her life and out of her reach as surely as her father. Remember that.
Straightening her spine, she forced her feet to forward march. Letting herself develop an emotional attachment to Vance wasn’t smart—and would only serve to make her soft. And ultimately...hurt.
Anyway, he wasn’t interested in any sort of connection between them himself. Why would he be? It was her father’s wish that had Vance staying at Beach House No. 9, not his own choice. And yesterday, after explaining to her about his commanding officer’s Helmet List, he’d seemed to extinguish the sexual spark that had singed her before—almost enough to convince her it had been her imagination.
But then she’d brushed past him in the kitchen when she and Addy were putting together an easy dinner. The flash of heat she’d felt had made her stumble a little, and Vance had caught her elbow...and then his fingers had lingered on her bare flesh, his thumb stroking the tender inner skin at the joint. She’d shot her gaze to his, and he’d smiled a little, given a shrug and let her go.
Just one of those things, that casual shoulder movement had seemed to say. Whatcha gonna do? He’d proceeded to comment on the precise way she’d arranged the cut-up fruits and cold salads on a platter, teasing her like a pesky sister or that ten-year-old he’d expected her to be.
After dinner he’d sprawled his big body on the sofa and conked out with a baseball game playing on TV, as if her presence in an adjoining armchair didn’t register. A situation which, once Addy retreated upstairs, allowed Layla the guilty pleasure of stealing glances at his long limbs and handsome features while she pretended to herself she had an interest in the outcome of the nine innings.
Game over, she’d done the courteous thing and shaken him awake. He’d responded with the same good manners, rousing himself and wishing her a polite good-night as they peeled off into separate rooms down the hall. Not by a single blink betraying any awareness that she was a woman who’d be sleeping a mere few walls away and that he was a healthy and virile single man whose thumbprint she still felt like a new tattoo at the bend of her arm.
Layla’s feet halted once more as her gaze took in the figure of a woman standing near the short flight of steps leading from the beach to No. 9’s deck. She wasn’t dressed in the swimsuit-and-cover-up uniform of the other females on the beach, but was instead in cropped pants and an oversize sweatshirt. Layla might have thought she was an occupant from one of the neighboring cottages, but Addy had shared that an elderly gentleman lived in the residence behind No. 9. For now, he was visiting his niece in Oxnard. As for No. 8, this month it housed a middle-aged couple on a spiritual retreat that prescribed an all-green diet and no verbal exchanges between themselves or anyone else.
Was the stranger here to see Vance then? Maybe his cool composure last night was because he wasn’t single, after all.
As she approached, the other woman’s gaze remained focused on the house and Layla realized the sand was muffling her footsteps. She cleared her throat to make herself known. “Can I—”
A half-swallowed shriek rent the air as the stranger spun around. Her eyes were wide and her fingers clawed at the neckline of her long sweatshirt as if the ribbed fabric was intent on strangling her. “Oh,” she choked out. “Sorry.”
“My line,” Layla said with an apologetic grimace. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No, no.” The stranger took a breath and tucked her long, coffee-colored hair behind her ears. In her mid- to late-twenties, she was swathed in too-large clothes that did nothing to camouflage the high-cheekboned beauty of her face. “It’s all my fault. I usually walk around with one eye over my shoulder, but my mind was somewhere else.”
On Vance? Layla wondered.
“I’m Skye Alexander.” The brunette held out a slender palm.
“Layla Parker.” She shook hands, then nodded toward the beach house. “I’m staying here for the month,” she said, then hesitated. If this was Vance’s girl, she should probably clarify the nonsexual nature of the situation. “I don’t know if Vance told you, but I’m here with him because—”
“You don’t need to explain. I’m the one your father made the original arrangements with,” Skye put in. “And I’m the one who Vance contacted about the change in circumstance. I manage the cove’s rental properties.”
“Oh.”
Skye touched Layla’s arm with cool fingertips. “Please accept my condolences on your loss.”
Loss, Layla thought. My loss. Her father was gone, wasn’t he? The truth dug deep again, pain stabbing the center of her chest, a burning, breathless ache. She fisted her fingers, her nails biting into her palms. He’s really gone.
“Are you all right?” Skye asked, and her gaze darted toward the house. “Should I get Vance?”
“No.” Reaching out to him when she felt vulnerable was the dumbest idea yet. “I’m good.” Layla inhaled a deliberate breath, then let it go. “Just fine.”
When she could almost believe that, she again addressed the other woman. “Is there something I could help you with?” At Skye’s quizzical glance, she added, “You were staring at No. 9 when I walked up.”
“Preoccupied with old memories,” Skye admitted. “And some new ones.” She smiled, and it transformed her classic, cool beauty. She looked younger, more...relaxed.
“Good memories,” Layla guessed.
“I grew up at the cove.” Skye made a small gesture with an arm.
“Addy March told me a little of its history. You’re a descendant of the original owners?”
“That’s right. My great-great-grandparents owned the property and operated Sunrise Pictures from here into the late 1920s. Its colorful history doesn’t stop there, though. During Prohibition, rumrunners were known to use it as a drop-off point. Later, my family rented out the property to families during the summer. Finally, we sold off some plots for residential use—though most of the cottages we still own and lease as vacation rentals.”
“My father heard about Crescent Cove from a journalist that was embedded with the troops in Afghanistan.”
That radiant smile lit her face again. “Griffin Lowell.”
Aaah. “Special friend?”
“Griffin and his family spent every June through September here when we were kids. Idyllic summers.”
Layla nodded. “Like I said, special friend?”
Skye blinked, then shook her head. “He has a twin, Gage—” She stopped, a blush rising on her neck. “Both of them are friends, but not special like you mean.”
Sure, Layla thought, keep telling yourself that.
“Griffin’s getting married next month, to a woman—Jane—he met right here at No. 9.” A small smile curved her mouth. “I warn you, there are people who claim the cottage is magic—like the love potion.”
“You don’t say.” Layla didn’t buy such romantic drivel.
Skye buried her hands in the front pouch of her sweatshirt. “But I stopped by because the party
