Bungalow Nights (Beach House No. 9)

by Christie Ridgway

  “On Picnic Day,” his mother said, beaming. “Layla and I have it all figured out.”

  “What?”

  “Just following through with that girlfriend thing,” the young woman beside him murmured. “Your mom came up with the idea that I should bring the cupcake truck.”

  “We have the barbecue caterers coming, and the taco truck, but nothing for dessert.”

  “Mom—”

  “It’s a great opportunity for her. Don’t you want to support your girl’s business?”

  His jaw fell and he glanced over at “his girl.”

  She merely shrugged. Smiled. And Vance realized he was screwed. He’d be back at the ranch before he knew it.

  And that, too, was all Layla’s fault.

  * * *

  LAYLA HEARD VANCE curse under his breath as they turned out of the Smiths’ driveway and onto the road. He glanced back in the rearview mirror. “Girlfriend,” he said, like the word tasted bad.

  “Hey,” she protested, “it wasn’t my idea.” And it was a dangerous label for what she was to him. Saying it too much, playing that role too often, well, it could make her care for him.

  Or make her care for him more. Because when he’d said, They threw me out, in that calm, cool voice, she’d stared at his expressionless face and fought the urge to wrap her arms around him.

  “I need a drink,” he muttered, and he took a turn she didn’t remember. In short minutes they’d reached a crossroads with a mom-and-pop gas station attached to a small convenience store. Kitty-corner from them was a cozy-looking tavern beside a small parking lot.

  Once inside the building, she realized it was bigger than she’d thought. Beyond the bar was a stylish dining area, and though it was a little after four o’clock in the afternoon, the seats were already filling up.

  “Outside of a bag of pork rinds and a six-pack of beer in the back of your pickup, this is the only place to get food and drink without leaving avocado country,” Vance explained as they were shown into a booth. “Sit here long enough and everybody who knows the difference between a Hass, a Pinkerton and a Fuerte drops by.”

  He grinned at her bewildered expression. “Varieties of alligator pear.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just another name for avocados.” He appeared to relax as their drink orders were delivered. A beer for him, a diet soda for her. Then he asked for guacamole and chips.

  When a basket and a ceramic bowl of dip were slid in front of them, Vance cocked a brow Layla’s way. “You’ll share with me, won’t you?”

  She rested her elbow on the table and propped her chin on her hand. “I don’t know if that’s wise.” He’d taken two long swallows of his beer and his earlier tension seemed nearly evaporated, which made her mood lighter, too. “Somebody told me recently that your alligator pears are the fertility fruit. Would that make the green stuff an aphrodisiac?”

  He stilled for a moment, then a sparkle came into his blue eyes. Mimicking her pose, he placed an elbow on the table. Using his other hand, he picked up a chip and scooped some guacamole. “Maybe we better test that theory.”

  What could she do but open her mouth? Still, it was unavoidably intimate, she discovered, to have him feed her.

  And even more so, when he touched his thumb to a spot at the corner of her mouth, ostensibly dabbing up a dot of guacamole. Her mind leaped back to the day before, when she’d made to brush cupcake crumbs from his lips. Her fingertips prickled at the reminder, recalling the distinction between the soft flesh of his mouth and the golden stubble edging it.

  Layla felt herself flush, then go even hotter as she watched him lick the smear of dip from the pad of his thumb.

  He pretended to study her face. “You look...warmer,” he said.

  She, in turn, pretended that consuming the chip made it impossible for her to respond. But it was fascination that kept her silent as his long fingers delved into the basket again. He loaded another chip with guacamole and then popped it into his mouth. Chewing, he tilted his head as if considering.

  Considering her, because though his eyes were half-closed, they were focused on Layla’s face. Her skin prickled with another rush of heat and under the table she pressed her thighs together, trying to contain the rising sexual ache there.

  Her nipples tightened and he must have sensed that, because his gaze slid lower. She didn’t dare look herself, but she knew the hard points could be seen through her T-shirt.

  “Definitely arousing,” he murmured.

  Oh, no. Physical desire was as dangerous as an emotional attachment. Pressing her spine against the back of the bench seat, she put distance between them. Her hand scooped up her cold drink. It might have been more effective to dash it on her skin, but she made do with a long, icy swallow.

  Vance’s eyebrow rose again and he stretched his long legs until denim from his jeans brushed the inside of her naked calf. When she twitched in reaction—that sexual startle response she’d yet to contain—a little smile prodded the corners of his mouth. “You okay, sweetheart?”

  Layla scowled at the endearment. And his obvious enjoyment in teasing her. With careful movements, she edged her legs away from his. “Remember? I’m not girlfriend material.”

  His smile became even lazier. “I didn’t say you weren’t girlfriend material...” The word trailed off as his gaze shifted over her shoulder. “Shit,” he said, straightening in his seat.

  She glanced back. Strolling into the dining area was Vance’s brother, Fitz. And beside him was a beautiful woman, her platinum hair and classic features like an ice sculpture of a royal princess. Layla turned back to Vance and he was wearing that nonexpression expression again.

  She sent me a Dear John letter a month after I’d returned to Afghanistan.

  And here “she” clearly was, with the brother she’d taken up with next. That had to hurt. And if Layla wasn’t mistaken, Vance would stab himself with a fork before he’d want anyone to know that it did.

  Reaching across the table for his fingers, she turned in her seat to catch the eye of the blonde’s escort. “Fitz!” she said, pasting on her sunniest smile. “Fancy meeting you here. Can you join us?”

  Without giving him time to reply—or anyone time to object—she patted the banquette seat beside her. “And, Blythe—you are Blythe, correct? You’ve got to sit right next to me so the two of us can get acquainted.”

  The other couple seemed so astonished by the invitation that they dutifully followed her directions. Vance had a tight grip on her left hand, but that didn’t stop her from extending her right to the elegant woman now seated beside her. “I’m Layla Parker,” she said. “Vance’s girlfriend.”

  “Oh,” the other woman murmured, with a quick blink followed up by a brief, polite clasp of fingers. “I’m happy to meet you.”

  Then she flicked a glance across the table. “Hello, Vance,” she murmured, her voice even fainter.

  Vance didn’t twitch a muscle. “Blythe.” Whatever his feelings, they’d gone deep undercover.

  The two brothers sat side by side, both wooden-faced. A swell of panic curdled the cola and guacamole in Layla’s belly, but she managed to calm herself as the waitress paused to take the newcomers’ orders. She’d told Vance earlier that he was her hero and it was true. He’d tried to save her father at great personal risk and she was determined to pay him back for that as best she could. Helping him hide his broken heart seemed a good place to begin.

  When the requested drinks were placed on the table, she tacked on another sunny smile, supremely aware that Vance and Fitz were each pretending the other wasn’t sitting an elbow away. “Blythe, I bake cupcakes for a living, if you can believe that. How about you? What’s your line of work?”

  Blythe was an interior designer, Layla learned. The other woman answered readily enough, even though she kept sneaking glances across the table, whether at Fitz or Vance, it was impossible to tell. Upon closer inspection, Blythe was also not any less attractive than Layla had orig
inally thought. She wore her straight hair in a ballerina bun at the back of her head and was dressed in a tailored khaki skirt and white silk shirt that would be appropriate in an executive suite—or for decorating one.

  By comparison, in her shorts and T, Layla felt like a camp counselor after a sweaty day of weaving lanyards and making name tags from popsicle sticks and macaroni letters. Still, she didn’t let her lack of self-confidence show on her face. Instead, she shared stories about starting up Karma Cupcakes, their current flavor offerings and that she’d be bringing the food truck to the upcoming Picnic Day at the Smith family ranch.

  Fitz, who’d been silent up to now, slid a look at his brother. “Picnic Day?”

  “Yeah,” Vance said. “Mom came by the beach house. We ended up driving her home.”

  “I’m glad she had a chance to see you,” his brother said stiffly.

  Vance shrugged. “She got to meet Layla.” He idly played with her hand now, his lean fingers sliding up and down against the sensitive inner skin of hers.

  Layla flushed again, she couldn’t help it, and when she shifted her legs restlessly, Vance caught them between his. Her head jerked up to find his gaze on her face. It felt like a caress.

  Before the warmth of it had died, a stranger came up to the table. “Vance!” he cried in happy greeting and then immediately launched into some remember-when conversation that made clear they were long acquaintances. The other man brought Fitz into the discussion, as well, and soon it turned into something about baseball that—to Layla—was indecipherable. While the brothers each spoke to the newcomer, it was obvious they weren’t speaking to each other.

  The sensation of being watched tagged her consciousness and she turned her head to see that Blythe was staring at her. Layla saw her swallow. “He’s a really good man,” the other woman said, under the cover of the men’s talk.

  Layla couldn’t help but give a little dig. “Fitz?” she said, tacking on an unspoken You mean the guy who stole his brother’s girl?

  Blythe dropped her gaze. “Vance.”

  “That’s right,” Layla said, with a light snap of her thumb and middle finger. “You two, uh, dated for a while.”

  “So much contained energy,” the blonde said. “All that life buzzing under his skin.”

  Oh, yeah, Layla thought. Even when he was quiet, even when he acted as if he had ice in his chest like her father, there was a force to him, a leashed power that said he was prepared to uncoil in an instant and launch into battle. Fight hard. Take no prisoners.

  It was attractive.

  Exciting.

  Then she thought of the Vance she’d seen at the ranch. The one who’d envisioned himself managing the groves. Growing things on the land instead of patching up men on the battlefield. She could see that, as well. He’d be decisive then, too. His hands gentle on the fruit. His natural vitality infusing each root, each branch, each leaf.

  She supposed it would be a healthy, good way to employ the innate restlessness that had driven a little boy to make mischief.

  “The fact is,” Layla murmured, half to herself, “the big bad combat medic is a nurturer.” And why did that feel like such a dangerous thought?

  Blythe frowned a little. “I’m not sure he’d approve of that description.”

  “What description?” Vance said, from across the table. The friend who’d occupied him was moving away.

  The two women glanced at each other. Then Layla smiled at the man who was running his thumb across the top of her knuckles. “That you’re a handsome, generous studmuffin,” she said. “My studmuffin.”

  His lips twitched, and he glanced at the now-empty bowl of guacamole. “How much of that stuff have you eaten?”

  She waggled her eyebrows at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Yeah,” he said softly. “I would.”

  And it was as if the other couple had slid beneath the table. Actually, there was no one else in the restaurant. Only Vance and Layla remained, smiling into each other’s eyes. Clasping each other’s hands. The heat captured between their palms shot up her arm and tumbled over her body.

  “Time to go,” he said, still holding her gaze.

  They murmured their goodbyes to Fitz and Blythe, who seemed relieved to see them leave. Vance slid his arm around Layla as he led her toward the door. His mouth nuzzled her temple. “That was great. Thanks for being such a good...friend,” he murmured in her ear. “Just one more scene, okay?”

  “Huh?” she asked, but instead of answering, right at the door, in view of everybody at the restaurant including his brother and his ex-fiancée, Vance laid his lips against hers.

  Claiming her. Cementing her position as his girlfriend.

  It was just a role, she tried reminding herself, as she opened her mouth to the gentle thrust of his tongue.

  A role that had turned even more dangerous than she’d supposed, she thought, shivering against him. Because right now it didn’t feel like playacting at all.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ONE LATE AFTERNOON, following several hours spent poring through dusty boxes, Addy headed back to Beach House No. 9. Strolling along the sand, she caught sight of Skye Alexander up ahead, her attention on something in her hands.

  Addy picked up her pace. Now was as good a time as any to provide a report on the progress she’d made cataloging the Sunrise Pictures archives. As she neared the other woman, the sole of her flip-flop found a pod on a string of rust-covered kelp. The bulb popped, the noise loud over the whisper sound of the surf.

  Skye startled, dropping the papers in her hands. “It’s you,” she said, clapping one palm over her heart.

  “Sorry,” Addy replied, grimacing. Then she bent to pick up the scattered sheets. Lined paper was covered by a distinctly masculine scrawl. “I didn’t think anyone wrote letters anymore,” she said, passing the missive to Skye.

  Wearing a small smile, the other woman carefully brushed at the grains of sand clinging to the pages. “He’s overseas and doesn’t always have access to the internet. Our old-fashioned correspondence isn’t as instantaneous as email, but I like it. It feels more...personal.”

  “I get it. A person’s handwriting can suggest their mood.” Addy grinned. “And there’s always the option of writing your response in purple ink to convey your passion.”

  Skye’s gaze shot up. “Passion?” She laughed. “No, we’re just friends. Old friends from childhood.”

  “You’ve been pen pals since you were kids?” Addy thought of all the letters she’d fantasized writing when she was a girl. Each one addressed to the beautiful blond boy who lived down the road.

  Skye shook her head. “He used to spend his summers here—in Beach House No. 9 as a matter of fact—but we started writing to each other less than a year ago. Gage—Gage Lowell—is a freelance photojournalist.”

  And Skye’s secret crush, Addy decided. She might claim they were just friends, but the careful way she was handling that letter said that its future lay in a special box alongside the others the man had sent her.

  Of course, that could just be Addy’s overstimulated imagination. The hours she’d spent searching through the souvenirs of the silent film era and Edith Essex had made her preoccupied with love affairs and all their attendant complications. “You know,” she told Skye now, “I’ve been unsuccessful in finding any letters between Edith and her husband, Max. I thought they might tell a truer story than the gossip rags of the day, which said she married the owner of Sunrise Pictures for what he could do for her career.”

  “But you think...?”

  “I don’t know.” Addy sighed. “Later, there was also speculation that Max got out of the movie business to punish her for the affair and that flamboyant gift of jewelry...while also putting out the word he wouldn’t tolerate anyone else hiring her.”

  “Not too nice.”

  Addy shrugged, then shoved her hands in the pockets of her cropped white jeans. “She stayed with him, though, and they had a couple of
kids in quick succession and then, only five years later, after giving birth to their younger daughter, she got pneumonia and died. Did she resent her husband’s actions? Did she regret the loss of her acting career to her dying breath?”

  “The only family lore I can add is that my great-great-grandfather never remarried,” Skye said.

  Addy sighed again. “Well, you told me Crescent Cove has had its share of broken hearts.”

  Skye gave a lopsided smile. “I did, didn’t I? Though to be fair, there is—” She broke off, her eyes brightening as her gaze moved over Addy’s shoulder. “Teague,” she said, in pleased surprise.

  Addy glanced around. A dark-haired man was heading for them, barefoot and dressed in shorts and an unbuttoned short-sleeved shirt. Its edges fluttered in the breeze, revealing a chiseled chest and a pack of ab muscles worthy of a magazine spread. “Wow.” She looked at Skye. “I think one of us should start exchanging passionate letters with that guy.”

  “Are you really interested?” the other woman asked, her eyebrows rising. “Though we’ll need to take his romantic temperature first—he had a recent disappointment.”

  “Maybe.” Addy shrugged. Because perhaps a summer fling was what she needed to purge her lingering and girlish infatuation with Baxter. She hadn’t seen him since that day when she’d told him the past was past. But, dammit, his response continued to echo in her head. That leaves the present wide-open.

  Not that he’d made any inroads into her present since then, she thought with a scowl. He’d likely found some svelte beauty that was the same twelve-on-a-scale-of-ten as himself. Someone he could picture in his golden life and golden future.

  With an effort, she morphed her scowl into a smile as the good-looking guy joined up with them. He had a warm hand and a firm grip.

  “Teague spent his summers here, too,” Skye explained after introductions were made. “Along with Gage and his twin brother, Griffin.”

  “And their sister, Tess,” the man added.

  Maybe it was her imagination going wild again, but the way he said the name made Addy suspect this Tess was the source of the blow to his heart.