Bungalow Nights (Beach House No. 9)

by Christie Ridgway

  One of the men leaned close to her, his narrow fingers wrapping around her glass to top off the beer. “Sign of the jeweled collar?” he asked. His neck was skinny and his complexion pale, made sallower by the contrast to his faded black T-shirt.

  Addy shook her head. “It could just be old Hollywood gossip, you know.”

  “It’s gotta be,” another of the group concurred. “Priceless treasure still undiscovered after all these years? Not a chance.”

  “You should let me help you look for it,” Skinny Neck said, scooting his chair closer to Addy’s. “I have some free time. I could be here every day.” He put his hand on her arm.

  The gesture made Baxter move forward. “Addison,” he said.

  Her head whipped around and she turned in her chair, causing the man to release his hold on her. “Baxter!” She said it with such enthusiasm he couldn’t help but suppose she didn’t like Skinny’s touch.

  Baxter didn’t like it, either.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  He yanked a free chair from an adjacent table and insinuated it between her and the guy in the black T-shirt. The other man didn’t move an inch, but Addy obligingly shifted her chair to give Baxter room. “Do you mind if I join you?” he asked, when it was already done. He smiled genially about the table. “I’ll buy the next pitcher.”

  He’d learned a thing or two about managing people over the years. Ask for permission after the deed was already done. Never overlook the opportunity to buy a round of drinks for your friends...or enemies.

  Holding out his hand toward Skinny, he gave him a full-wattage Smith smile. “Baxter. Addy and I go way back.”

  Introductions garnered him the knowledge that the others at the table hadn’t known her nearly as long. They were fellow students from her undergrad years, and all seemed to still hold a passion for film. Two worked in the industry, one was in law school, Skinny put in part-time hours as a barista while monitoring a chat room dedicated to all things movie.

  And he was itching to get into that small archives room with Addison.

  “Listen, Addy, I’m serious about the offer,” he said, after the waitress delivered the pitcher of brew that Baxter had ordered. “I got the time, you got the access.” He leaned over the table to send her a smile that was close to a leer. “We could have some fun.”

  Baxter glanced at Addy, then went with his instincts. “I don’t think so,” he told the guy.

  “Huh?” Skinny frowned at him.

  Sliding an arm around Addy’s shoulders, he tugged her closer to his body. “Let me explain...”

  What could he possibly say? Six years ago they’d had one intense night together when, for some reason he still couldn’t explain to himself, he’d gone off the BSLS. He was only here now to apologize for what he’d said then and what he hadn’t done afterward. Once that was over they were never going to see each other again.

  “Fine,” the man said, as Baxter hesitated. “I get it. You’re bumping boots with Ad. That doesn’t mean I can’t help her out with her research.”

  “Bumping boots!” Addy bristled.

  Baxter cursed himself. This wasn’t going the way he’d expected. He had no business laying claim to any kind of relationship with her. He was trying to lay the past to rest. Get on with it, Smith. Get it out, then get yourself out.

  The pitcher of beer was making the rounds again and under the cover of that Baxter turned to her, sliding his arm from her shoulder so he could take both of her hands in his. They were small and cool and resisted his grip until he tightened his fingers. “Listen,” he said. “I’m...I, uh...”

  Crap.

  He took a quick breath. “I didn’t mean to insinuate something to your friends.”

  Her eyes narrowing, she gave a careless shrug. “Why are you here, Baxter? It can’t be a coincidence. Shouldn’t you be at the office?”

  “It’s a holiday.” He actually had been at the office, but she didn’t need to know that. “And it’s after five.” Though he often stayed at his desk beyond 8:00 p.m.

  “What do you want?”

  He opened his mouth, then shut it, staring as her face started to flush. Or was that merely from the pinkish cast of the lowering sun’s light? In either case, it distracted him, and he chased the color downward, aware for the first time of what she wore. It was a dark blue sundress of a gauzy fabric that bared her shoulders and cupped her breasts.

  Nothing good could come from allowing his gaze to linger there, so he jerked it upward, noticing the wire-and-beads headband that was half-hidden by her curling hair. The small seeds of glass were colored red, white and blue.

  It was the Fourth of July, he reminded himself, and he was here to claim independence from That Night that had been shadowing him for years, staying tucked behind his shoulder until it was clear no amount of paperwork and meetings and conference calls could keep his brain occupied enough to forget it.

  “Look,” he said quickly. “I’m here because we really need to talk. What happened six years ago, what we did, what I said... It should have been resolved differently.” It hadn’t been resolved at all, that was the problem. The things that had come out of his mouth as he held her in his arms... Sweet Lord.

  His last words had been the assurance that he’d be calling her and yet he’d never dialed her number, sent an email or even posted on her Facebook wall. He didn’t even know if she had an account.

  “Will you accept my apology?” he asked.

  She blinked, those green eyes of hers expressing...what? Christ, he couldn’t read her. Six years ago she’d been an open book.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Addy said.

  “I...uh, what?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she repeated. Her brows came together and she looked perplexed. “Six years ago? We did? You said? It doesn’t ring any bells.”

  Baxter may have been gaping at her. She didn’t recall? She didn’t remember That Night? Okay, she’d had one beer, but he didn’t think she’d been drunk.

  Not drunk enough to forget being with him.

  To forget he’d taken her virginity. And what he’d said after the fact.

  As he tried to wrap his mind around her apparent forgetfulness, she turned away from him to respond to one of her college pals. Banter circled the table as they told old stories, brought up shared classes, dissed clueless professors.

  Rocked by the revelation that what had eaten at him for six years apparently didn’t rate a single memory in her brain’s filing cabinet, Baxter sat frozen. After a few minutes he reached into his pocket for his smartphone, but even calling up his email and checking for voice messages didn’t shore him up.

  Work always shored him up. Routine. Sticking to the BSLS.

  He only tuned back into the conversation when Skinny Neck spoke up again. He leaned around Baxter to address Addy. “As I mentioned,” he said, “I can help you with your research. I have a lot of free time.”

  Baxter didn’t like the guy on sight and even less now that he wanted to “help” Addy with such insistence. But he steeled himself to stay silent. Heck, if she didn’t remember him from That Night six years ago, he shouldn’t stick his nose into her affairs.

  “Well?” Skinny prodded.

  “Steve...” Addy hesitated, looking down, then her lashes swept up and her gaze touched Baxter’s face.

  He could read her well enough now, he thought. And she was clearly saying, Help.

  Before he could even think it through, he had his arm around her again. “She doesn’t need anything from you, Sk—Steve. You see, I’ve already volunteered my services. When Addy needs an extra hand, it’s going to be mine that comes to her aid.”

  Then he shined his smile on her, the foundation firm beneath his feet again. If she’d forgotten what they’d been to each other, he now had a reason to be around her to remind her of it.

  After that he’d apologize and put That Night to bed.

 
He winced, not sure if it was because of his mind’s turn of phrase or the sneaking suspicion that his logic held a serious fatal flaw. But her warmth at his side felt too good for him to reason it out now.

  CHAPTER SIX

  LAYLA FIDGETED IN THE KITCHEN, rotating the plate of cupcakes she’d frosted in red, white and blue as the dessert for the Fourth of July dinner she’d thought she’d be sharing with Vance and Addy. But the other woman had gone to Captain Crow’s to meet some friends for a quick drink and she’d yet to return. Vance’s cousin Baxter had arrived at Beach House No. 9 not long after Addy had left, and he’d headed straightaway after her. He was still MIA, as well.

  That meant Layla was alone with Vance, who was seated on the couch in the adjacent living room, staring out the sliding glass door that led to the deck and then the ocean beyond. Over the past couple of days, being by herself with him was a circumstance she’d done her best to avoid. Taking her gaze off him, she played once again with the placement of the baked treats, her twitchy nerves making it impossible to keep still.

  Unable to help herself, she stole another glance at Vance and wondered about his mood. Was he edgy, too? Without other company as a buffer between them, the atmosphere in the house felt heavy with tension and her nerves stretched thin enough to snap. As if sensing her gaze, he turned his head and she quickly redirected her attention to the cupcakes. Boy, were they fascinating.

  Not. Even as she pretended an interest in them, she could tell that Vance continued looking at her. The nape of her neck went hot beneath the long fall of her hair and her sundress, a patriotic red with white polka dots, suddenly seemed to cling too tightly to her ribs. The nervous shuffle of her feet made the hemline tickle the sensitive spots at the back of her knees.

  As more minutes passed, her breath bounced back at her from the old-fashioned tile backsplash, sounding much too loud. And was it just her, or were the walls now closing in?

  Layla spun away from the countertop. “I’m going to find Addy.”

  In a move just as abrupt, Vance shoved up from the couch. “Sounds good to me.”

  He was going with her? She wanted to refuse his company, but that would only seem rude and...immature. God knew she’d appeared childish enough when she’d clung to him during the Ferris wheel ride. She couldn’t help that the height of the metal contraption had triggered a bout of panic, but it only had added to her humiliation that he’d been prompted to offer up his services as her big brother.

  Big brother! He was a step or two ahead of her now as they descended the stairs from the deck to the beach. The thin fabric of his short-sleeved, white chambray shirt fluttered against the strong muscles of his broad back. His ancient Levi’s had a rip in one rear pocket, which drew her eyes and made her all too aware of the way only a man could fill out a pair of jeans. She heaved a sigh.

  He glanced around at the sound, just in time to see her trip on the last step. Her neck blazed hot again as his hand shot out to steady her.

  “I’m fine,” she bit out, jerking to avoid his touch. “I don’t need a keeper.”

  Then, sucking in a breath, she started striding along the sand in the direction of the restaurant. Okay, maybe she sounded as if she needed a keeper.

  Or a big brother.

  Gah!

  The mere fact that he’d mentioned it on the Ferris wheel proved he’d managed to bury what she’d thought was a mutual attraction. Or perhaps on his end it had evaporated all on its own. In any case, clearly she’d morphed in his mind from sexy to sibling.

  Great.

  She was still grinding away on that when they approached the deck at Captain Crow’s. It was a much different place from where she’d eaten lunch a few days before. Then it had been relaxed. Quiet. The tables half-full.

  Now a rock band was playing in one corner. People were sitting, standing, dancing. Drinking.

  As they entered the throng, a man let out a loud whoop and lifted a scantily clad woman to his shoulders, where she swayed to the heavy beat. Vance leaned into Layla and spoke directly into her ear. “This place is nuts. Let’s go back.”

  For another session of her nerves on the torture rack? No, thank you. Pretending not to hear him, she side-scooted around another piggyback-dancing couple. Addy had to be around somewhere.

  A guy with curly blond hair, wearing board shorts and a tan, grabbed her arm as she went by. He swung her onto the dance floor, a good-natured grin on his face. “I’m Ted,” he shouted over the guitar licks. “I bet you like to dance.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but a different hand found her wrist and spun her away from her would-be partner. It was Vance. Her back to his front, he held her against his body with his half cast and used the other arm as a shield of sorts to push them through the throng and toward the bar.

  He had the devil’s own luck, or maybe it was his set expression that had two stools opening up just as they approached. He half lifted her onto the leather-strapped seat and then took the other. It was quieter here than near the dance floor, so she didn’t have to resort to lip-reading to hear his opening remark. “This was a bad idea.”

  She frowned at him. “I might have wanted to dance, you know.”

  “What? With that surfer dude? He was drunk.”

  Her chance to retort was interrupted by the bartender, who slapped a couple of napkin squares in front of them and asked for their orders. Vance wanted beer. Layla put in for a margarita.

  It didn’t add to her dignity that the guy pouring drinks followed up by requesting her ID and from the corner of her eye she saw Vance smirk. Ignoring him, she fished her license out of her sundress pocket and at the bartender’s satisfied nod reiterated her desire for a margarita and tacked on an order for a tequila shot, salt and a slice of lime.

  Vance made a noise. “Do you think you should—”

  “It’s a patriotic choice,” she hissed at him.

  “Today’s July Fourth, not Cinco de Mayo,” he said as their drinks were delivered.

  Instead of answering him, she grabbed up the saltshaker that had been placed in front of her. With her tongue, she wet the web of skin between her left forefinger and thumb, sprinkled salt on the damp spot, then traded the shaker for the shot glass. After licking at the salt, the tequila went down fiery and hot, and she chased the flames by biting into the tangy citrus pulp of the lime.

  Then she smiled at Vance.

  His expression didn’t tell her anything. He watched her coolly over his bottle of beer, unnerving her again, so she turned to the margarita and took a hefty swallow. The chill of the blended drink mitigated the burn in her belly, the combination creating a warm glow that traveled through her blood.

  Feeling more relaxed than she had in days, she lifted her margarita glass again.

  “Maybe you should take that slow,” Vance warned.

  Before she could even roll her eyes, someone on the other side of Layla spoke up. “What you doing drinking with such a Danny Downer, pretty lady?” a man’s voice said.

  Two guys crowded near her left elbow, both holding beers and wearing smiles as bold as the Hawaiian shirts they were wearing. “Hey,” the one in the orange shirt said, nudging his friend in blue. “That’s more than a pretty lady. That’s the cupcake girl. Remember, we bought a dozen from her this morning after surfing?”

  The second man’s eyes went wide. “Hot damn, you’re right.” He leaned in closer, whispering as if he had a secret to tell. “Never tell my mom I said this, but you beat out anything she ever baked for me.”

  Layla laughed, then lowered her voice, too. “I’ll keep that between the two of us.”

  “Wait just a minute,” his friend protested, tapping his own chest with his half-full bottle of beer. “I saw her first. I realized she was Cupcake Cutie. No sharing sweet nothings with my woman.”

  Layla laughed again as they started squabbling about the rules of first flirtation rights and who’d ignored those very same rules just last Saturday night with the “awesome red-haired
babe” at “that bar on Second Street.” Clearly, the pair spent a lot of time together cruising for female companionship.

  As the not-quite sober, almost entirely serious discussion continued, the blue-shirted man paused the conversation to address Layla. “Excuse us for just a minute,” he said. “We’ll get back to you as soon as we sort this out.”

  Layla could only smile at them. They were clearly harmless and actually quite good-looking if you weren’t blinded by the ultraloud shirts. “I’ll be right here waiting.”

  “Oh, God,” Vance muttered. “Don’t encourage them.”

  She turned to him. “What’s the matter, Danny Downer?”

  His eyes narrowed at the nickname. “They’re idiots,” he told her. “Boozed up and bored. They’re the kind of men you should give a wide berth.”

  Oh, yeah, he was going all big brother, wasn’t he? Doling out unsolicited advice and treating her as if she’d never been to a bar or handled a couple of flirtatious men.

  Maybe he didn’t think she was appealing enough to actually have been approached by the male species before, she thought in annoyance, taking another swallow of her margarita to cool her snap of temper. “I’ve dated before, Vance. Kissed men. Even—don’t faint—had sex. I know what I’m doing.”

  His mouth tightened. “Not with guys like that you don’t.”

  Layla glanced over her shoulder at them. They were still engrossed in arguing the finer points of bro etiquette. In her judgment, their XY was of the nontoxic variety. They’d had a few beers, but so what? Yet her escort continued scowling in their direction.

  She shook her head at him. “Listen, every person isn’t a Boy Scout, Vance.”

  He turned his frown on her. “What?”

  “I’m talking about you,” she said, gesturing toward him with her glass. “Just because you’re a squeaky-clean, always-in-control ice man—”

  “Actually, I was the rowdiest party animal you’d ever have the misfortune to meet.”

  “What?” Layla blinked in surprise.

  “You heard me.” He set his beer onto the bar. “I excelled at wild and stupid from the day I bought my first fake ID until I was well into my twenties.”