Bungalow Nights(12)
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
“THE SANTA MONICA 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.
No harm, no foul, no inappropriate thoughts or actions.
Avoiding Layla’s perfume didn’t appear to be a problem—as they crossed beneath the arched entrance, they entered an olfactory atmosphere that was a heady combination of sunscreen chemicals, fruity sno-cone syrup and salty sea air. But that cacophony of scents also heralded the fact that they weren’t the only people in Southern California who’d decided on a visit today, and the throng of bodies streaming onto the pier almost immediately carried his companion away from him. Helpless to stop the outgoing tide of humanity, Vance caught a glimpse of her wide eyes as she glanced around for him.