Bungalow Nights

He was doing damn well with his not looking/not speaking/not breathing policy and then it was their turn to step into a rocking bucket. Vance climbed in first, then he glanced over as Layla lifted her foot...and froze. Her stricken gaze jerked to his face.

Uh-oh. “What’s the matter?”

“I...” She swallowed, hard.

The attendant steadying their seat spoke with the tone of experience. “Ferris fear,” he announced. “Strikes all kinds, all ages. You can exit over there,” he added, pointing with a finger.

Layla stared at Vance, her head shaking back and forth. “I have to do this.”

“Of course you don’t,” he assured her, starting to rise.

“I have to do this.” Though her face was pale and now her gaze was trained over his shoulder.

Vance glanced back and saw that the view—which gave the impression they were suspended over the ocean—wasn’t helping her any. “Layla—”

“Please, Vance. It’s on the list. Dad’s Helmet List.”

He couldn’t resist the plea. “All right, all right.” He slid down the molded plastic seat and reached for her hand. “Look at me. Now take a step inside. I won’t let go.”

She landed beside him with a gentle plop that sent the bucket swaying. Her free hand clutched his thigh.

“Look at me,” he directed, angling her chin so her big brown eyes didn’t leave his face. “Just keep looking at me.”

“Okay,” she said, and a little tremor ran through her.

He brushed at the bangs that were tangling with her long eyelashes. “You’re afraid of heights?”

She made a face, both sets of fingers still clinging to him. “I don’t know. Maybe so. Or maybe it’s just like the man said, Ferris fear. This is my first ride on one.” Her breath caught as their bucket moved upward in order to let other people into the next on the line.

Over Layla’s shoulder, the view was incredible as the ride continued to slowly revolve and the buckets were filled. The Pacific was far below them, boats gliding across its surface, leaving white trails on the glassy water. Antlike people crawled across the sand of Santa Monica Beach, some of them playing in the lacy edges of the waves. Vance didn’t dare direct her attention to any of it.

Instead, he slung an arm around her shoulders and didn’t flinch when she nestled closer to his chest. She was cool to the touch, and he let her snuggle close, noting that her long lashes were squeezed tightly together.

“Do you know why they call this a Ferris wheel?” he asked.

Her head moved in a short, negative shake.

“It was named after the designer, one George W. Ferris, who came up with the idea for the 1893 World’s Fair in Chicago. The organizers wanted an attraction to rival the Eiffel Tower, which had wowed visitors in Paris four years before. The ride is based on the waterwheel he remembered watching move in the river near his childhood home. He completed it in four months’ time and with some of his own money because no one had any faith in him.”

Vance knew how that felt, didn’t he? No wonder he’d always held a soft spot for ol’ George, whose wife had ultimately left him and who had died penniless.

He glanced down. Layla’s eyes were open now, but again fixed on his face. “How do you know all that?”

“Report in the sixth grade.” With his forefinger, he tapped his temple. “The facts never left me. Best grade I ever got on anything until I joined the army, though I never told my folks a thing about it.”

Layla frowned. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “Fucking Perfect Fitz had the honor roll role already sewn up.”

“Who?”

“That would be my older brother. Never a hair out of place, a grade less than A, the slightest smudge on his permanent record.”

“A big brother?” She sighed a little. “I always wanted one of those.” Then the wheel lurched into motion again, but instead of stopping shortly, it became a smooth revolution that took them even higher.

Layla made a little squeak and burrowed closer, her face turning into him, her mouth touching the side of his throat.

Vance sucked in a breath, trying to ignore the almost-kiss. “How about I be a big brother to you then, during this next month,” he proposed, keeping his voice light. “I’ll teach you how to throw, how to punch, how to survive your fears.”

Of course, he didn’t feel like any kind of brother to Layla at all. And damn, she felt good in his arms, despite the contact being everything he’d tried to avoid. He felt good, period, he decided with some surprise. Until now, the month had struck him as an obligation, not the least like his own vacation. Huh.

Propping his chin on the top of her head, he allowed himself, for a few minutes, anyway, to just enjoy the ride.

* * *

AS THE SUN SANK TOWARD THE horizon, Baxter climbed the steps from the beach onto the open-air deck of Captain Crow’s, his gaze sweeping the space. Looking for Addy.

He’d tried releasing his guilt. He’d tried to tell himself he could let the past go, that his effort at talking to her two days before was enough to clear it from his conscience.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about the fluffy-haired female—and it was affecting his work.

All Business Baxter couldn’t have that.

So he’d called Vance, and he’d not even begun to fish for the woman’s whereabouts before his cousin had extended an invitation to spend the Fourth of July evening at the beach house. Baxter had quickly accepted.

Not that he’d intended to stay for long. No, he headed to Crescent Cove with the purpose of getting Addy alone and once and for all addressing what had been said and done—and then ignored—That Night all those years ago.

But upon arrival at No. 9, he’d learned the woman he sought was meeting some friends for drinks at the restaurant on the sand. Waiting for her return smacked of stalling, so he’d taken himself up the beach. Once he spotted her, he’d pull her aside and spit out the apology that had to be made.

His gaze caught on Addy’s bright hair. Then he took in the fact that she already had male companionship. Surrounding her at a table were four guys in scruffy-casual: cargo shorts, T-shirts and beat-up running shoes. Baxter didn’t allow himself to feel overdressed, even though his khakis and sports shirt were pressed. So what that his leather sandals were Ferragamo?

The soles of them were silent as he came up behind her. The fivesome didn’t notice him as they passed around a pitcher of beer and continued their discussion. The topic of the moment was Sunrise Pictures, what Addy had discovered so far about it, how much material there was for her to sift through.

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.

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