Bungalow Nights

chapter SEVEN



THE SOUND OF BAXTER’S whistling warned Addy of his approach. In the small room designated as the Sunrise Pictures archives, she froze, torn between wanting to run to her purse for lipstick and a hairbrush and wanting to just...run.

She didn’t want him back in her life.

Not that he’d ever left it, if she was honest with herself. For years, he’d been her comfort crush, something she’d turned to like she’d turned to cookies and potato chips from the age of five until eighteen. Lonely? Bask in the memory of being in Baxter’s arms. Low? Call up the memory of the effervescence flooding her bloodstream as he swung her onto the dance floor. Who knew Baxter Smith could two-step? But he had, and he’d deftly taught her the rudiments, as well, shuffling the two of them through and around the other couples as the country band played “Like We Never Loved At All.”

The same Faith Hill/Tim McGraw tune Baxter was whistling now as he stepped into Addy’s workspace. The sound cut off as she turned to face him.

Her heart stuttered. Oh, wow. He was a gorgeous specimen of a man. Most of the males in her world were hungry-looking grad students, with hair barbered by their mothers or their girlfriends and clothes that came straight from laundry baskets that were filled straight from dryers, without any folding in between. Baxter had left the jacket to his suit behind, but his dark olive slacks were pressed and his white shirt starched. The leather of his dress shoes and matching belt gleamed.

By contrast, Addy felt nearly naked in her nylon running shorts, tank top and lightweight hiking boots. She wasn’t taller than five foot two, but it seemed there was an awful lot of bare skin between her ankles and the tops of her thighs.

Baxter appeared to be studying every inch.

She cleared her throat and his gaze took a lazy path upward. When his blue eyes met hers, he smiled. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Her heart fluttered again. Oh, she was in such big trouble! She knew better than to like something too much—say, donuts or ice cream—and that applied to Baxter, as well. While he might be fine in the abstract, in the flesh there was the danger that she might find him addictive.

And wallflowers-by-nature like Addy March would only be heartbroken by hoping for something real and lasting with ideal men like Baxter Smith.

With that thought pinned tightly to her mental bulletin board, she returned to stuffing her backpack with supplies for her planned hike, including a couple of water bottles and a sandwich bag half-filled with raw almonds. “If you’re looking for Vance, last I saw him he was in the kitchen at the beach house.”

“I’m not after Vance.”

Then what was he after? She wanted to scream the question, but she wasn’t a nineteen-year-old who’d never been kissed anymore. Self-respect demanded she maintain a hold on her dignity. So she faced him again and lifted inquiring brows, feigning a cool indifference. “Oh? Then—”

“You know why I’m here, Addy.” He leaned against the doorjamb, his hands in his pockets, a faint smile on his impossibly handsome face. “You know exactly what I want.”

Oh, yeah, she knew. He’d tried going there yesterday. For whatever reason, he didn’t want to let that...that interlude between them go unacknowledged. Why? Did it not count as a bedpost notch if she pretended it never happened? She frowned at him, wishing his ego wasn’t demanding she speak her secrets aloud.

You were a wonderful first lover.

My girlhood dreams all came true that night.

I’ve never forgotten a moment of it.

Those were the truths she held close to her heart. But she was keeping them there, unvoiced. They were hers, and no one else’s.

Striding for the door, she brushed past him. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for conversation,” she said.

He caught the back of her shirt, halting her forward movement. “I want to help you out, Addy. Remember? I promised that at the bar.”

At the bar, when she’d turned to him, looking for a way out of Steve’s insistent offer. Though she’d known that guy for years, his avid interest had struck her as a little creepy, and she hadn’t wanted to accept—nor had she wanted to say that to his face. Some stupid instinct had made her glance toward Baxter, and he’d immediately stepped up with a promise of his own.

“Thanks for that,” she said now, without looking at him. “You helped me out of a tight spot, but I didn’t take you at your word.”

“Of course you didn’t.”

A grim note in his voice had her glancing back at him. He let go of her shirt, and used that hand to smooth his already-smooth golden hair. “But I meant it,” he said. “I’m volunteering my services.”

She shook her head. “I appreciate it, but I’m actually just on my way out. I’m going to hike around the cove this morning, scouting out locations used in the Sunrise movies.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“You’re dressed for a board meeting, not a tramp down the beach and a scramble in the hills.”

He was already unbuttoning his cuffs. Then he loosened his tie and began stripping out of his dress shirt. As she watched his hands, the past reared up, image overlaying image. In the darkness, Baxter toeing out of his shoes. Baxter yanking his shirt over his head. Baxter’s hands at the buckle of his belt.

His delicious scent had been in the air, she remembered. It had already transferred to her skin during their heated kisses, a sophisticated sandalwood cologne that she’d breathed in while trying to steady her triple-timing heart. Her nervous trembling had seemed to shake the entire bed and her skin prickled with chill...until he’d lain on top of her, his bare chest against her now-naked breasts, his erection nudging the notch between her thighs. “Addy,” he’d groaned, the word hot against her ear.

“Addy,” Baxter said now, standing before her in his slacks and a V-necked white T. “Ready?”

She shook her head, trying to return that old memory to its usual high shelf. “You...” Her voice was so dry she had to try again. “You can’t go like that.”

“Of course I can,” he answered, his voice full of the confidence only the Baxter Smiths of the world could claim.

The kind of confidence that drew the Addy Marches of the world—and that clearly would be a waste of breath to argue against. She sighed. “C’mon, then,” she said, digging through her backpack as she led the way outside. Finding the tube of lotion, she tossed it over her shoulder to him, certain he’d make the catch.

“What’s this?”

“Sunscreen. You better use it. You look a little pasty.”

Addy didn’t pause to hear his response or stop to let him apply the stuff. However, a few moments later he tugged the backpack from her to stow the lotion. “Pasty, huh,” he said, slinging the strap over his own shoulder. “And I looked prissy just the other day.”

She didn’t glance at him as she took a path along the lower edge of the bluff. He wasn’t pasty or prissy, of course, but wallflowers developed a defensive edge. They didn’t always let it show—mostly never—but when their backs were too tight to the wall... Now Addy felt as if her shoulder blades were jammed against thick plaster.

Trying to ignore the sensation as well as the man who brought it on, she focused on her original plan. Her first stopping place was a short ten-minute walk. Once she found the vantage point she sought, she paused to enjoy the view. They were halfway up a footpath on the hillside that rose behind the beach. The surrounding grasses were knee-length and well on their way to going from spring-green to September-blond.

“I’ll take the backpack now,” she told Baxter. As she unzipped the largest compartment, she noticed the sand sprinkling the tops of his loafers. Their slick soles had slid on the path’s silty dirt. Pulling free her camera, she glanced up at him. “Really, Baxter, go back. You don’t have the right equipment.”

“Oh, I think you know I do,” he said.

The ocean breeze cooled her suddenly hot cheeks. Instead of responding to that, she dropped the backpack and brought the viewfinder to her eye. With flicks of her finger, she took a shot of the stretch of ocean to the west, another of the cliff at the south of the cove and then a northward view that included that tangle of tropical vegetation planted a century before.

“What are you doing?” Baxter asked.

“Seeing if I can match some establishing shots to those in the Sunrise Pictures iconic movies. The first filmed here at the cove told the story of two strangers washed up on a deserted island. They landed on the beach with the detritus of a shipwreck and had to find a way to survive...as well as fight a fierce attraction, of course.” She smiled as she focused the camera on a stretch of sand that she thought was the exact location where dashing Roger and innocent beauty Odelle had built their encampment.

When she drew the camera away, she saw that Baxter was staring at her again. Embarrassed by his scrutiny, she hitched the pack over her shoulder and set off once more, trying to pretend he wasn’t dogging her footsteps. It didn’t help, however. At each stop Baxter inquired about her purpose. So she ended up telling him the storylines of The Courageous Castaways, Penelope and the Pirate and Sweet Safari.

“For that one, they managed to truck in an actual elephant. When it wasn’t being used in a scene, they tethered it to a stake driven into the sand on the beach.”

“That must have been quite a sight,” Baxter said, rubbing the sweating side of one of the water bottles she’d brought over his forehead.

She tried not to stare as he unscrewed the top and chugged the liquid. But from the corner of her eye she watched his throat move with each swallow. “It was quite a sight, especially for some hapless men out for a pleasure sail from Newport Harbor one afternoon. Apparently they’d been drinking and lost track of time...and they thought possibly longitude and latitude as well when they spied the pachyderm nestled among the banana plants and palm trees.”

“Did they put in for land to discover the truth for themselves?”

She nodded. “So the story goes. They were quite relieved to find themselves still in California and then thrilled to meet the famous film star Edith Essex.”

“Skye’s ancestor.”

“A great talent,” Addy said, as she turned back the way they’d come. She had enough photos for today.

On the return trip, she found herself telling Baxter more about one of the silent film era’s most notable actresses. “Edith left a hardscrabble life with her family in Arizona and headed for Hollywood when she was still in her teens. Though she had ambition, she didn’t consider herself particularly attractive, but on-screen...on-screen she glowed. She eventually married Max Sunstrum, the head of Sunrise.”

“You’ve seen all her movies?” Baxter asked, keeping pace behind her.

Addy nodded. “I like imagining how much fun she had in her acting career. I’ll bet through childhood she’d escaped the reality of a large family and little food by fantasizing she was someone else, someplace else. Then finally here she was, in this beautiful location, playing characters who found adventure, battled villains and won the love of worthy men.”

Baxter held a door open for her and she blinked, realizing they’d made it back to the archives room and that she’d been chattering about Sunrise Pictures and Edith Essex the entire time. “Well,” she said, feeling Awkward Addy all over again as she crossed the floor and dropped her backpack on the table, “I guess you learned more about Crescent Cove’s silent movies than you ever wanted to.”

He shut the door, enclosing them in the small space. “I enjoyed all of it,” he said. “Were you like Edith as a kid? Did you get lost in your imagination?”

She hesitated. Would he think it was weird of her?

“Don’t bother answering, I can read it on your face.” Smiling, he came closer to toy with the ends of her short hair. “Who would have thought Addison March had such a wild fantasy life under these pretty curls.”

Addy told herself she wasn’t blushing again. “I suppose that means you didn’t entertain yourself by making up stories as a kid. I knew we didn’t have anything in common.” He was Golden Boy Baxter. His real life was ideal, ordered and full of people who cared about him. She was the girl who’d spent her childhood with imaginary friends and other solo comforts.

“That can be a good thing,” Baxter said. “For example, without a woman like you I wouldn’t be improving on my pasty complexion today. I can’t remember the last time I took this much time away from my desk on a workday.”

“Really?” The Smith family owned an expansive and successful avocado ranch and, according to her mother, had their hand in other businesses, as well. “Don’t you regularly go out and, I don’t know, walk among the trees?”

He shook his head. “It’s not really necessary for me to do my job. Avocados are no different to me and my sixteen-hour workdays than if they were sponges or soap or birthday candles.”

Addy could smell that enticing sandalwood scent of his again, so she was taking shallow breaths that made her head a little woozy. “Sixteen-hour days,” she murmured. “You must enjoy your work.”

“Sure,” he agreed, and he lifted his hand to again play with the ends of her hair. “But I don’t have the passion for it that you express about the movies.”

Addy walked right into it. “What do you feel passionate about?”

Baxter’s white smile grew slowly.

She hastened to step back, but he wasn’t having that. Instead, he cupped her face between his hands. “I remember a passionate night,” he said quietly. “Have you really forgotten it?”

“I...” Her heart was in her throat, thrumming fast. She was supposed to be maintaining her dignity, she knew that, but suddenly every instinct she had was urging her to break free. Leaping back, she slammed her hip into the table. Its legs screeched against the floor, but she ignored the sound to grab up her backpack and flee for the door.

Yet when she reached it, she paused. To hell with pretending. She had to make sure that Baxter understood where things were between them. “Look,” she said without turning around. “The past is past. I know there’s no future between us.”

“Oh, good,” Baxter said.

She barreled through the door, but the rest of his remark followed her out into the narrow hall.

“Because that leaves the present wide-open.”

* * *

LAYLA LINED UP THE CUPCAKE ingredients on the small counter in the food truck, hoping to find inspiration for a new recipe. Getting lost in the creative process would be a welcome diversion and she’d left off her usual food prep gloves in order to touch the silky smoothness of the flour and rub the fine granules of sugar between her fingertips. The results of this baking session wouldn’t be sold to the public, so she could “play” with the food, and now she took hold of a sunny lemon. She rolled its cool skin between her palms, trying to focus. Lemon cakes with coconut icing? Strawberry lemonade topped with a clear glaze?

She moved to her laptop, thinking to locate her Ideas file, but when it came to life, her email program popped on-screen. It displayed the message she’d started typing in the middle of the night.

The door to the food truck squeaked open and Uncle Phil stepped inside. Layla clapped her laptop closed and swung back to contemplation of her ingredient row.

“Uh-oh,” Uncle Phil said.

Uh-oh. That’s what Layla had said on the deck of Beach House No. 9 as she moved out of Vance’s arms the previous evening. And the why of those two syllables was what she’d been trying to distract herself from thinking about now. Vance had kissed her. They’d kissed.

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 another letting me know she was already dating someone else. My brother. The one and only F*cking 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 F*cking Perfect Fitz.

He’d said he no longer felt loyalty to the ex. As if he didn’t still love her.

Layla was having a hard time believing a word of it.

Without daring to breathe, she took another step back, but the movement must have caught the eye of the woman on the other side of the door. Tilting her head, she met Layla’s gaze and stretched out slim fingers. “I’m Vance’s mother, Katie Smith.”

Her son turned to glare at Layla as she moved forward to shake hands. Well, what else could she do? “Layla Parker,” she murmured, then sent Vance a swift glance. “Uh, excuse me. I was just on my way to—”

“Surely you have a few minutes to chat,” Mrs. Smith said, propelling herself past her son. “You can show me around this pretty bungalow.”

Behind her, Vance groaned. “It’s rooms and a view.”

His mother tucked her arm in Layla’s elbow and steered her farther into the house. “I’d love to see them.”

“Don’t bother resisting,” Vance called out, trailing behind. “She’s a bulldozer. Mom, three minutes, and then I’m calling you a cab.”

Ignoring her son’s remark, she came to a halt in the sunny living room. “Oh,” she said, staring out at the ocean. “It’s beautiful.” Wearing a smile, she swung around to face Vance. Her gaze dropped to his injured arms again, and this time her cheery expression died. She put her face in her hands.

Layla’s heart twisted. Even Vance softened a little. In two strides he was at his mother’s side. Pulling her against him, he gave her a rough pat on her shoulder. “I’m okay, got it? Perfectly fine.”

One more quick squeeze, then he moved her away. “Let me get you a glass of water,” he said, disappearing in the direction of the kitchen.

Katie Smith turned to Layla, her expression still distressed. “Is he really all right?” she asked, her voice low.

What was she supposed to say to that? Physically, he was on the mend. But that rift with his brother, and maybe his father—I’ve disappointed him, she’d overheard Vance say—clearly ate at him. Her lesson had been learned last night, however. The answers to her questions had only served to reveal the complexity of the problem...one that wasn’t hers to solve.

“It’s not my place to get involved.” With relief, she saw Vance come back in the room, bearing a tall glass. “I’ll leave you two alone now.”

“No,” Vance said quickly. “Don’t run off.”

Her gaze leaped to his and she couldn’t miss the entreaty in his eyes. Great. It didn’t take a genius to realize that now that his mother had made her way into the house, he wanted to use Layla as a buffer. But when she’d played that role during Fitz’s visit, she’d ended up being claimed as Vance’s girlfriend. Surely he didn’t want his mother to get the idea that—

“Please,” Katie Smith said now. “I want a chance to get to know the woman in my son’s life.”

She already had the idea.

“Bigmouthed Fitz,” Vance muttered.

Taking a seat on the couch, the mother addressed her son. “I can’t tell you how happy I was to hear you’ve moved on. After the situation with Blythe—”

“Layla doesn’t want to hear us discuss that old business, Mom.”

Meaning he didn’t want to dwell on that old business, Layla decided. For herself, she vacillated between a desire to not think about the ex and a desire to scratch the woman’s eyes out if she ever had the chance to meet her.

Katie placed her glass on the table beside the couch. “What does it matter? If you have someone new in your heart—”

“What will it take to have you drop this?” Vance interrupted.

“A ride home,” his mother promptly answered. “I promise to steer clear of any topic you like if you’ll drive me there.”

A muscle in Vance’s jaw ticked. “Why?”

“I need to see your feet on the ranch’s soil,” she said.

Her honest emotion hit Layla’s chest dead center again. She shot a glance at Vance and saw him wince. He was going to give in and Layla hoped it worked out well for him.

“All right,” he said, grudgingly. But as Layla moved in the direction of her bedroom, his fingers snagged the sleeve of her shirt. “You’re coming, too.”

“Me?” she asked, dismayed.

“Yes,” he said, gaze intent. “I don’t go anywhere without my girl.”

“Coward,” she murmured.

“Katie can put the fear in me,” he agreed, whispering.

So with a sigh, Layla acquiesced. Still, she was determined to keep herself separate from Smith family business during the hour ride southeast. They left the beaches behind for the inland mountains, where the temperatures weren’t moderated by the ocean breeze. Though the interior of Vance’s Jeep was air-conditioned, the window glass was hot to the touch.

Vance deflected his mother’s probing by telling her she’d only get two pieces of Layla’s personal information that he himself provided. One, that she baked and sold cupcakes in her own gourmet foot truck, and two, that she’d met Vance through a mutual army acquaintance. Layla did add that she’d never visited Vance’s home territory, the region of California known for horses, citrus and avocados, because upon exiting the freeway it felt as if she’d entered another world.

Here, roads wound over and around hillsides planted with orchards of oranges and tangerines or covered with lush groves of tall thick trees with low-hanging branches and dark green leaves. Creek beds ran alongside the pavement and sometimes the roadway itself ran through the creeks. Mostly dry now, they still provided enough water to sustain beautiful oaks, their leaves creating a canopy overhead. Every so often a side road would branch off, and she saw signs for horse breeders and another for a gourd farm.

As they took one of the smaller roads, Katie pointed out items of interest—a llama against a fence, a handful of horses and riders cresting a hill—and Vance lapsed into a heavy silence. His mother had taken the backseat, so Layla slid him a sidelong glance from the passenger side.

If he felt her regard, he didn’t betray it with a flicker of expression. His face could have been carved in stone and his lips were pressed firmly together. They stayed that way until he slowed the car around yet another bend—this one more hairpin than the others. Then he glanced in the rearview mirror at his mother and uttered a single word. “Dad?”

“Not expected back until dinner. But, Vance—”

“You made a promise,” he said, pulling into a gated driveway.

Katie went silent, and Layla found she couldn’t speak, either, her voice stolen by the beauty around her. Wrought-iron gates stood open and up the paved driveway were two massive mission-style homes arranged around a spacious courtyard with a tall fountain in the center. Behind the buildings, a hill rose, covered in those thick-foliaged trees. To the left of one of the two dwellings was an expansive spread of land shaded by a grove of tall oaks. In the distance beyond them was another, smaller dwelling similarly styled to the other buildings. Though they’d passed other homes of different sizes and styles along the way, the Smith compound stood alone in its lush setting.

To get a better look, Layla pushed the button to unroll her window, and a blast of warm air, scented with leaves and cool water, rushed into the car. “It smells so...green. It’s beautiful here.” She glanced back at Katie Smith, noting the woman’s attention was focused on her son’s profile.

Layla whipped her head toward Vance, and for all her vows to not get involved in his family business, she was still struck by the naked longing on his face as he gazed upon his childhood home.

* * *

VANCE BLAMED IT ON LAYLA. He’d intended to keep the car running upon reaching the compound. With his foot on the brake, he’d pause just long enough to let his mother hop out and then they’d be making the return trip to Crescent Cove. But the first person out of the car had been Colonel Parker’s pretty daughter and his mother had encouraged her to explore the grounds.

Hell. He couldn’t let her wander without an escort, could he?

She trailed her fingers in the water showering from the courtyard’s fountain, then teasingly flicked drops in his direction. “You actually grew up here?” she asked. “It’s paradise.”

He shrugged, glancing around. No sign of any other Smiths, thank God. His father and uncle could be anywhere, from the grove located behind the house to any of the others they owned in the area. Fitz was likely at his office in the packing house a few miles away. Baxter kept to his high-rise city offices, where he managed the numbers side of Smith & Sons Foods. Neither one of the younger men was much interested in getting his hands dirty, so they hired an independent consultant for grove management.

A waste of money in Vance’s mind, and something his grandfather would have frowned upon....

His train of thought derailed as he saw Layla bend over to pick up something at her feet. She wore cuffed shorts that rode up in the back, high enough to make his mouth go dry. It wasn’t accidental, he decided. She was out to make him nuts with that display of long, smooth legs.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

She straightened, a piece of paper in her hand. Frowning, she stared at him over his shoulder. “Excuse me for objecting to litter in this lovely place.”

Looking around, he realized that while his mind had been preoccupied, she’d wandered away from the compound and that he’d trailed her to the stand of massive oaks that had been their childhood go-to place for games of hide-and-seek, cops and robbers, astronauts and aliens. For a moment he saw their ghosts: Fitz and Baxter and Vance, their skinny boy bodies darting from tree to tree. Long-ago laughter echoed in his ears, causing sudden pain to pierce his chest.

Still frowning, Layla came closer. “Are you all right?”

He didn’t want her to read his mood, so he ducked his head and snatched what appeared to be a flyer from her hand. “What’s this?”

Bold lettering spelled out PICNIC DAY across the top.

Another pang stabbed him. His fingers crumpled the paper, but Layla pried it free before he could turn it into a ball.

“‘A Smith family tradition. Thirtieth annual celebration,’” she read aloud. “‘Food, dancing, fun for everyone.’”

“It’s a yearly summer thing,” Vance said. “They open the ranch to the public, give tours, sell stuff like barbecue and corn on the cob, bring in some ponies for the kids.”

“The date’s coming up,” Layla said.

“Yeah,” he agreed, then strode away from her as if he could distance himself from those memories, too. Didn’t work for shit, because he could see his grandfather in his mind’s eye, a spare and straight Clint Eastwood look-alike, welcoming visitors with a smile and a slice of buttery avocado on a long toothpick.

Vance, his shadow from the time he could toddle, standing at his elbow, feeling all cock of the walk as one of the successful Smith family. Never seeing ahead to a time when he’d lose his promised future among them.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this close to an avocado tree,” Layla said, a little breathless, he thought, from trying to keep up with him.

Again, Vance had to glance around to ascertain exactly where he was. They were standing at the edge of the grove that was closest to the family compound. Without being aware of it, he’d picked his way across the now-dry creek that ran behind the houses. The trees began right there, an old growth that reached up and over a low mountain.

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 f*ck-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.

* * *

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 originally 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.