options when the server reappeared, a tray of drinks in hand. She rearranged items already on the table, scooting the photograph closer toward Layla to make room for a sweating glass of tea.
Layla’s gaze landed on it and her brows came together in another small frown. Shit. Deciding he’d only feel more foolish if she knew of his misunderstanding, he shifted forward to grab the picture before she could connect the dots.
Only to realize he still had a lapful of teddy bear. Wonderful. He was worried about his dignity while sharing a chair with ten pounds of stuffing and fake fur. What else could he do but get rid of it?
“I forgot,” he said, half standing to thrust it in her direction, “this is for you.”
Layla stood, too, automatically reaching for it, then froze, Teddy clutched between her hands. Her gaze flicked to the photo, flicked back to the bear, flicked again to the photo. A flag of bright pink appeared on each cheek. “Oh,” she said, her voice going small. “Oh, God.”
Consider dots connected, Vance thought. Grimacing, he reached out with his casted arm to snatch the picture off the table.
Now she was staring at the colorfully covered plaster wrapped around his hand and wrist, her face losing its pretty blush. “How...how did you do that?” she asked slowly.
He looked down. Damn Baxter. “They’re not real tattoos.”
She made a little face. Her mouth wasn’t wide, but it was top-heavy, the upper lip more prominent than the lower.
Sue him, he found it fascinating.
“I know that,” she said. “I meant...how did you get hurt?”
He hesitated.
“I heard... Uncle Phil said...” She swallowed. “It was while you were trying to save my father, right?”
“It was while I was trying to get us both out of the danger zone,” he admitted, never wishing more that the attempt had turned out differently. “To my deep, deep regret, I wasn’t successful.”
Layla sank back to her seat.
Vance shot a glance at Addy, who immediately scooted closer to the other woman. “Are you all right?”
“Of course.” But Layla’s gaze didn’t move off him, even as he dropped back into his own chair. “Now I understand why you’re worried about our month together, though.”
He was pretty certain she didn’t have a clue that his concerns ran to the limited power of cold showers over a suddenly raging, adolescent-like libido. “Yeah,” he said, anyway.
“Well, you don’t have to be concerned any longer.”
“Good.” She must understand it wouldn’t work, he thought. And if she decided against the plan, he wouldn’t have to feel guilty about the cancellation.
“Your injuries won’t affect our month together at all, though.” Her shoulders squared as if she was shrugging off her earlier embarrassment. “Because, of course, I’ll help you while we’re together at Beach House No. 9.”
Oh, damn, she didn’t understand anything. “Layla, no.”
“It’s only right.” She’d gone from soft gold to steely spine. “You were hurt while trying to save my father’s life. So now it’s my turn.”
He frowned as another blast of premonitory chill wafted across the back of his neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s karma,” she said, and a little dimple fluttered near the corner of her mouth. “You took care of my father, so for the next month I’ll take care of you.”
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