The Bad Boys of Eden

by Avery Aster

  “Gretch, sweetheart, wake up.”

  A breathy little moan escaped her—soft and sexy and sweet. The sound went straight to his dick. Fantastic. Just what he needed. He ignored his body’s ridiculous automatic response to her, gave her a harder shake, and repeated her name with more force.

  At that she jolted, her body springing to life like he’d yanked the cord on a lawn mower. She almost rolled off the bench in her haste, but he put his other hand out to keep her steady. “Easy there.”

  Her eyes blinked open, confusion etching her features as her gaze darted around. “What? Where am—”

  “You’re on my porch, cher.”

  “Burke?” She braced a hand on the back of the bench, and he moved away so she could push herself fully upward. Her gaze tracked over the porch like she’d never seen it before. “What the—how did I get here?”

  Her eyes met his—big fat questions lingering there. He crossed his arms, frowning. “I was hoping you’d have that answer. And that you’d tell me you weren’t actually sleeping on my porch where anyone could’ve walked up on you in the night.”

  Her green eyes went wide, and she peered out at the street. “Shit.”

  She rubbed her hands over her bare arms as if chasing off a chill. But all it did was bring into focus that she was only wearing a pink cotton camisole, no bra. The humidity in the air had dampened her clothes, leaving the blush of her nipples visible through the thin fabric. Burke cleared his throat and forced his eyes upward before she turned back to him. Now was not the time to let his mind drift into that territory.

  “Gretch, what are you doing here?”

  She swung her legs forward and looked at her feet and her very dirty, wet socks. She sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh.”

  “Wait, you walked here?” His voice came out louder than intended, but images of her wandering the streets of New Orleans, barely dressed and without shoes made fear rush through him again—all the possibilities, all the things that could’ve happened. “Why would you do that? What were you thinking? Gretch—”

  She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “Stop for a second, all right? I’m trying to remember.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  She dropped her hands into her lap and glared at him. “Seriously? What the hell?”

  He lifted his palms. “No offense. But it’s a fair question. You’re sleeping on my porch, wearing next to nothing, and you have no idea how you got here. You could’ve—” Another awful thought hit him. “Ah, shit.”

  “What?”

  He laced his hands behind his neck, not knowing how to broach that kind of subject. “Did you go out last night? Like maybe to a bar or on a date or something?”

  A wrinkle appeared between her brows.

  “Because people can drop things in your drink, cher. Stuff that makes you forget.”

  She blanched. “Oh, God, no, nothing like that. I mean, I can’t remember how I got here. But I know I didn’t go out. I—well, I never go out.”

  He knew that, of course. If not for her duties at her grandmother’s shop to get her out of the house, she’d qualify as a recluse. But he’d been away for two weeks and things could’ve changed. While he was gone, they’d passed the one-year mark of Harris’s suicide, and Burke had heard that sometimes an anniversary could trigger strange behavior. It’d killed him not to be here for her, but the group that had booked the desert trip had paid an obscene amount of money and Dex, his business partner, had to back out as a guide because he’d gotten knocked down with the flu.

  “What’s the last thing you remember? Did you take anything before bed?”

  She rolled her lips together, and her eyes shifted to the side like she was straining to look back in time. “No, I didn’t take anything. I couldn’t sleep. So I got up for some reason… Oh, I know.” She looked back to him. “I heard something in the house. I went to check…”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. Obviously, there was no one there. At least no one I could see.” The last part was mumbled almost to herself.

  He frowned. “No one you could see? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She shrugged.

  “Don’t tell me you’re talking ghosts, cher.”

  She sent him an annoyed look. “Shut up. It was late and dark and windy. Ghost thoughts happen.”

  His mouth flattened. Overseeing a tourist shop filled with voodoo and Catholic paraphernalia was wearing off on Gretchen. Under normal circumstances, he’d probably tease her about it. But he’d noticed over the last few months that Gretchen had taken more than a passing interest in the supernatural side of the city—going to one of the quacks downtown who claimed to talk to spirits, attending those city ghost tours they did in the Quarter, and walking through the old cemeteries on her lunch breaks. She claimed she was just taking in the sites and seeking artistic inspiration to get her painting again. But he feared she was searching for way more than that. “So what happened after you checked the house?”

  She didn’t answer at first, and he could tell she was running through the events in her head, trying to pinpoint how she’d ended up here. “I think—I think I fell asleep. I was dreaming.”

  “About?”

  She glanced up then, but her gaze skated away quickly, almost guiltily. “I don’t remember. But I’m guessing I walked here in my sleep.”

  “Jesus, Gretch.” Being drunk and roaming the streets was bad enough, but being completely unaware and wandering painted all kinds of horrible pictures in his head. She could’ve stepped in front of a car or gotten attacked or fallen and hit her head. “Your house is ten blocks from here. How would you even know where to go in your sleep?”

  She clutched her hands in her lap and chill bumps appeared on her arms “Muscle memory, I guess. I know the way here without thinking. I used to sleepwalk when I was little. Mom said I could do all kinds of things in my sleep. Paint. Have conversations with people who weren’t there. Move from room to room without bumping into things.”

  “Lord. Did you ever leave the house?”

  She shook her head. “Mom put deadbolts on the doors that required keys I couldn’t reach.”

  Unease moved through him. Gretchen lived alone. If she sleepwalked, there were no keys she wouldn’t be able to reach. This could happen again, and she may not be so lucky the next time.

  A truck rumbled down the street, reminding him that he was standing in front of his business with a half-dressed woman. He crooked a thumb toward the door. “Come on. Let’s get you inside, and I’ll make you some coffee.”

  “Yeah, sure.” She glanced toward the road again then got up to follow him into the house. Once he closed the door behind them and flipped on the lights, she started talking again, but he couldn’t process the words. He reached out and pulled her to him.

  A little squeak of surprise escaped, but she let him embrace her. Her heart was beating fast against him, telling him she was more freaked out about what had happened than she was letting on. He tried to get his own anxiety to settle. Not until he’d seen her okay had he realized how worried he’d been. He closed his eyes, her scent filling his senses—the perfume of the hydrangeas outside mixing with the unmistakable earthiness of fresh rain. She was all right. Everything was fine.

  He didn’t want to release her.

  She leaned back and peered up at him, an unsure smile touching her lips. “Hey, it’s okay, big guy. I’m all right. I guess the insomnia is just affecting me more than I realized.”

  He blew out a breath, trying to exorcise the lingering bad feelings. “You scared me this morning, cher. Didn’t show up for coffee and then you weren’t at your house. I don’t know how the hell you got here in one piece, but damn, am I happy to see you.”

  Empathy crossed her face, and she stepped out of his hold. “Coffee. God, Burke, I didn’t even—you know I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  He did. If no one else in the world understood, she did. Not being able to reach someone was i
nconvenient for most people. For the two of them, it meant instant alarm. He could remember Harris’s phone going to voicemail each time he’d tried to reach him that day. You’ve reached Harris Brennan of VC Financial. I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.

  A few days after, when Burke had flown up to New York to help Gretchen with arrangements, he’d found her crying in her room, calling Harris’s phone over and over to hear his voice. I’ll get back to you. I’ll get back to you…

  “I know you wouldn’t do that,” he said. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”

  She ran a hand through her tangled hair. “Yeah, I’m fine. I think. Nothing hurts. But it’s like I’ve been dipped in the river and left out to dry. Everything’s sticky, and I feel disgusting.”

  “You’re not disgusting.” She was anything but, in fact. He was working hard not to look down at just how not disgusting she was. Even without letting his gaze linger for long on any one spot, he could see the dewy sweat along the hollow of her throat and her nipples pressing against the clinging fabric of her shirt. It was as if she’d stepped into one of his travel adventures with him, skin glowing and glistening from a day spent in the outdoors.

  Maybe other guys would want her scrubbed down and coiffed before they touched her, but to him, this was like one of his fantasies come true. She’d taste like salt and smell like the garden. He ached to reach out and touch her, press his mouth to hers to see if she’d make the same kind of breathy sound she’d made outside. His blood stirred south. He coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m going to get the coffee started. I’ll grab one of our T-shirts for you to change into. You’re probably cold.”

  She looked down, as if just remembering how she was dressed.

  “Oh, hello.” Color rode high on her cheeks and she crossed her arms over herself. “Sorry.”

  He smirked. “Don’t be. But if you don’t get something else on, I can’t be expected to maintain eye contact.”

  She sniffed. “I look like something the cat swallowed and spit out. Someone must be hard up after his trip to the desert if you’re finding this interesting.”

  He grunted. Hard up had nothing to do with it.

  “What? No female adrenaline junkies along for the ride this time? I thought the former Miss Georgia was supposed to be on the trip.”

  He raised a finger. “No way. You didn’t meet me for coffee. You get no travel stories today.”

  “Don’t tell me she turned you down.”

  He held his arms out to his side, letting his smile go cocky. “Turn down this? Please.”

  She shook her head and laughed.

  Before he allowed himself to say anything else, he turned and headed toward the back. He would let her think what she wanted. Gretchen liked filling in the blanks when it came to his sex life. His reputation had preceded him since she’d known him so long. And, apparently, his brother used to reinforce it with tales of his playboy ways. That was him—Burke Brennan, fucking his way across the world. So when Gretchen moved back down here, she assumed the guy she used to know was still the same.

  Truth was, he hadn’t been that way in a long time. But instead of correcting Gretchen’s view of him, he indulged her. When they’d started their meet-ups, it’d been for support, to grieve together, and to distract themselves. Since she’d been so shut down at first, he’d had to do most of the talking. And all he had to talk about were the trips he took. She could get lost in his stories, and he’d play them up to make them as interesting as possible. But eventually, she dared to ask more personal questions. Didn’t the trips get lonely? Did any women go?

  He’d realized after a while that she didn’t just want his rock-climbing stories. She wanted his sordid ones. She hadn’t had the nerve to outright ask, but he’d figured it out by her questions and had tested the waters here and there. Soon, coffee had turned from talking about how you start a fire in the jungle to how you fuck in a tent when you’re sharing it with two other people. Of course, he didn’t use that crude of wording with her. He kept it subtle, light-hearted, not wanting to cross some invisible line and ruin it.

  At first it’d seemed odd talking about those things with her. After all, his attraction to her had never waned since he’d had a thing for her in high school. He’d locked it down for his brother’s sake when Gretchen had started dating Harris instead. But it’d never gone away. And the way to get a girl interested in you wasn’t to tell her about the women you were sleeping with.

  But then he’d figured it out. If Gretchen believed he was jumping in bed with every hot thing that crossed his path, she was safe. She didn’t have to worry about anything complicated with him. They were buds, bros, confidants. She could live vicariously through his adventures and not have to get involved with anyone herself.

  So he’d kept the ruse up. In reality, he hadn’t slept with anyone in almost a year. The stories he told her were fantasies. But they made Gretchen’s eyes bright and her breath choppy. They turned her on. And he wanted to give her that escape. Even if he wasn’t allowed to touch her, he liked knowing he was getting to her on some level. Because if she could get hot, then maybe all wasn’t lost. Maybe that distant look she got in her eyes all too often wasn’t permanent. Maybe she was healing.

  But then he’d see her the next time, and the dark circles would still be under her eyes and that aura of sadness would follow her in. He couldn’t seem to break through it fully. Yes, he could make her smile and forget for a few minutes. But when she left, the weight of all that grief plopped back down on her, like some beast crouching on her shoulders, its long fingers stroking her brain, stirring the memories on a constant loop.

  He often found himself wondering if Harris had considered what it would be like for Gretchen to wake up next to him that morning. Everyone says they want to go peacefully in their sleep, but for the person finding you, there’s only horror. No peace. Why would Harris have wanted to do that to her?

  Burke didn’t know the inner workings of Gretchen and Harris’s relationship, but they’d seemed happy. His brother had seemed to love her. God knows Gretchen had loved him. Burke couldn’t imagine doing that to someone he loved, leaving her with that burden—not just of finding him, but the burden of wondering why, why she wasn’t enough to keep him here. Fuck. It made his chest hurt thinking about the questions Gretchen must run through in her head. No wonder the girl couldn’t sleep.

  He grabbed a Daredevil Travel promo shirt and set up the coffee to brew. Then he headed over to the backdoor to get the mail that had been delivered through the slot over the weekend. Most of it looked to be advertisements, but one elegant envelope with a gold seal caught his eye.

  He picked it up and ran his thumb over the creamy paper. The address had been scrawled in graceful script, and it was addressed directly to him and “guest”, not the agency. It was the third he’d received in a month. Some island resort in the Atlantic peddling paradise, decadence, and a “touch of magic” wanted him to visit. The island knows what you need…

  He’d rolled his eyes at the tagline and had tossed the invitations in the trash. He bet what the island needed was high-end travel agencies pitching it to their clients. He got invites to check out new places all the time. But his clientele was specific. They weren’t looking to chill on a beach. They wanted to dive with sharks or travel by submarine or go on safari. Pretty islands with lots of cocktails and lounge chairs were way too pedestrian for his thrill seekers.

  But he’d give it to these Eden people. They were persistent. He tucked the invitation into his back pocket and returned to the coffee. He’d at least e-mail the resort and tell them he wasn’t interested. Maybe then they’d stop wasting their expensive stationary.

  He fixed Gretchen’s coffee and carried it to the front. She’d slid behind Dex’s desk and was clicking the mouse on his computer. He tossed her the shirt and set her cup down in front of her, then sat on the edge of the desk. “Be careful what you click. Knowing Dex, you’ll end up on some porn
site.”

  “No, that’d be your computer.”

  “Nah, I don’t need porn, cher. Half-naked women randomly show up on my doorstep.”

  She sent him a quelling look and yanked the T-shirt from the top of the desk to pull it on. “Perv.”

  “Absolutely. But what are you researching?”

  “A doctor. I think it’s time I suck it up and get some…medication to help me sleep. I can’t risk walking out again.”

  The words knocked the smile right off his face. Sleeping pills. They were what had killed his brother—Gretchen’s prescription. She’d sworn she never wanted to be near them again. If Burke was honest, he didn’t want them in her hands either. He didn’t think Gretchen was suicidal, but he also would rather not have that temptation sitting there when the dark nights hit her.

  He cleared his throat. “Maybe you just need a change of scenery. You could stay with me for a while. The guest room is empty, and I’d make sure you didn’t escape at night.”

  She turned his way, eyebrows lifted. “What?”

  He shrugged, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. “Stay with me. It wouldn’t be a big deal.”

  She considered him for a moment then frowned. “No, that’s not necessary. You’re out of town most of the time anyway, and it’s not like you could stay up and babysit me. I could walk out while you were sleeping.”

  “Not if I didn’t tell you my alarm code. You’d set it off if you tried to leave at night. Maybe all you need are a few solid nights sleep to get you back on track. Circadian rhythms or whatever.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”

  Fine. Always fine. He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. “Yes, you will be because tonight you’re staying at my place. And if you won’t, then I’m coming to your house and sleeping on the porch if I have to. In those pink boxers you’re wearing. Your neighbors will love it.”

  She snorted.