne said that a person who sees a green flash gains special powers. They can’t be deceived because they can read others’ thoughts.”
He grunted, alarmed by the idea. Good Christ, it would only be trouble if Layla started reading his mind.
“But according to sailors,” she continued, “when the flash appears, it means a soul has crossed over.”
According to Layla, too, Vance realized, watching her so-serious face. She wanted to believe she was here to see her father’s soul pass on.
So Vance turned westward, as well, willing it for her with all he had. When the wind died and the final fingernail rim of the orange sun slipped into the ocean, though, there was no coinciding emerald burst of light. No souls crossed that night.
He thought he might just cry at the lack. Another long silence followed, the dusk deepening around them. Lights came on in the windows of the other houses in the cove, but their glow didn’t touch them here, at the south end and under the darker shadow of the looming cliff.
Finally, Layla lifted her glass for a sip of wine. “Vance, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” Ask me if I saw the flash. I’ll lie my ass off and say yes if it will make you believe the colonel’s peacefully passed on. Anything. Any damn thing to make you happier.
“I have a couple of questions for you, actually.” She went quiet again, as if gathering her thoughts. “First, about last night...”
His groan was swallowed back. “Maybe it would be better to leave that alone.” He started to shift away from her, but she placed her hand on his thigh.
“Okay,” she said easily enough. “Then answer my other question.”
Darkness came swiftly once the sun was gone. Her features were already obscured, and it made him uneasy. “If I can,” he said, cautious now about his promises.
She took a breath. “I wondered what the problem is between you and your brother.”
He blinked. “Fitz?”
“I know you were angry at him last night and maybe I was miffed, too, but the fact is, he seemed upset—”
“I’ve changed my mind, Alex,” he said. “I’ll take About Last Night for two hundred dollars.”
She let out a little startled laugh. “Really? You won’t tell me why—”
“About Last Night for one thousand dollars.”
No way in hell did he want to discuss the situation with his brother. Talk about personal. And intimate. Telling that story would be like plunging a fist into his belly and pulling his guts from his navel.
Yeah, he’d talk about kissing Layla and everything it shouldn’t mean all night long, rather than that. But then she was silent long enough for him to think she’d abandoned uncomfortable topics altogether. Whew.
The relief came too soon, however. Because finally her head swiveled his way and words tumbled out. “I wondered—worried that you felt...well, guilty, or, I don’t know, disloyal because we kissed.”
“What?” He frowned. “Disloyal?” He’d felt aroused and agitated and like a goddamn saint for putting her away from him.
“Because of that woman.” She took her hand from his thigh. “The one you wanted to marry.”
Vance let out a short, bitter laugh. “Oh, baby, you do ask the funniest questions.”
“You said you’d answer.”
Oh, what the hell, he thought, and found himself laying it out for her, something he hadn’t told anyone, not even the guys whom he considered brothers, the men he would have bled for, died for. The men whose wounds he’d bound. “I don’t feel the slightest bit of loyalty to Blythe. That’s the name of the ex. She sent me a Dear John letter a month after I’d returned to Afghanistan.”
Looking up at the sky, he laughed again. “Two weeks later I received anothe
r letting me know she was already dating someone else. My brother. The one and only Fucking Perfect Fitz.”
* * *
THE MORNING AFTER THE fruitless wait for the sunset’s green flash, Layla was stepping into Beach House No. 9 from the sliding glass door when she heard knocking on the front entrance at the other side of the house. Because she’d been at the food truck since dawn, she was unsure of the whereabouts of the other inhabitants, and hurried forward, only to see Vance place his hand on the knob and pull open the door.
Whoever was on the other side caused him to freeze. Curious—the visitor was obscured by his wide shoulders—she continued toward him and peeked around his body. An attractive middle-aged blonde was staring at him, her blue eyes wide.
Vance released a sigh. “Mom, what are you doing here?” he asked, his tone aggrieved.
“I...” Her gaze flicked from her son’s face to his cast and brace and she swallowed. “My car broke down.”
“And you just happened to be at Crescent Cove when you experienced your little automotive malfunction.”
“Well...” The woman’s slender back straightened. She wore a simple white T-shirt and a pair of jeans, and as Layla watched she seemed to plant her sandaled feet a little firmer on the concrete stoop. “Yes.”
“I’ll call you a tow truck.”
“I took care of that,” his mother said hastily. “I just need a ride back to the ranch.”
Vance radiated tension. “Absolutely not.”
An expression of anguish flickered over the woman’s face. Layla flinched in sympathy, but then she took a silent step back. This was none of her business. After what Vance had told her on the beach last night, she’d sworn off efforts at facilitating a Smith family reconciliation. Not now that she’d heard the details of his breakup with his fiancée.
Two weeks later I received another letting me know she was already dating someone else. My brother. The one and only Fucking Perfect Fitz.
Bungalow Nights (Beach House No. 9) Page 11