Free Bungalow Nights (Beach House No. 9) by Christie Ridgway Page A

beguiling daydream. Her eyes snapped open and she stared at the other woman as if she might be a witch. “You’re dangerous,” Layla said. “I’m not given to flights of fancy.”
    Skye shook her head. “It’s not me. Maybe you’ve been touched by the magic of Beach House No. 9.”
    “Hey, ladies.”
    Vance’s deep voice was a welcome intrusion into the hearts and flowers that still seemed to float about the deck. Grateful for the conversation he started up with the property manager, Layla took time to blink away the ridiculous fairy dust that lingered in her eyes.
    The masculine rumble of his laugh brought her feet straight back to earth. Thank God. Mushy marriage stuff was not for her. Returned to her normal, practical self, she glanced over at Vance.
    She couldn’t imagine him in groom wear. Instead, he looked right at home in a pair of beat-up jeans, leather flip-flops and a short-sleeved cotton shirt that matched his eyes but was rebelliously wrinkled. The tat sleeve covered his cast.
    His real-man persona blew the last of the romantic cobwebs from her brain. Yep, she absolutely felt like herself again, the unsentimental soldier’s daughter who didn’t believe in anything more magical than the alchemy of baking powder and heat that caused a cake to rise.
    Her spine straightened, and she sat up in her chair. At the movement, Vance glanced over. He smiled.
    A bubble of apprehension hiccupped in her chest. Her nerves danced again.
    No.
    She was too strong for this. Too unsentimental. Too smart to go soft, despite that gilded daydream Skye had painted with her words. We’ve already gone over this, Layla reminded herself.
    “Hey,” Vance said again, meeting her gaze. “What’s up?”
    “Nothing.” Layla jumped to her feet, deciding she needed coffee or a shower or space she didn’t have to share with the handsome combat medic. The door to the house was just a few feet away and surely she could make it there without incident.
    “Hold up.”
    Gritting her teeth, she turned, walking backward now.
    Vance caught her arm, though, and tugged her to him. At his touch, her imagination went wild once more, filling with candlelight and flowers and now naked bodies twining. A hard thigh sliding between two smooth ones. A long finger brushing a tight nipple. The aggressive thrust of a tongue.
    Oh, God, Layla thought, feeling heat climb her face. Time to go!
    “Too late,” Vance murmured, and she realized she’d spoken aloud. “We have a date with an amusement park ride.”

CHAPTER FIVE
    “ T HE S ANTA M ONICA Pier?” Layla asked.
    “It’s the closest Ferris wheel,” Vance replied. “Number one on your dad’s Helmet List.” Without glancing at her, he pulled his Jeep into a spot in the parking lot across the street from the famous landmark that included restaurants, shops and a designated fun zone built on a wide, pillar-supported platform extending into the Pacific Ocean.
    That was his strategy. Not to look at her too long, talk to her too much or even breathe too deeply of her sweet perfume.
    He’d hit upon it last night, when they’d settled in to watch a baseball game together. Hyperaware of her every move, he’d finally closed his eyes and willed himself into sleep. It was an ability soldiers developed, and he’d been grateful for it, though it had been a near thing when he’d awoken to find her leaning over him, her hand on his shoulder, the ends of her hair tickling his forehead. For a critical fifteen seconds he’d struggled against dragging her down to the couch, his libido clamoring for action.
    He’d resisted then; he’d resist her now. The important thing to focus on was ticking off entries on the Helmet List, and that made the Ferris wheel poised at the end of the pier their destination.
    And not looking at her too long, talking to her too much or breathing too deep in her presence his policy. It required maintaining some decided personal space, but even that shouldn’t be overly