Bungalow Nights(33)

“And you, too,” she replied, then glanced around the interior of the truck. “Hey, Vance, your dad...” He’d ducked out, she realized with a frown. Intentionally avoiding the situation, she was sure. She turned back and pretended not to be annoyed. “I’m sorry. He was just here.”

An expression crossed the older man’s face and now she saw his son Fitz in him, too. The two men were similarly bad at hiding their troubled emotions when it came to the younger Smith brother. “I’m sure I’ll catch up with him sooner or later,” William Smith said. “Thank you for coming.”

“You’re welcome. It looks to be a great event.”

“Yes. Sure.” He shoved his hands in his front pockets. “Well, uh...” He looked as if he wanted to ask her questions but didn’t know where to start.

In the distance, a voice shouted his name, and relief crossed his face. “I’m sorry, maybe later we can...”

She was already smiling again and waving him away, and then she was quickly consumed by managing the clamoring crowd when the event really started swinging. As the temperature climbed, she heard a fiddle and a banjo break into a bluegrass tune. Somebody whooped as they walked by with a plate of ribs and an ear of bright yellow corn.

Vance reappeared and once again pitched in. She managed to corner him for a moment, noting his grim expression. “Are you all right?” she asked.

He was silent as he studied her face. “Do I need to apologize for being a moody ass?”

His rueful smile melted her. “Memories bringing you down?”

“I’m just trying to float on top of them,” he said, then brushed her cheek with a knuckle and went back to work.

The hours flew by. When there was a brief lull in demand, Vance left the truck and returned with platefuls of food, as well as the teenage daughter of a neighbor. The girl took Layla’s place at the counter so she could eat. There was a heaping mound of potato salad, skewered strips of barbecued chicken, tortillas and beans. Thick slices of creamy green avocado speared by long toothpicks had been drizzled with a vinaigrette.

Though Vance wandered off to consume his meal—still trying to avoid her when he could?—Layla took a stool near her temporary helper. It was while she was sitting that she caught sight of Fitz and Blythe in the distance. The blonde looked as though she belonged at the country club instead of in the country. Her tailored, sleeveless shirtdress was silk, her long platinum hair tied back in a sleek tail.

She’s so lovely I want to stick a pin in her, Layla thought, instead stabbing a chunk of potato with her now-empty avocado toothpick. Then she noticed Vance sitting against a tree, his gaze on his brother and his ex, and stabbed another, with more viciousness. Was he still floating on top of the memories or had he fallen into pining after the elegant beauty?

The thought made her a little bad-tempered as she returned to duty. Vance stepped inside, and praise be, his mood seemed improved—by the food or perhaps because he saw the end of the day in sight. Unfortunately, Layla only became more irritable when she ran out of lemon cupcakes, then the avocado ones, just as it was turning dark. She’d been so sure she’d baked enough of every flavor to make it through the entire event.

“Won’t this day ever be over?” she muttered, as she tried breaking into a shrink-wrapped package of napkins.

Opening the darn thing seemed impossible. “Great,” she complained aloud. “Now they’re childproofing paper goods.”

Vance approached, and in the truck’s well-lit interior she saw he held a small knife in his hand. She glared at him. “You can put your weapon down, okay? I’m not actually dangerous.”

He raised a brow. “I was going to offer to get that open for you.”

“I’ve got it.” Still seething, she snatched at the knife. There was a sense of pressure, a quick slash of heat, and then she was staring at the shredded fingertip of her glove. And blood.

“Oh,” she said. It all caught up with her: the tension, the frustration, the long hours on her feet. She felt her knees go soft.

From far away she heard Vance curse. Then he had an arm around her to hustle her toward the sink. He flipped on the water, stripped off the glove and thrust her hand under the flow. She shivered in reaction to the cool liquid on her skin as the cut began to throb.

Vance cursed again. “You have bandages in here?”

But her dizzy brain couldn’t formulate an answer. With another muttered curse, he wrapped her finger in a paper towel. His arm still around her, he hustled her down the steps.

“Wait,” she protested, “we can’t leave the truck.”

“We’re leaving the truck,” he said, but he set her in one of the bistro chairs while he lowered the awning and locked up. Then he had her back on her feet and was helping her toward the courtyard.

Next thing she knew, she was sitting at one of the picnic tables beside the dance area, surrounded by people talking, eating and laughing. Vance had found an elastic bandage somewhere, and he was hunkered down, bent over her wounded finger. The strings of fairy lights overhead caught the gold threads in his hair. Bemused, she watched him unwrap the paper towel with tender care.

“I’m fine,” she said.

He glanced up. “Drink the cola.”

She blinked, realizing he’d brought along a can with the first-aid equipment. Her free hand circled the sweating aluminum and she tilted her head to take a long draft of sugar and caffeine—nearly half of it in one go. “Good,” she said, and pressed the cold container to her throat.

Vance wrapped the bandage securely about her finger, then looked up again. “Your hand’s fine—”

“Told you.”

“—but you need to hydrate. Finish that and I’ll get you some water.”

She made a face. “Yes, Grandpa Vance.”

One brow rose. “My grandpa switched me when I sassed.”

“Liar.” With the cola almost finished, she was feeling much better. Or maybe it was because he continued to cradle her hand. It was the closest they’d been to each other since that night on the cliff. “Bet your mom would confirm it.”

His eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t mean I won’t spank you.”

Some imp invaded her body. Spoke through her mouth in a soft, teasing tone. “But not because you’re mad at me.”

He abruptly stood, and she rose, too, drawn up by his hand. His gaze dropped to where they were joined, as if he’d just realized he still had her in his grasp. In the next moment, the band started playing again. No bluegrass now, but a country ballad. Love gone wrong.

“Dance with me,” she said, another impulse she couldn’t stifle.

“We could go now,” Vance replied, his expression guarded. “Back to the beach house. We’ve more than put our time in.”

That’s what she’d wanted all day. For this command performance to be over. Until now.

“Dance with me,” she repeated. And without waiting for an answer, tugged him toward the couples who were already moving to the music under a canopy of crisscrossed lights.

With a sigh, he let himself be led. Then he released another as she moved into his arms, his big male body sheltering her in a way that made her acutely aware of her feminine differences. They swayed together, their feet barely moving, her arms around his neck, his fingers linked at the small of her back. He rested his chin on the top of her head.

Layla’s body started to hum, a force pulsing under her skin. It made her feel edgy in Vance’s arms and at the same time as if she’d found the most comfortable place on earth. The thought startled her, and she instinctively tried to retreat, shuffling back.

She glanced up as Vance tightened his hold.

Their eyes met and she couldn’t look away. Or move away, either.

He groaned softly. “I’ve tried everything I can to control this...”

Well. They were finally going to address the issue.

“...but it continues to be a problem.”

“It’s not my fault,” she protested.

“I didn’t say it was.” The fingers at the small of her back rubbed a little, and the pulse beneath her skin turned into a throb. Low in her belly, heat clenched like a fist, then released, sending fiery sparklers of sensation through her body. “I keep thinking it’s my fault,” Vance continued.

She shook her head. “It isn’t. It’s a force of nature, like...like the green flash.”

“I looked that up, you know. It has to do with the atmosphere’s density gradient and refraction.”

What? Her brain was too tired for science, and she wouldn’t allow him to change the subject now. Vance’s leg moved between hers. It was rock-solid and the denim scraped deliciously against sensitized skin. “That doesn’t make a bit of sense.”

“Neither does this,” he grumbled.