Bungalow Nights (Beach House No. 9) (8 page)

Just one of those things,
that casual shoulder movement had seemed to say.
Whatcha gonna do?
He’d proceeded to comment on the precise way she’d arranged the cut-up fruits and cold salads on a platter, teasing her like a pesky sister or that ten-year-old he’d expected her to be.

After dinner he’d sprawled his big body on the sofa and conked out with a baseball game playing on TV, as if her presence in an adjoining armchair didn’t register. A situation which, once Addy retreated upstairs, allowed Layla the guilty pleasure of stealing glances at his long limbs and handsome features while she pretended to herself she had an interest in the outcome of the nine innings.

Game over, she’d done the courteous thing and shaken him awake. He’d responded with the same good manners, rousing himself and wishing her a polite good-night as they peeled off into separate rooms down the hall. Not by a single blink betraying any awareness that she was a woman who’d be sleeping a mere few walls away and that he was a healthy and virile single man whose thumbprint she still felt like a new tattoo at the bend of her arm.

Layla’s feet halted once more as her gaze took in the figure of a woman standing near the short flight of steps leading from the beach to No. 9’s deck. She wasn’t dressed in the swimsuit-and-cover-up uniform of the other females on the beach, but was instead in cropped pants and an oversize sweatshirt. Layla might have thought she was an occupant from one of the neighboring cottages, but Addy had shared that an elderly gentleman lived in the residence behind No. 9. For now, he was visiting his niece in Oxnard. As for No. 8, this month it housed a middle-aged couple on a spiritual retreat that prescribed an all-green diet and no verbal exchanges between themselves or anyone else.

Was the stranger here to see Vance then? Maybe his cool composure last night was because he wasn’t single, after all.

As she approached, the other woman’s gaze remained focused on the house and Layla realized the sand was muffling her footsteps. She cleared her throat to make herself known. “Can I—”

A half-swallowed shriek rent the air as the stranger spun around. Her eyes were wide and her fingers clawed at the neckline of her long sweatshirt as if the ribbed fabric was intent on strangling her. “Oh,” she choked out. “Sorry.”

“My line,” Layla said with an apologetic grimace. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, no.” The stranger took a breath and tucked her long, coffee-colored hair behind her ears. In her mid- to late-twenties, she was swathed in too-large clothes that did nothing to camouflage the high-cheekboned beauty of her face. “It’s all my fault. I usually walk around with one eye over my shoulder, but my mind was somewhere else.”

On Vance? Layla wondered.

“I’m Skye Alexander.” The brunette held out a slender palm.

“Layla Parker.” She shook hands, then nodded toward the beach house. “I’m staying here for the month,” she said, then hesitated. If this was Vance’s girl, she should probably clarify the nonsexual nature of the situation. “I don’t know if Vance told you, but I’m here with him because—”

“You don’t need to explain. I’m the one your father made the original arrangements with,” Skye put in. “And I’m the one who Vance contacted about the change in circumstance. I manage the cove’s rental properties.”

“Oh.”

Skye touched Layla’s arm with cool fingertips. “Please accept my condolences on your loss.”

Loss, Layla thought.
My loss.
Her father was gone, wasn’t he? The truth dug deep again, pain stabbing the center of her chest, a burning, breathless ache. She fisted her fingers, her nails biting into her palms.
He’s really gone.

“Are you all right?” Skye asked, and her gaze darted toward the house. “Should I get Vance?”

“No
.
”
Reaching out to him when she felt vulnerable was the dumbest idea yet. “I’m good.” Layla inhaled a deliberate breath, then let it go. “Just fine.”

When she could almost believe that, she again addressed the other woman. “Is there something I could help you with?” At Skye’s quizzical glance, she added, “You were staring at No. 9 when I walked up.”

“Preoccupied with old memories,” Skye admitted. “And some new ones.” She smiled, and it transformed her classic, cool beauty. She looked younger, more...relaxed.

“Good memories,” Layla guessed.

“I grew up at the cove.” Skye made a small gesture with an arm.

“Addy March told me a little of its history. You’re a descendant of the original owners?”

“That’s right. My great-great-grandparents owned the property and operated Sunrise Pictures from here into the late 1920s. Its colorful history doesn’t stop there, though. During Prohibition, rumrunners were known to use it as a drop-off point. Later, my family rented out the property to families during the summer. Finally, we sold off some plots for residential use—though most of the cottages we still own and lease as vacation rentals.”

“My father heard about Crescent Cove from a journalist that was embedded with the troops in Afghanistan.”

That radiant smile lit her face again. “Griffin Lowell.”

Aaah
. “Special friend?”

“Griffin and his family spent every June through September here when we were kids. Idyllic summers.”

Layla nodded. “Like I said, special friend?”

Skye blinked, then shook her head. “He has a twin, Gage—” She stopped, a blush rising on her neck. “Both of them are friends, but not special like you mean.”

Sure,
Layla thought,
keep telling yourself that
.

“Griffin’s getting married next month, to a woman—Jane—he met right here at No. 9.” A small smile curved her mouth. “I warn you, there are people who claim the cottage is magic—like the love potion.”

“You don’t say.” Layla didn’t buy such romantic drivel.

Skye buried her hands in the front pouch of her sweatshirt. “But I stopped by because the party who signed for August failed to pay the balance of the deposit. I can’t seem to reach them through their email address, so it’s possible the house will be free next month.”

“You can rent it to someone else.”

“Technically, yes,” Skye said. “Though I’m thinking I’ll leave it open. If it’s left vacant, fine, that will work with this brilliant idea I have. And if the money comes through late, I’ll take it—but in exchange for the use of the house for one very important day.”

“Do you want to come up on the deck?” Layla asked, finding herself curious.

Skye looked pleased. “Just the invitation I was hoping for.”

Layla led the way. It wasn’t the first time she’d trusted her instincts and warmed to a stranger. The transient lifestyle of an army brat had taught her to size up people in an instant, separating ally from enemy. It was a useful ability, that of forging the right friendships quickly, because military kids knew relationships weren’t destined to last long.

So you also learned to let them go just as easily.

Skye came to a stop in the middle of the deck, and she seemed lost in thought again, her gaze traveling about the space. “It’s perfect,” she murmured.

Settling on one of the chairs surrounding a round table topped by an umbrella, Layla looked over. “Okay, I’ll bite. Perfect for what?”

“A wedding.”

“Let me guess.” It wasn’t very hard. “Griffin and...Jane?”

Skye nodded, then crossed the deck to take another chair. “I’m going to call them today and suggest it. They don’t want to wait long to get married but have yet to find the right venue.”

“And you think here will do,” Layla said.

A smile once again curled the other woman’s mouth. “Can’t you just picture it?”

“Uh...” Maybe it was the result of being raised by two men, one her army officer father and the other her new-age uncle, that as a little girl Layla had been given compasses and canteens, prayer flags and polished rocks instead of paper dolls and princess clothes. Sure, she’d found her feminine side, but she’d never developed a full-blown bridal fantasy. Sharing a childhood with a pair of perennial bachelors had meant she never thought much about matrimony at all.

Perhaps it was the permanence of the idea that made it seem so foreign.

Skye wasn’t waiting for her input. Instead, she was already waxing on about the upcoming nuptials. “Here’s what I’m thinking. Rows of white painted chairs. An aisle created by a spread of sand on the deck. The backdrop for the bride and groom will be the view of the Pacific. Pretty, don’t you think?”

“Sure.” Layla shrugged, again aware of her lack of matrimonial imagination. She knew most girls honed the ability to envision romantic tableaus of frilly lace and fancy rings from an early age. “I mean, I guess it would be just fine.”

“The ceremony right before dusk. White pillar candles everywhere, each one protected from the wind by hurricane glass.” Skye’s expression was dreamy. “Picture it...we can wrap the deck railing with swathes of white tulle and hang buckets of flowers from each post.”

“Uh-huh.” Layla voiced the rote agreement, though she was as unmoved as before—and felt just the slightest bit superior about that. She slouched in her seat and let her head rest against the back of the chair. Her eyes drifted shut. The candles, the flowers, the white frothy fabric had just never clicked with her.

And then, suddenly, they did.

All at once, Layla
could
picture it. The chairs, the guests, golden sand creating a wide aisle on the painted surface of the deck. Roses in buckets. Fat, sunset-colored blossoms and glossy green leaves. The tulle would ripple in a breeze that would lift the bride’s veil, as well, tugging it away from her face, which would be glowing in the candlelight. The groom would catch the filmy material, his fingers trailing her cheek as he bent toward her for a kiss...

She and Skye sighed at the exact same moment.

The sound woke Layla from the beguiling daydream. Her eyes snapped open and she stared at the other woman as if she might be a witch. “You’re dangerous,” Layla said. “I’m not given to flights of fancy.”

Skye shook her head. “It’s not me. Maybe you’ve been touched by the magic of Beach House No. 9.”

“Hey, ladies.”

Vance’s deep voice was a welcome intrusion into the hearts and flowers that still seemed to float about the deck. Grateful for the conversation he started up with the property manager, Layla took time to blink away the ridiculous fairy dust that lingered in her eyes.

The masculine rumble of his laugh brought her feet straight back to earth. Thank God. Mushy marriage stuff was not for her. Returned to her normal, practical self, she glanced over at Vance.

She couldn’t imagine him in groom wear. Instead, he looked right at home in a pair of beat-up jeans, leather flip-flops and a short-sleeved cotton shirt that matched his eyes but was rebelliously wrinkled. The tat sleeve covered his cast.

His real-man persona blew the last of the romantic cobwebs from her brain. Yep, she absolutely felt like herself again, the unsentimental soldier’s daughter who didn’t believe in anything more magical than the alchemy of baking powder and heat that caused a cake to rise.

Her spine straightened, and she sat up in her chair. At the movement, Vance glanced over. He smiled.

A bubble of apprehension hiccupped in her chest. Her nerves danced again.

No.

She was too strong for this. Too unsentimental. Too smart to go soft, despite that gilded daydream Skye had painted with her words.
We’ve already gone over this,
Layla reminded herself.

“Hey,” Vance said again, meeting her gaze. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Layla jumped to her feet, deciding she needed coffee or a shower or space she didn’t have to share with the handsome combat medic. The door to the house was just a few feet away and surely she could make it there without incident.

“Hold up.”

Gritting her teeth, she turned, walking backward now.

Vance caught her arm, though, and tugged her to him. At his touch, her imagination went wild once more, filling with candlelight and flowers and now naked bodies twining. A hard thigh sliding between two smooth ones. A long finger brushing a tight nipple. The aggressive thrust of a tongue.

Oh, God, Layla thought, feeling heat climb her face. Time to go!

“Too late,” Vance murmured, and she realized she’d spoken aloud. “We have a date with an amusement park ride.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“
T
HE
S
ANTA
M
ONICA
Pier?” Layla asked.

“It’s the closest Ferris wheel,” Vance replied. “Number one on your dad’s Helmet List.” Without glancing at her, he pulled his Jeep into a spot in the parking lot across the street from the famous landmark that included restaurants, shops and a designated fun zone built on a wide, pillar-supported platform extending into the Pacific Ocean.

That was his strategy. Not to look at her too long, talk to her too much or even breathe too deeply of her sweet perfume.

He’d hit upon it last night, when they’d settled in to watch a baseball game together. Hyperaware of her every move, he’d finally closed his eyes and willed himself into sleep. It was an ability soldiers developed, and he’d been grateful for it, though it had been a near thing when he’d awoken to find her leaning over him, her hand on his shoulder, the ends of her hair tickling his forehead. For a critical fifteen seconds he’d struggled against dragging her down to the couch, his libido clamoring for action.

He’d resisted then; he’d resist her now. The important thing to focus on was ticking off entries on the Helmet List, and that made the Ferris wheel poised at the end of the pier their destination.

And not looking at her too long, talking to her too much or breathing too deep in her presence his policy. It required maintaining some decided personal space, but even that shouldn’t be overly onerous. They’d beat feet down the three hundred or so yards to the ride at the end of the pier, circle beneath the sun a time or two, then reverse the process and return to Crescent Cove.