Bungalow Nights (Beach House No. 9) (16 page)

Layla took a step forward and peered into the deep shade caused by the leaves. The trees were planted between fifteen and thirty feet apart, but their spreading branches created a roof overhead and swung low to the ground. The pebble-skinned fruit were plentiful and about the size of a woman’s fist, ready for harvest at any time. They only ripened once picked.

“I bet you could get lost in there,” she said, taking a step into the shadows.

“Or caught by spiders and trussed up for their next meal.”

It was more shriek than squeal that erupted from her mouth and the next thing he knew, he had a warm and very pretty woman cuddled against his chest. Her fingers clutched his T-shirt. “Tell me you lie.”

His mouth twitching, he shook his head. “Well, they might have trouble capturing a grown woman, but I brought some girls here when I was a teenager who swore they just escaped with their lives.”

Without putting a breath of air between them, she shot him a look. “Oh, I understand your ploy now. Scare the ladies into your arms.”

He slid one around her waist without a twinge of guilt. She felt that good against him and being here, back at this place that had once been everything to him, had made him feel just lousy enough to need the distraction. He breathed in the scent of her hair as she turned her head, gazing into the grove again with cautious eyes.

“Still,” she said, “the idea of great big spiders could put me off guacamole forever.”

“Oh, don’t deny yourself one of life’s great treats,” Vance said.

A smile curved her lips. “I admit it’s a weakness of mine.”

That mouth of hers could be his, Vance thought. “You know, avocados were once known as the fertility fruit. Decent women refused to eat them.”

Her dark eyebrows came together. “Uh-oh. I’ve been indulging for years. What does that make me?”

Tempting. Delicious. Irresistible.

Maybe she read the words on his face, because she stepped back, putting a breeze-worth of distance between them. “I don’t know how you could leave this place,” she said, turning in a circle to take in the oaks, the avocados, the sprawling houses in the distance.

“I didn’t leave,” Vance said without thinking. “They threw me out.”

Layla spun toward him, her mouth dropping. “No.”

“No,” he conceded. “It didn’t exactly go like that.” But the result had been the same. The spoiled young prince banished from the kingdom.

“How did it go, exactly?”

He tilted his head, staring up at the blue sky. “My grandfather bought a small grove as a young man—this grove right here—and kept buying more land as he prospered. Avocados weren’t as popular then as now. He also grew tangerines and oranges—we still do—and the smell of their blossoms is as much a part of my childhood springtimes as the pollywogs swimming in the creek.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“Was,” Vance agreed. “And I always assumed I’d be part of the Smith ranch just like my dad and his brother. My grandfather taught me everything he knew about growing our products and I assumed I’d go into that end of the business. Bax was a business guy—he always says he might as well be counting pencils as pieces of fruit—and Fitz...Fitz just likes being in charge.”

Mentioning his brother made him restless again, so Vance began walking once more, heading back in the direction they’d come. Layla dogged his heels. “So, what happened?” she asked. “Why are you on the battlefield instead of in these fields?”

He grimaced. “Short answer—at twenty-three, after my grandfather died, I demanded my place in the business. My dad refused to allow me in.”

“What’s the long answer?”

His smile held no humor. “Long answer is that I was too reckless to trust. I was the anti-Fitz as a kid—liked recess instead of reading, sports instead of studying. Then adolescence arrived and I perfected that position, becoming the absolute best at playing, partying and generally screwing around.”

They’d made it back to his car. Layla leaned against the side and he followed suit. “Lots of kids take a while to find their place,” she said.

“I
lost
my place.” He tried shrugging off the deep anger welling inside of him. He was never sure who he was angrier at—himself or the rest of the Smiths. “But my grandfather had made me a promise. I expected that my father would honor that. When I realized he wouldn’t...I joined the army.”

“Vance...” Biting her lip, Layla looked over. Her warm fingers found his beneath the cast, and she squeezed. “I’m sorry.”

Embarrassed, he disentangled their hands and stepped away to study his rear tire. “Jesus,
I’m
sorry for spilling my stupid sob story that way. You’ll think I’m...” He didn’t know what. A fuck-up? A whiner?

“You’re my hero,” she said.

He sent her a sharp glance.
“What?”

“Vance.” She smiled, and it was as sad as heartbreak. “You are, you know that, right?”

“No.” He was the black sheep. Trouble. The man who had failed to bring her father home. “Don’t say such a thing.”

“You saved me from the spiders, though. I really was about to walk inside there.”

Her obvious conversational bypass relieved him, bringing out a reluctant grin. “All right. I guess I should get a medal for that.” He looked around, noticing that it was afternoon now and he didn’t want to chance running into his father. “Let’s go.”

“I need to say goodbye to your mother first.”

He nodded. “That will get you your own commendation.”

Layla tilted her head, and he tried not to notice the sweet curve of her cheek. “For the girlfriend thing,” he clarified. “Thanks for going along with that. It gets Mom off my back...and makes her happier, too.”

With her own nod, Layla turned toward the house where he’d grown up. When had he last sat down in there for a family meal? Suddenly, he didn’t want to count the years. With jerky movements, he let himself into the driver’s seat.

C’mon, Layla,
he thought.
I want out of here
.

The place evoked too many memories, too many regrets, too many disappointments. All of them hurt so damn much. Back at the beach he’d be able to breathe without pain again.

The front door to the house opened and Layla and his mother both stepped out. Yeah, he supposed he needed to say his own goodbye. The look on his mom’s face when she’d seen his cast and brace at Beach House No. 9 was only another memory he wished he could erase.

Layla climbed into the passenger seat as his mom came around to his window. “’Bye,” he said to her, surprised by the gruffness of his voice. “I’ll try to remember to give you a call before I return—”

“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.

* * *

L
AYLA HEARD
V
ANCE
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?”