Bungalow Nights. Christie Ridgway

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      CHAPTER TWO

      LAYLA HURRIED FROM the restaurant and headed across the parking lot toward the Karma Cupcakes mobile bakery, grateful for the breeze against her hot face. The lunch that started awkward had ended awful and even the cheery pink-and-kiwi paint scheme of the food truck didn’t raise her mood. Uncle Phil had positioned it close to the Pacific Coast Highway to catch the attention of passersby. Its awning was popped open to shade two tiny bistro tables and to reveal the glass cases displaying the baked goods she’d prepared that morning.

      As she drew nearer, a car pulled into the lot and parked nearby. A woman rushed to the counter and walked away with a half dozen of Karma Cupcakes’ most popular flavor, a rich devil’s food enhanced with cinnamon and cloves that they called Chai Chocolate.

      Layla’s uncle met her eyes as their latest customer drove away. “Been here less than ten minutes and made four sales already,” he announced, rubbing his hands together. “A month at Crescent Cove could turn out to be an excellent business decision.”

      It should have been a happy thought. Instead, misgiving was squeezing her heart like a cold hand. A month at Crescent Cove. A month with Vance Smith.

      Layla frowned at her uncle. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell him I’m twenty-five,” she said.

      “Uh...what?” Uncle Phil looked like a professor emeritus of Surf Culture 101 in his khaki shorts, Guatemalan-weave shirt and stubby gray ponytail. “What’s wrong?”

      “He was expecting a ten-year-old.” Recalling her moment of comprehension, another wash of heat crawled up her face. As the server made room on their table, Layla’s gaze had landed on a photo of her much younger self. Suspicion had dawned, only to be confirmed scant moments later when Vance had thrust Teddy into her hands. “A ten-year-old, Uncle Phil.”

      His expression turned guilty. “I didn’t realize. I was just so pleased you’d have this vacation...you know, some time to socialize with a young, uh, person about your own age.”

      Some time to socialize? Surely Uncle Phil wasn’t trying to matchmake!

      He avoided her narrowed eyes and gestured toward the fuzzy bear. “I suppose the age confusion explains the stuffed animal.”

      She frowned at the oversize toy clutched in her fist. Yes, when Vance had passed it over, she’d finally fathomed the mix-up—and wished for a sinkhole to open at her feet. “And he should have told you he isn’t old enough to be my father, either,” she grumbled.

      Uncle Phil’s eyes widened in what seemed to be faux-innocence. “Oh?”

      Too irritated to call him on it, Layla threw herself into one of the folding chairs set out for customers who couldn’t wait to sample their purchased confections. “He must be around thirty.” Rangy, but with powerful shoulders and biceps. Blond hair. Eyes a startling blue. Likely in possession of a nice smile, but she wouldn’t know because he hadn’t found a single reason to send one her way.

      Who could blame him? “He hired a nanny.” Addy March herself had revealed that tidbit, then waved off Layla’s apology for the confusion. The other woman was a graduate student researching the movie studio that had made silent films at the cove into the 1920s, and she’d voiced her intention to still use Beach House No. 9 as a home base.

      Which meant Layla’s own impulsive offer to “take care” of the man with the two hurt arms was wholly unnecessary. Yes, she’d embarrassed herself like that, too...though wouldn’t anyone feel a certain obligation under the circumstances? He’d been injured trying to save her father. But with Addy there, if he needed to open a pickle jar or fish something from a cupboard, he didn’t need Layla to lend a hand.

      She glanced over her shoulder at Captain Crow’s restaurant, a little shiver tracking down her spine as she remembered the moment the afternoon had gone completely haywire. While attempting to sign his credit card receipt, Vance had fumbled the pen. It had rolled across the table toward Layla and when she’d scooped it up and offered it to him, their fingertips had met.

      Hers still burned.

      She rubbed them against the silky fabric of her dress and directed her focus to the ring on her left index toe. It was hammered gold embedded with a tiny mother-of-pearl quarter moon. “What would you say if we just close shop and head up the highway? We can drive to Zuma. The Malibu crowd loves our cupcakes.”

      “I thought you were going to move into Beach House No. 9 this afternoon,” Uncle Phil said, sounding puzzled.

      “Maybe I should drop the idea.” That was Vance’s intention. No, he’d declared about their upcoming month together, even after she’d invoked karma. Not gonna happen. Then he’d mumbled something about her father apparently forgetting she was all grown up. She’d been prepared to persist until that moment when they’d touched.

      A car whined past on the nearby highway, then she heard the squeak of the food truck’s door and the muffled scrape of her uncle’s hemp sandals on the asphalt. He lowered himself to the opposite chair. “But we talked about all this. When he contacted me, you said yes.”

      “I knew it’s what Dad wanted, so it’s what I wanted, too. But that was before I met Vance.”

      Uncle Phil straightened in his seat. “He did some—”

      “He didn’t do anything,” she said. “Nothing like you’re thinking.” It was what she’d done—how she’d reacted to that simple touch. It felt as if her soul had attempted to jump out of her suddenly scorched skin. She didn’t like it.

      “He’s rattled you,” Uncle Phil observed. “That’s a first.”

      Exactly. At twenty-five, she didn’t have a legion of exes, but she’d had her share of relationships. They’d been enjoyable and ended amicably, due, she believed, to her training as a soldier’s daughter. She was accustomed to goodbyes, absolutely aware that tears didn’t solve anything, and she didn’t foolishly hope to have a long-term lock on anyone. Dating had been casual and fun, and not once had she felt as though her nerve endings had been set on fire.

      Now she was proposing to spend a month at the beach with the one man who lit her flame. A man who was a soldier to boot.

      “I’m just thinking the plan’s a mistake.”

      Uncle Phil merely raised a brow. He rarely gave out advice, and she loved that about him—that and how he’d stuck around all those times her father was deployed when she was a kid so she’d have clean clothes in her drawers and three meals on the table. He might not always have the strongest grasp on details—which might go some way to explaining why her father had instead picked Vance to carry out his last request—but her uncle had managed to sign every one of her permission slips. Maybe now she could return the favor.