Bungalow Nights. Christie Ridgway
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the shoe had fallen six weeks ago and she didn’t think she’d taken in oxygen since.
Not to mention the daily emails she’d been sending to the account of a man no longer able to receive them.
“Are you all right?” a voice called. Vance’s voice.
“Stupid wind,” she said, dashing away a hot tear with the back of her hand. “I’m fine.”
She felt him come up beside her and steeled herself not to make any sudden moves. He was inches away, but her skin still twitched, some kind of sexual startle response, despite her damp lashes and clogged throat.
This was why she wouldn’t fight to stay with him.
Vance made a short, awkward gesture with his cast. “It’s a beautiful spot.”
“We always lived inland. I have a duplex northeast of here by forty minutes if the traffic’s not beastly. But my dad and I talked for years about vacationing right on the beach.” And this was the place he’d planned for them. It was where he’d still wanted her to come as he lay dying. Where she supposed he wanted her to say farewell.
A seagull screeched and wheeled too close, causing Layla to stumble back. Vance sidestepped, using his big body to brace hers so she didn’t fall. The sensation of his broad chest against her shoulder blades sent a ripple of pleasure through her and she closed her eyes. “Layla,” he murmured, his warm breath touching her temple. “Things will turn out all right.”
Would they? Wrapping her arms around her waist, she forced herself to move away, planting her heels firmly in the sand and keeping her gaze focused on the horizon. How could they when she was still sending messages ending with “Love, Layla” into the ether? When she was letting herself be run off from fulfilling her father’s last request?
She hugged her body tighter, reconsidering her urge to escape. Perhaps there was another, truer source of her disquiet, she mused. Maybe her reluctance had nothing to do with Vance Smith. More likely, her imagination had conjured up a heated reaction to him as an excuse not to stay.
It made so much sense. She’d dreamed up the medic’s appeal in order to avoid saying her final goodbye.
That avoidance would disappoint her father, she knew. He wouldn’t want her clinging to sadness through emails that were never answered and commitments she eluded. He’d made arrangements for her to spend this month at Beach House No. 9—alongside the man with whom he’d spent his final moments—and that’s what she should do. What she would do, she decided, hauling in a long, deliberate breath.
No over-the-top and surely imaginary sexual attraction would scare her away.
She took in more air, then turned to Vance. He was staring out to sea and she didn’t give herself a moment to appreciate his handsome profile. “I’m staying,” she said. It would mean Uncle Phil couldn’t embark on his trip for a few more weeks, but she knew he’d understand.
Instead of moving his body, Vance shot her a sidelong glance. “I thought we’d decided.”
Layla stepped close, her voice going fierce. “We didn’t decide.”
He turned to look at her now. “Layla—” he started, shaking his head.
“Doesn’t keeping your word mean anything?”
At that, he stilled, his gaze dropping to the sand. She could tell he was warring with himself, but she didn’t care what the fight was about as long as the battle ended her way. She took another step, getting right in his face. “You promised.”
His eyes jumped to hers, their blue hot and bright. A moment passed. “I did, and that’s important,” he finally said, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “All right. Okay.”
“Okay?” A ray of sunshine seemed to brighten her bereaved heart. She smiled, even as another mortifying tear blinked from her eye. When she reached to wipe it away, her fingers tangled with Vance’s, which were bent on the same mission. They both froze this time, and the drop was left to roll down her cheek and off her chin.
Feeling awkward and awful all over again, Layla broke away from him. “I...I’ll go get my things,” she said, hurrying away as she mentally composed yet another undeliverable email. Dear Dad, I hope I haven’t just made a huge mistake....
* * *
LAYLA WAS MISSING WHEN Vance emerged from his bedroom the next morning. She’d moved her stuff into the beach house the day before as the sun began to set and he’d left her to it when she assured him she didn’t need his help. His dinner offer had been waved away, too, so he’d wandered down the beach for another meal at Captain Crow’s.
When he’d returned, the door to the bedroom she’d selected had been shut. He’d been relieved, of course, and not alarmed.
But now, with dawn coloring the sky the pearly gray-pink of the inside of an abalone shell, worry niggled at him. Her bedroom door was ajar but she wasn’t inside. The pristine kitchen testified she’d not even made a cup of coffee.
Addy wasn’t any help. He trudged upstairs and knocked on her door, but she clearly wasn’t a morning person and was just as clear that she had no idea where to find Layla.
Where the hell had she gone? And why the hell hadn’t he been able to quash the deal yesterday? Not only had he found himself keeping to the plan of a month with her at Crescent Cove, he’d even assured Big Brown Bambi Eyes that “things will be all right.” As if that would happen when he couldn’t even keep tabs on the woman!
Christ. He had to steer clear of this promise business.
After fumbling through the brewing of a carafe of coffee, he managed to down a cup and then headed toward the beach. The briny air dampened the denim of his jeans, and his leather flip-flops kicked up a trail of cold sand behind him. Everyone else in the cove appeared to be asleep except for himself...and Layla, wherever she was.
He walked northward, trying to tamp down his concern even though he’d noted her car was parked in the driveway and her clothes still hung in the bedroom closet. Frustrated, he made to shove his hand through his short hair and cursed when his cast clunked against his skull, knocking some sense into him.
“I’m an idiot,” he told the clutch of sandpipers playing a version of Red Rover with the surf line. They didn’t look up. “She’ll be at the bakery truck.”
He’d assure himself of that, he decided. Get a glimpse of her, then return to No. 9 without giving away he’d been worried.
She was all grown up, wasn’t she?
Dammit.
It was the aroma that reached him first. Even before his soles hit the parking lot’s blacktop, he breathed in something sweet and delicious. His mouth watered and, though that could have been enough to confirm Layla’s whereabouts, he continued toward the food truck parked by the highway, lured like the Big Bad Wolf after Little Red’s basket of Grandma goodies.
Just a quick peek, he told himself, and then he’d hightail it home.
Swirls of pink-and-green paint in a paisley design covered the surface of the vehicle and Karma Cupcakes was blazoned in black letters that appeared vaguely Sanskrit in style. It should have been advance notice, he supposed, but he still started when a spare figure appeared from around the side of the truck. “Namaste,” the man said, pressing his palms together and giving Vance a shallow bow.
“Yeah,” Vance answered. “Uncle Phil, I presume?”
The man wore baggy cargo shorts, a Che Guevara T-shirt and a puka shell necklace. Cocking his head, he grinned, then came forward with fingers outstretched. “You must be Layla’s Vance.”
“No!” Jesus, he wasn’t Layla’s anything. “I mean, uh, I am Vance Smith.” The hand-to-brace shake over, Vance stepped back. “But I was just leaving—”
“Not without a conversation first,” Phil said, still smiling.