little dig. “Fitz?” she said, tacking on an unspoken You mean the guy who stole his brother’s girl?
Blythe dropped her gaze. “Vance.”
“That’s right,” Layla said, with a light snap of her thumb and middle finger. “You two, uh, dated for a while.”
“So much contained energy,” the blonde said. “All that life buzzing under his skin.”
Oh, yeah, Layla thought. Even when he was quiet, even when he acted as if he had ice in his chest like her father, there was a force to him, a leashed power that said he was prepared to uncoil in an instant and launch into battle. Fight hard. Take no prisoners.
It was attractive.
Exciting.
Then she thought of the Vance she’d seen at the ranch. The one who’d envisioned himself managing the groves. Growing things on the land instead of patching up men on the battlefield. She could see that, as well. He’d be decisive then, too. His hands gentle on the fruit. His natural vitality infusing each root, each branch, each leaf.
She supposed it would be a healthy, good way to employ the innate restlessness that had driven a little boy to make mischief.
“The fact is,” Layla murmured, half to herself, “the big bad combat medic is a nurturer.” And why did that feel like such a dangerous thought?
Blythe frowned a little. “I’m not sure he’d approve of that description.”
“What description?” Vance said, from across the table. The friend who’d occupied him was moving away.
The two women glanced at each other. Then Layla smiled at the man who was running his thumb across the top of her knuckles. “That you’re a handsome, generous studmuffin,” she said. “My studmuffin.”
His lips twitched, and he glanced at the now-empty bowl of guacamole. “How much of that stuff have you eaten?”
She waggled her eyebrows at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I would.”
And it was as if the other couple had slid beneath the table. Actually, there was no one else in the restaurant. Only Vance and Layla remained, smiling into each other’s eyes. Clasping each other’s hands. The heat captured between their palms shot up her arm and tumbled over her body.
“Time to go,” he said, still holding her gaze.
They murmured their goodbyes to Fitz and Blythe, who seemed relieved to see them leave. Vance slid his arm around Layla as he led her toward the door. His mouth nuzzled her temple. “That was great. Thanks for being such a good...friend,” he murmured in her ear. “Just one more scene, okay?”
“Huh?” she asked, but instead of answering, right at the door, in view of everybody at the restaurant including his brother and his ex-fiancée, Vance laid his lips against hers.
Claiming her. Cementing her position as his girlfriend.
It was just a role, she tried reminding herself, as she opened her mouth to the gentle thrust of his tongue.
A role that had turned even more dangerous than she’d supposed, she thought, shivering against him. Because right now it didn’t feel like playacting at all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ONE LATE AFTERNOON, following several hours spent poring through dusty boxes, Addy headed back to Beach House No. 9. Strolling along the sand, she caught sight of Skye Alexander up ahead, her attention on something in her hands.
Addy picked up her pace. Now was as good a time as any to provide a report on the progress she’d made cataloging the Sunrise Pictures archives. As she neared the other woman, the sole of her flip-flop found a pod on a string of rust-covered kelp. The bulb popped, the noise loud over the whisper sound of the surf.
Skye startled, dropping the papers in her hands. “It’s you,” she said, clapping one palm over her heart.
“Sorry,” Addy replied, grimacing. Then she bent to pick up the scattered sheets. Lined paper was covered by a distinctly masculine scrawl. “I didn’t think anyone wrote letters anymore,” she said, passing the missive to Skye.
Wearing a small smile, the other woman carefully brushed at the grains of sand clinging to the pages. “He’s overseas and doesn’t always have access to the internet. Our old-fashioned correspondence isn’t as instantaneous as email, but I like it. It feels more...personal.”
“I get it. A person’s handwriting can suggest their mood.” Addy grinned. “And there’s always the option of writing your response in purple ink to convey your passion.”
Skye’s gaze shot up. “Passion?” She laughed. “No, we’re just friends. Old friends from childhood.”
“You’ve been pen pals since you were kids?” Addy thought of all the letters she’d fantasized writing when she was a girl. Each