Bungalow Nights. Christie Ridgway

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 who signed for August failed to pay the balance of the deposit. I can’t seem to reach them through their email address, so it’s possible the house will be free next month.”

      “You can rent it to someone else.”

      “Technically, yes,” Skye said. “Though I’m thinking I’ll leave it open. If it’s left vacant, fine, that will work with this brilliant idea I have. And if the money comes through late, I’ll take it—but in exchange for the use of the house for one very important day.”

      “Do you want to come up on the deck?” Layla asked, finding herself curious.

      Skye looked pleased. “Just the invitation I was hoping for.”

      Layla led the way. It wasn’t the first time she’d trusted her instincts and warmed to a stranger. The transient lifestyle of an army brat had taught her to size up people in an instant, separating ally from enemy. It was a useful ability, that of forging the right friendships quickly, because military kids knew relationships weren’t destined to last long.

      So you also learned to let them go just as easily.

      Skye came to a stop in the middle of the deck, and she seemed lost in thought again, her gaze traveling about the space. “It’s perfect,” she murmured.

      Settling on one of the chairs surrounding a round table topped by an umbrella, Layla looked over. “Okay, I’ll bite. Perfect for what?”

      “A wedding.”

      “Let me guess.” It wasn’t very hard. “Griffin and...Jane?”

      Skye nodded, then crossed the deck to take another chair. “I’m going to call them today and suggest it. They don’t want to wait long to get married but have yet to find the right venue.”

      “And you think here will do,” Layla said.

      A smile once again curled the other woman’s mouth. “Can’t you just picture it?”

      “Uh...” Maybe it was the result of being raised by two men, one her army officer father and the other her new-age uncle, that as a little girl Layla had been given compasses and canteens, prayer flags and polished rocks instead of paper dolls and princess clothes. Sure, she’d found her feminine side, but she’d never developed a full-blown bridal fantasy. Sharing a childhood with a pair of perennial bachelors had meant she never thought much about matrimony at all.

      Perhaps it was the permanence of the idea that made it seem so foreign.

      Skye wasn’t waiting for her input. Instead, she was already waxing on about the upcoming nuptials. “Here’s what I’m thinking. Rows of white painted chairs. An aisle created by a spread of sand on the deck. The backdrop for the bride and groom will be the view of the Pacific. Pretty, don’t you think?”

      “Sure.” Layla shrugged, again aware of her lack of matrimonial imagination. She knew most girls honed the ability to envision romantic tableaus of frilly lace and fancy rings from an early age. “I mean, I guess it would be just fine.”

      “The ceremony right before dusk. White pillar candles everywhere, each one protected from the wind by hurricane glass.” Skye’s expression was dreamy. “Picture it...we can wrap the deck railing with swathes of white tulle and hang buckets of flowers from each post.”

      “Uh-huh.” Layla voiced the rote agreement, though she was as unmoved as before—and felt just the slightest bit superior about that. She slouched in her seat and let her head rest against the back of the chair. Her eyes drifted shut. The candles, the flowers, the white frothy fabric had just never clicked with her.

      And then, suddenly, they did.