But before I could let myself spiral to that dark place, Burke began to talk. I snuggled into my spot, knowing his deep voice would soothe the jagged thoughts in my head. It always did.
“They say the Atacama Desert is the driest on Earth. They weren’t lying about that. The thirst it stirs in you is impossible to describe. I would lie there at night and wonder if it was possible for your blood to turn to powder in your veins, and I’d fantasize about sweet tea and all the cold things I wished I could drink. But no moisture in the air also means no clouds. So the dome of stars that stretched over the land could make you forget the extreme conditions for a while. I would try to count them when I couldn’t sleep. But they were endless, an infinite blanket of tiny pin pricks all shining down, daring me to try to quantify them. It made me feel small. Insignificant. Can you see them?”
I stared at the image in my mind’s eye, picturing Burke lying awake in that desolate place beneath the stars, me there with him, feeling insignificant together. “Yes.”
“And it was so quiet yet so alive at the same time. The wind. The sound of night things going about their business…”
My mind drifted as I imagined the scene he described. The warmth of his body made the large bed feel cozier, more familiar, and the sound of his voice was lulling and soft. I burrowed deeper into the covers and turned on my side, facing that voice but not opening my eyes.
I never heard the end of the story.
Chapter 4
~Burke~
Burke shifted onto his side in the bed, yanking the covers with him. Looked like insomnia could be catching. He’d left Gretchen’s room two hours ago, after she’d drifted off mid-story, and he’d been halfway asleep himself at the time. But as soon as he’d gotten up to come to his room, restlessness had clawed at him. He hadn’t liked leaving her alone. The burglar alarm was set, but he still worried she’d sleepwalk in the night and trip or bang into the furniture.
Plus, every noise in the condo stalked him tonight. His ceiling fan was making some new clanging sound. The refrigerator seemed louder than normal. And somewhere in the building, a smoke alarm in need of batteries kept beeping. It was like everything had conspired to keep him awake.
Ha. Maybe Gretchen was right and his brother was haunting them after all. Harris would be livid that his little brother had kissed his woman—and had enjoyed it way too much. It’d taken every bit of Burke’s restraint not to pull her body to his, show her exactly how much he wanted her. Feeling her grab for him, open for his kiss. Fuck, that’d been hot.
But he’d felt like a world-class asshole afterward when Gretchen had looked so upset. He didn’t doubt that she’d returned the kiss willingly, but he’d seen the defeat in her eyes when reality had set in. This was a no-fly zone for her.
He wasn’t surprised. He’d been down this road. They’d kissed once before, and though it had felt right to him even back then, Gretchen had ended up with his brother anyway. And he and Harris had always been as opposite as two people could get, so she’d made her preferences clear. Gretchen liked that quiet, serious type. His brother had worn suits, gotten the right degrees, and had the big job. He’d taken to New York City like he’d been born there—Mr. GQ. He’d even purposely worked on losing his accent during college so that no one would mistake him for some good ol’ boy.
Burke would never be so sophisticated or refined. He didn’t want to be. Harris had been the pedigreed one. Burke was the mutt. He liked adventure, getting his hands dirty, and embracing his Cajun roots. Punching a clock every day at an office and answering to some boss? Welcome to hell. So, of course, that was what Gretchen saw when she looked at him. The wild one. The one who’d never settle down. The friend you didn’t take seriously.
And, honestly, if that was all it was—an incompatibility of personality types—he’d be okay with that. He couldn’t and wouldn’t change who he was. That wouldn’t be fair to either of them. But regardless of what type of guy Gretchen thought she preferred, there was no denying the heat between the two of them. There’d been nothing fake about that kiss. So whether she saw him as a viable option or not, the attraction was there. Even if she was afraid to act on it.
She’d said she didn’t want to lose him as a friend, but he didn’t think that was the real reason. They were both mature enough to work their way through issues if they slept together and kept it casual. So maybe she was worried about it becoming more than that. It could also be some misplaced loyalty to Harris—that even after he’d left her, she wouldn’t betray him that way.
Or it was worse.
Maybe this was her self-imposed life sentence for not saving Harris. She wouldn’t have relationships. Period.
That theory worried him the most—that this was unending penance. He’d seen it in her eyes sometimes, heard it in her voice—that ugly, black guilt. No matter what everyone told her, she still felt some responsibility for Harris’s suicide. She was too much of a perfectionist not to. And the way Harris had done it had only enforced her belief that she held some blame. Why else would he set it up so that she’d find him? Why would he hurt her like that?
So now she was punishing herself. She stayed in her house unless it was to meet Burke or go to the shop. She’d stopped painting. She didn’t even let herself off the hook at night. Memories haunted her, keeping her awake and wearing her down.
The girl needed to give herself a goddamned break. She needed some light in her life, some fun, a fresh start. Anything. But if their kiss was any indication, she wouldn’t allow herself even a taste of that if left to her own devices.
Burke flipped over again and stared toward the window. The silvery moonlight had turned everything in his bedroom into shades of gray and black, and his ceiling fan blew the curtains and the papers on his desk with a monotonous, steady rhythm. It was if the room was breathing around him, watching him watch it. A chill raised the hairs on the nape of his neck. Nice. Now he was getting haunted house thoughts. Ridiculous. Was this what Gretchen did every night? Lay in the dark as the shadows melted and morphed around her? No wonder she was getting spooked. The active quiet of the middle of the night could freak out anyone.
Fucking ghosts. Maybe he should just turn on the TV. He could catch the replay of SportsCenter and drift off to sleep that way. He stretched toward the bedside table. But before he could reach the remote, a metallic thunk sounded from near the window. The sudden break in quiet made him jump, and he pushed himself onto his elbow.
“The hell?”
It wasn’t Gretchen. The noise hadn’t come from far away. It’d been inside the room. He flicked on the bedside lamp and after his eyes adjusted, he let his gaze travel over the room, trying to pinpoint where the noise had come from. His attention landed on a heap of material behind his desk chair. He released the breath he’d been holding and scrubbed a hand over his face, his pounding heart mocking him. Yep, he was officially a dumbass.
He’d hung his pants over the back of a chair, and they’d fallen to the floor along with his belt. The noise had been the heavy buckle hitting the hardwood. How terrifying.
With a sigh, he shoved the bed covers to the side and got up to grab the pants. But when he draped them over the chair again, an envelope fell to the floor. He bent and picked it up. The invitation to Eden. He’d tucked it in his pocket and had forgotten to e-mail them after everything had happened with Gretchen. He tapped it against his palm, ready to toss it in the trash like he had the others, but for some reason, he couldn’t do it.
He sat on the edge of the bed and stuck his finger beneath the seal. He’d only opened the first one and that hadn’t been overly informative. Maybe this one would give him a better idea of what the place was about. But when he pulled out the thick stationary and unfolded the pages, there were no photos or promo material. It was simply a handwritten letter.
Dear Mr. Brennan,
I would like to formally extend an invitation to you to visit the Island of Eden. I know we’ve reached out to you before, but I
understand that you’re a busy man and timing isn’t always right. This time, I hope it is. In fact, I know it is…
“The fuck you do,” Burke mumbled, annoyed at the presumptuous statement.
But this isn’t only an invitation for you. It’s for the person in your life who needs an escape even more than you do. I know you have someone in mind. In fact, I bet you’re thinking of her as you read this.
That chill Burke had chased off came back in full force.
I assure you that once you arrive, you and your guest will have all you could want. And more than you can ever imagine. The island knows what you need and leaves no one wanting. Enclosed you will find confirmation numbers for two plane tickets and instructions on how to travel to the island.
You are an adventurer, Mr. Burke. Don’t miss out on the kind of adventure Eden can bring you.
Burke stared at the letter, kind of creeped out but also damn curious. It sounded like whoever had sent this had done some recon on him. Maybe the owner had talked to Dex and had gotten info out of him somehow. How else would this stranger know things about him? How would he know that Burke would have a woman in mind for this trip? Or that he preferred women at all? And if this dude was pedaling some mystical, woo-woo island, the skeptic in Burke was all too intrigued about how they could pull that off without being exposed as frauds.
He’d done a number of adventure trips where groups stayed in places purported to be haunted. Places that made their money off legends worked hard to keep that spooky factor up by providing atmosphere and tragic stories of the location’s history. But beyond that, guests did the heavy lifting by filling in the blanks in their minds when it came to the actual “paranormal” experiences. A breeze became a cold hand. A normal, everyday sound became a voice. A natural light blur in a camera became a spirit. Burke found it amusing how we could so easily trick our minds.
But how could some beautiful, sunny island in the Atlantic could pull that off? This would be something altogether different. They weren’t promising eerie atmosphere and ghosts. They were promising something much harder to pull off — magic. That this island could meet every need you had in some mystical way. Yeah, okay. The island knows what you need was a fun tagline, but his guess was that they provided the generic things that all people needed or desired for a vacation — relaxation, breathtaking scenery, great food, loads of alcohol, and probably lots of sex.
If those were covered, most people would walk away with a “magical” experience.
He’d looked up the place online after the first invitation and hadn’t been able to find much on it. Apparently, it was beyond exclusive. But what he’d gathered from the little he could find was that it was about decadence and indulging in all ways.
It was the opposite of the kind of trips he usually took where it was all about survival and thrills in extreme circumstances. But at the same time, he couldn’t deny that the thought of sweeping Gretchen away to some luxurious island wasn’t damn appealing. No one could use that kind of break more than she could right now. But what if they showed up and it was a kinky sex resort or something?
Not that he was opposed to that kind of thing, but he wouldn’t want to put Gretch in that position. She’d said she couldn’t kiss him tonight. Taking her away for a week to Get Your Freak On Island would not be the best I’m-cool-with-just-being-friends response from him. She’d never forgive him.
He tossed the invitation on his desk and climbed in bed. No. He’d have to find some other way to get Gretchen living life again. He flicked off the lamp and settled beneath the covers. He’d figure it out tomorrow.
But right as he was finally drifting off, the click of a handle and the squeak of his bedroom door dragged him back into awareness. He blinked, trying to focus, and flipped over. In the hazy darkness, a shadowy figure moved his way slow and steady. His breath caught. Oh, shit.
He shifted to sit up, but before he could, his visitor moved next to the bed and lowered itself to the edge. The scent of vanilla shampoo wafted his way.
“Gretch?” He rolled fully onto his back to look up at her.
She didn’t answer. Instead, she slid under the comforter, draped her arm over his waist, and cuddled up to his bare chest. A soft, contented sigh escaped her.
He froze, all of the air leaving his lungs. She snuggled against him, warm, sweet-smelling, and soft. Everything in him yearned to wrap her in his arms. But he lay stock still, not daring to put his hands on her. She was sleepwalking, and he had no idea how to fix it.
Wasn’t it bad to wake someone up in the middle of an episode? He’d forgotten to ask.
And how the hell had she found her way here? He hadn’t shown her his bedroom.
He tried to scoot out from under her arm, but she tightened it around his waist and made a grumble of protest.
He groaned, scrambling to figure out how to handle things. Everything seemed like a wrong answer.
She tilted her head toward him on the pillow and her eyes opened.
“Gretchen?”
“Don’t go,” she said, her voice like a lover’s plea in the dark.
“Are you awake, cher?” He reached out and touched her cheek.
“Please. Don’t leave. Don’t ever leave.”
His chest tightened and his stomach dropped. She was asleep. Was she having a dream about Harris?
Cold dread moved through him. Here he was getting hot and bothered with her in his bed, and she was dreaming about his brother. Jesus.
“Gretch, I think you’re dreaming…” He edged back to roll out of bed.
“Please,” she said in a way that sounded not so much needy as damn sexy, like a woman begging for release.
He hurried to his feet, his skin clammy all over. He needed to turn on the light and try to wake her up. Or maybe he’d go sleep on the couch and leave her be. Leave her to her dream.
She made another one of those needful sounds, and he turned his back, hands laced behind his neck. He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want to think about the girl he cared about calling for his dead brother’s touch in her sleep. He didn’t want to hear that desperation and desire in her voice. Not like this.
He grabbed a T-shirt from the top of his dresser and tugged it over his head then strode for his door. He was one step out of the room when she moaned.
“Burke.”
He stilled at the breathy plea.
Burke. Not Harris. Burke.
He glanced over his shoulder. Maybe she’d woken up. But even in the moonlight, he could see she was still curled in his bed on her side. Her arm was tight around his pillow, and the covers were twisted around her, one long, bare leg exposed.
The sight kicked him right in the gut. How many times had he imagined having her in his bed, seeing her tangled up in his sheets, hearing his name on her lips? It was a cruel thing to have his fantasy presented to him but to know it was only an illusion—a trick.
He gave himself one last, indulgent look then shut the door behind him. But as he lay on the couch, trying to fall asleep, a more dangerous thought settled over him.
If Gretchen was dreaming about him, did that mean that somewhere underneath all those protective layers she wanted him as much as he wanted her? If he could take away her worries about ruining their friendship and remove the risk of it being too serious, would she allow herself to give into that temptation?
The invitation he’d tossed on his desk loomed large in his mind.
Maybe if he and Gretchen couldn’t cross those lines in real life, they could blur them in a fantasy world. A week away where they could be two other people, leave the baggage and the grief and the tragedy behind them, and just escape…
The island knows what you need.
He climbed off the couch, giving up on sleep, and grabbed his laptop.
The island may not know what they needed. But he certainly did.
Chapter 5
~Gretchen~
My first clue that something was wrong was the smell—Gain
laundry detergent and chopped firewood. Clean sheets and man. No. Not man, a particular man—Burke, who always smelled like he’d just left the side of a campfire.
I kept my eyes closed and inhaled deeply again to make sure. Had the sheets smelled like this last night? I think I would’ve remembered. But maybe when Burke had sat in my bed and told me the story, he’d left his scent behind. I might’ve been able to talk myself into that theory if not for the other distressing clues. My body was hot all over, my panties were suspiciously damp, and right at the edge of my consciousness was this vague feeling that I’d had sex. Though, if I had, I hadn’t gotten enough of it because unmet need still pumped through me like a heavy heartbeat.
Okay. Probably a dream. A really hot dream. I opened my eyes. A completely unfamiliar room greeted me.
“Oh, shit.” I sat up, holding the sheet to my chest. I was alone at least. And clothed. But I was in Burke’s bed. God. Had I walked in my sleep again? Had I done more?
The thought made my stomach roll. I’d done enough research on sleep disorders to know that it was possible. People did all kinds of things in their sleep, including sex. And I’d been pretty good at complex tasks when I walked in my sleep as a kid.
I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to clear my mind. Threads of what I thought was a dream teased at my memory. My hand coasting over Burke’s chest, his body pressing against mine… “Shit, shit, shit.”
I shoved the covers away and hopped out of the bed like it was on fire. I might’ve had sex with Burke in my sleep. Right here, in this big, rumpled bed. This was bad. So very bad. And mortifying. What the hell was I supposed to do now? Find Burke and ask him, Hey, eggs or pancakes for breakfast? And, by the way, did we happen to have sex last night while I was asleep?