Bungalow Nights(25)

“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.”