Bungalow Nights (Beach House No. 9)

by Christie Ridgway

  “I...” She swallowed. “Okay.”

  The couple moved toward the sliding glass door, but Vance held Layla back. He turned her to face him. “Really. Are you okay? Last night...”

  Heat flowed up her neck to her face. “Do we have to talk about it?”

  A smile slowly spread across his face. “‘Talking about it’ seems to work well for us.”

  “Vance.”

  He leaned in and took her mouth in a searing kiss. Then his fingertips floated over the small bump on her scalp. “Head okay?”

  At her nod, his hand moved lower, his thumb exploring beneath the open collar of her shirt to touch a place low on the side of her throat. “Did I leave a bruise?”

  The heat was everywhere now, prickling beneath the hair on her head, tickling the sensitive backs of her knees. She took hold of him, tucking her fingertips under the waistband of his jeans at his sides so she didn’t fall to the deck where her melting body would slide between the cracks in the floorboards to be lost forever.

  Maybe that would be best. It would certainly be better than falling for Vance, a soldier, like her father. A man who’d be gone from her life in less than two weeks.

  “Do you really want to see the photos?” he asked now. “They’ll understand if it’s too much.”

  Colonel Parker’s daughter could face them, Layla told herself, and straightened her shoulders. No more melting, under any circumstances. “I do. I want to see them.”

  Vance touched his lips to hers, just brief contact. “I looked already. Smiles and laughter. Nothing upsetting.”

  He’d looked at them for her, she realized. Checked them over, so she could feel confident there would be no image that would startle or disturb her. She leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed his chin, touched by his consideration. “Let’s go.”

  Inside the house, there were a dozen or so photographs spread across the coffee table, most five-by-sevens, some larger. Layla sank to the cushions, her gaze moving slowly over them. “Oh,” she said, with a little smile, and glanced at Vance, who took the seat beside her. “There’s Dad playing chess.”

  “He did it often,” Griffin said. “With anyone who’d take the other side of the board.”

  Her father looked so handsome, she thought. Tanned, hair regulation short, a little thin, perhaps, but he’d always been a little thin.

  Another showed him bent over a battered desk. In a different shot he was throwing a horseshoe. Each one showed Colonel Parker at work or at rest, looking his usual capable, calm self.

  Her hand moved to reveal one picture that was half-hidden. Vance. Her fingers froze. In the shot, he was kicked back on a bunk, laughing. His face was a little dirty, his hair a little sweaty, but it was him, finding humor even though there was a gun slung from a peg just within reach.

  Vance, at war.

  “Layla, what’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing.” She kept staring at the photograph. “May I have them?” she asked Griffin. “May I have them all?”

  “Of course. We brought them for you.”

  She stacked them carefully, putting Vance’s on top. The visitors were preparing to leave, calling for their dog, Private, talking to Vance about the war memoir Griffin was currently writing, which apparently had brought him and Jane together at Beach House No. 9 in the first place. Only half listening, Layla finally returned to the present as the engaged couple bid her goodbye.

  She stood and, with Vance, walked them to the front door. When they made it back to the living room, her gaze immediately fell on that image of him. The dirty face. The laughing grin. The gun.

  Vance, at war.

  She was definitely too smart to fall in love with him. But that didn’t stop her from suddenly reaching for him. Putting her arms around his lean waist, she hugged his big body close.

  “What?” He smiled down at her. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” She was safe now, wasn’t she?

  His mouth met hers in a kiss that went from warm to wild in mere seconds. Gasping, she had to pull away. “Vance.”

  “I like the way you say that, all breathless and needy.” He gave her another knowing smile. “You’re blushing again.”

  “It’s ridiculous of me, I know. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying a healthy bout of consensual sex,” she said, knowing she sounded prim but unable to help it.

  He laughed. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

  “I’m annoyed with myself for feeling embarrassed.”

  Vance laughed again, dark and low as they both saw Addy push open the glass slider. “I’m going to embarrass you again as soon as I can get you alone,” he said in her ear. “And then all night long.”

  Feeling her flush deepen, Layla sketched a wave at Addy and turned back to collect the photos. She’d weathered this morning-after better than she’d thought. The pictures would make sure she remembered not to fall for a soldier. So nothing had changed as a result of last night, after all. Feeling eyes on her, she glanced back. Vance, watching her, with definite lascivious thoughts in mind.

  All night long.

  Yes, nothing had changed...except, she thought with a delicious, dangerous shiver, for the sleeping arrangements.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE SETTING WAS PARADISE: blue sky, palm trees, golden beach and gentle surf. The soundtrack worked, too, a pleasing combination of waves hitting sand punctuated by seagull calls. On the deck of the beach house, Vance basked in good cheer that was as warm as the sunshine, even though the woman he’d have in his bed that night was standing in front of him, arms crossed over her chest, shaking her head. “I’m not going to do it.”

  “Jeez, Layla,” he said, proffering the hair clippers again, “you’re a soldier’s daughter. All I’m asking—”

  “Not going to do it. Nuh-uh.”

  He ran his fingers through his too-long hair, managing to avoid clunking his skull with his cast. Hey, progress. “Baby...”

  “I like that it’s longer,” she said, coming forward to touch it herself. “Another inch and I think it might have a wave. Even curl.”

  “Bite your tongue.” He batted her hand away. “My hair wouldn’t dare do that again.”

  “‘Again’?” Layla’s eyes narrowed. “You had curls at one time?”

  “Of course not,” he lied.

  She smiled, clearly delighted, and sidled closer, pressing her sweet body to his. “Vance Smith. I bet you were the cutest thing.”

  He copped a feel of her butt with his free hand and couldn’t help but smile back. “It was a crime, what she did to me.”

  “Who?” She leaned up to kiss his stubbled chin.

  It tickled, and he made a mental note to shave before bed so he wouldn’t whisker-burn the soft and tender place between her thighs he meant to explore for at least half the night. She bussed him again, and he slid his hand to the back of her head, holding her in place for a real kiss. Lips to lips. Tongue to tongue. God, he loved that lemon icing taste of hers.

  “Who?” she said against his mouth.

  He lifted his head. “What?” Damn, the woman distracted him. “Oh, who. My mother.”

  “So it’s her DNA that’s responsible for the ringlets?”

  Vance kept his arm around Layla, pleased to have her pretty face so close. “Probably. But what I meant was how sneakily she cultivated my head of hair.”

  Layla smiled again. “Do tell.”

  “You know what an active kid I was. Sports, bikes, you name it. Go, go, go all the time. So when I was in the sixth grade and she didn’t hound me to go, go, go to the barber, I didn’t complain or question, because it gave me more play time. Didn’t give a thought to why I wasn’t seeing scissors even though Fucking Perfect Fitz kept regular appointments.”

  “Fucking Perfect Fitz has hair straight as a stick.”

  He loved how his brother’s nickname just rolled off her tongue. So he had to kiss her again, and tongue that tongue, and generally just enjoy the hell out o
f himself for a few minutes. Who knew something so fine could come out of that battlefield promise?

  Maybe there was something to this Beach House No. 9 mystique, after all. Griffin and Jane certainly seemed to think so. The man was different than he’d been overseas—his smile more ready, his restlessness calmed.

  When Vance’s kiss for Layla ended, she was still fixated on the subject of his long-ago style. “So, Rapunzel, your hair just kept growing...”

  “Into ringlets, like you guessed.” Huh. He hadn’t meant to confess that to her, but he’d told her so many things about himself. Maybe more than he’d ever told anybody. Certainly any woman. “Fat ringlets.”

  “To his shoulders,” a new voice added. “And when our family went on vacation that summer, every day someone mistook him for a girl.”

  Vance whirled to confront his brother, climbing the steps to the deck. He looked as put-together as ever—not as GQ as Baxter, but pure dean’s list in khakis and a sports shirt. His face looked tired, though, a strain around his eyes.

  It only pissed Vance off more that he noticed the change. “What the hell is with you, Fitz?” His day had been so damn happy. “Rain on someone else’s parade.”

  “Is that any way to talk to the guy who saved you from a rattlesnake?”

  Stepping away from Layla, Vance glared. “That’s such crap. You were wrong—it was a garter snake, which someone with your IQ should have realized.”

  Fitz managed to look down his nose at him, which was quite a feat considering he was shorter. “Isn’t it the thought that counts?”

  “When you shoved me away, I landed on my chin.” He tapped the scar. “Five stitches, bro.”

  “It just furthered your romance with the intake nurse in the E.R.” Fitz shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “Should I be jealous?” Layla’s voice broke into the tension.

  Fitz shifted his gaze. “She knew his insurance number by heart. One look at those curls and the ladies were charmed.” A small smile curved his lips and he looked younger, almost like the 14-year-old who’d believed he’d been saving his little brother.

  It twisted Vance’s gut. Sometimes Fucking Perfect Fitz made it almost impossible to hate him. “So what do you want this time?”

  His brother looked away, then looked back. “The other occasions... The first time was to urge you to contact Mom, the second to return the ring. But now...I’m here for myself, V.T. To make things right between us.”

  Vance just stared at him.

  “You’re my little brother,” Fitz started.

  “It’s not like I’ve forgotten,” Vance said, impatient. “I’m the screwup, the can’t-be-trusted, the not-good-as-you.”

  “Those are your words, not mine.” Fitz frowned. “And I’m not here to insult you, dammit. I’m here to make sure you understand about...about me and Blythe.”

  “Not that again. Jesus, go find another dead horse to beat, will you?”

  Fitz wore a familiar dogged expression, however, the same one he used to have when digging into an extra credit problem set for Advanced Calculus. “I swear that I didn’t make any moves on her before she broke your engagement.”

  Vance rolled his eyes.

  “Sure, I thought she was beautiful and I couldn’t believe—”

  “She’d tie herself to the black sheep of the family? But that didn’t last, did it?”

  Fitz sighed. “It just happened, okay? But not before—”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Layla interrupted, surprising them both. She stomped over to Fitz and he retreated until the small of his back smacked the railing around the deck. Her forefinger poked him in the chest. “Just apologize to your brother.”

  Fitz blinked. “Wha—”

  “I’m an only child,” Layla said right over him, “but even I know there’s a no-poaching rule between siblings, breakup or no. So tell Vance you’re sorry and maybe you have a chance of him forgiving you.”

  Vance’s mouth twitched. God, she made him want to smile, for championing him yet again, and for humbling Fucking Perfect Fitz for perhaps the first time in his life. Because, yep, his brother just stood there, his mouth half-open, the dumb look on his face saying he didn’t know what to think or do next.

  A few minutes of silence passed. Finally Fitz looked from Layla to Vance. “She’s right, V.T. I...I beg your pardon.” Then he held out his hand. “Are we good?”

  Vance strode forward, for all the world appearing as if he was intent on sealing the peace with a handshake. At the last second, though, instead of meeting Fitz’s palm, he shoved at his brother’s shoulders, hard, sending him toppling over the railing and onto the sand four feet below. Then he peered down at the other man through narrowed eyes. “You ass. It’s not going to be that easy.”

  Fitz lay flat on his back, his hair disheveled, his button-down shirt askew, his gaze on the blue overhead. A sudden memory flashed in Vance’s mind. Two young boys, shoulder to shoulder, finding shapes in the clouds. Usually something so tame would bore restless Vance, but Fitz had found a pirate ship in the sky and was spinning the tale of two buccaneer brothers who spent a lifetime together fighting side by side, gathering riches and helping the poor. Figured Fitz’s sea bandits were Robin Hoods, Vance mused now.

  Though different from each other, they’d been close as kids. Later, when Vance was semi-estranged from their parents, Fitz had tried to retain the brotherly closeness—when Vance wasn’t deployed he’d called on a regular basis and dropped by for a beer on occasion, no matter how cool a response he’d received in return.

  Fucking Perfect Fitz, always doing the right, responsible thing.

  He’d counted on that, Vance realized, and had been shocked by his brother’s hooking up with Blythe. It had sliced deep, he realized now, much, much deeper than being dumped by his fiancée. And he’d been grieving over that break with Fitz ever since.

  It just happened, his brother had said, referring to falling in love with Blythe. And Vance remembered saying similar words to Layla, too, explaining their instant combustible chemistry. Sometimes things just happened.

  “What now?” Layla asked, coming up beside him at the railing to peer curiously over the side.

  He glanced over at her, and it brought to mind her uncle Phil and his Buddha voodoo. He’d talked to Vance about grief. You could use it for the positive, the aging hippie had said. It could give you an understanding of how quickly life passes. Then you’d appreciate the world more. Then you’d be kinder to your fellow man.

  To your brother.

  “Now?” he said to Layla on a sigh. “Now I guess I better get ol’ Fitz off the sand. Offer him a beer.”

  His brother still looked a little dazed as Vance stood on the beach, staring down on him. “You breathing?” he asked, his voice a bit gruff.

  It was Fitz’s turn to sigh. “I’ve got enough air for another crack at that apology I owe you.”

  Vance reached out a hand to help Fitz up.

  “I think I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind. You might just knock me down again.”

  Without a word, Vance kept his palm outstretched.

  After another moment, Fitz met it with his own. His grip was strong and even after he was on his feet, his fingers stayed folded around Vance’s. “I’m sorry.” Fitz swallowed. “What makes it worse was that you were going through a bad time and my involvement as part of it meant I couldn’t be there for you.”

  “Yeah,” Vance replied, his voice still gruff. Losing his brother had been much worse than losing Blythe.

  “Like I said from the beginning,” Layla interjected cheerfully. “He’s not so fucking perfect, after all.”

  Vance had to grin. “Hey, the lady’s right. And that puts me in a much more forgiving mood.”

  “Do that,” Fitz said, serious. “Forgive me. Please.”

  “Okay.” Vance nodded, then clapped his brother on the shoulder. “We’re okay.”

  Then he got out the beer. And pretty soon he and hi
s brother were shooting the shit in the sunshine with cold brews at hand and a pretty girl who just looked at them with an enigmatic smile in her eyes. Before the sun went down, Fitz had grabbed up the clippers and turned his perfectionism toward Vance’s hair.

  Look, Vance thought, in sudden surprise. His damn happy day was back.

  * * *

  IT WON’T HURT TO SAY GOODBYE, Addy reminded herself as she made her way to the door of Baxter’s high-rise condo. She tugged on her light cotton tunic, then flicked a piece of lint from her jeans. It won’t hurt to say goodbye.

  Of course, she’d already thought she’d said goodbye—wasn’t it twice now?—but here she was, on Baxter’s turf. That damn carton of ledgers, she thought. She should never have let him carry it away. But when he’d called about getting the stuff back to her, it had seemed smarter for her to make the collection herself rather than suggesting he come to Crescent Cove.

  This way, she’d control the situation.

  Leave when she wanted. As in, immediately upon receipt of the box.

  Baxter answered the door dressed in a pair of jeans and a Superman T-shirt. She stared, surprised by the casual attire. He’d been in similarly relaxed gear the other night at Captain Crow’s, she now remembered. It had seemed somewhat out-of-character then, but still, it had been after work hours. It was noon now, though. A weekday. Why wasn’t he in one of his elegant suits?

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t think when I said I’d meet you at home. You could have brought the box to your office and I would have picked it up there.”

  He shrugged. “Come in.”

  Still, Addy hesitated. At his workplace, the handover could have been totally businesslike. But now she was going to have to walk into his living space, raising the memory of the last time they’d been together in these rooms. The bed. The tie. His body. Oh, God.

  Better to avoid that, she decided hastily. “I’ll wait right here while you get the box.”

  “Addy—”

  “I don’t want to be a bother.”

  Baxter gave her a wry smile. “You’ve been bothering me for six years.”