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
“THE SANTA MONICA 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 onerous. They’d beat feet down the three hundred or so yards to the ride at the end of the pier, circle beneath the sun a time or two, then reverse the process and return to Crescent Cove.
No harm, no foul, no inappropriate thoughts or actions.
Avoiding Layla’s perfume didn’t appear to be a problem—as they crossed beneath the arched entrance, they entered an olfactory atmosphere that was a heady combination of sunscreen chemicals, fruity sno-cone syrup and salty sea air. But that cacophony of scents also heralded the fact that they weren’t the only people in Southern California who’d decided on a visit today, and the throng of bodies streaming onto the pier almost immediately carried his companion away from him. Helpless to stop the outgoing tide of humanity, Vance caught a glimpse of her wide eyes as she glanced around for him.
With a groan, he surged into the crowd after her, his gaze following the top of her head, but he lost even that when a pair of rollerbladers cut across his path. Forced to a halt, he turned in a circle, searching for the lacy camisole she wore with a denim skirt. Damn. It was stupid to feel panicked, but a shot of sick worry coursed through him, anyway.
What the hell had Colonel Parker done, putting Vance in charge of his darling daughter? He’d been “that rowdy and reckless Smith boy” from the age of four onward, and even though he’d grown out of most of that behavior—finally—Blythe’s defection had made it clear he still wasn’t responsible enough for any kind of commitment.
Hell, he obviously couldn’t hold on to a woman for fifteen minutes! With quick strides, he made his way to the wall beside the entrance to a small shop. Plastering his back to it, he peered down the long crowded walkway, trying to catch sight of Layla again.
Then he felt a hand pinch the sleeve of his T-shirt and yank him around, into the little store. It was littler than little, almost a closet, and filled with decals, keychains, cheap sunglasses and the woman he sought.
“There you are.” Layla was laughing softly, her voice breathless. “I thought I’d lost you.”
Annoyed by how relieved he felt, Vance grabbed up the darkest-of-dark lenses he could find, slipping them on his face to obscure her loveliness. Then he reached into his back pocket for his wallet and forked over five bucks to the clerk on the other side of a glass case that held Disney watches. Fakes, most likely. “You’re the one who wandered off,” he groused. He’d bet his bad temper showed on his face. “You need to stay in sight.”
He could feel her roll her eyes. “Sorry, Grandpa Vance. But I promise to find a nice policeman or another adult I can trust if we get separated again.”
“That’s not gonna happen.” With that, he took a firm grip on her hand and towed her back out into the sunshine.
“Hey,” she protested, her fingers wiggling like fish on a line, but even with the clumsy bulk of the wrist brace impeding his grip, he didn’t let go.
“Come on,” he said, tugging her into the mass of visitors.
With the two of them attached, though, they made less progress than before. The swarm of people was just that hard to navigate, or maybe it was Layla, who seemed to hang back even as he tried to move forward. He glanced down at her, noting the sudden faraway look on her face. Was there a problem?
Then it hit him. She had to be missing her dad. This was something she was supposed to be doing with him, after all. Vance couldn’t blame her for finding him a poor substitute.
He leaned nearer, close enough for the scent of Layla to reach him. It was her shampoo, he decided, as the wind stirred her hair and a lock of it caught in the bristle of whiskers on his unshaven cheek. He brushed it away with his free hand, the silky strands caressing the inner surfaces between two of his fingers. “Is everything okay?”
Pausing, she glanced up. Their faces were close, her mouth near enough to kiss. “Vance, I...” She shook her head. “I’m fine.”
Of course she wasn’t. Her head turned away from his again and he saw she was staring at a boardwalk game, one of those carnival contests that gave you three chances to win for a dollar. He didn’t think she was actually seeing it, but an idea came, anyway. “Hey,” he said. “Would you like to try that?” He’d planned to hustle her down to the wheel ride, but now that seemed the wrong move. “You could win a stuffed animal.”
She slid him a look. “I already have a teddy bear.”