Falling for the Enemy (Private Pleasures 3)

The thunk of the bathroom door told him she’d left. He turned off the water, listened to her footsteps continue down the hall, and tried not to be disappointed. He shouldn’t be, he told himself as he dried off and pulled on his briefs and jeans. She had her goals, and spending time with him put one of the main ones at risk. Meanwhile, his life needed a few fundamentals—little stuff like some goddamned direction and a new career—before he started layering in distractions. And even if he was settled enough to consider a relationship, his father’s adversary would be an inadvisable choice—for all of them.

Valid points, but they didn’t do much for the disappointment. He made his way down the hall toward the kitchen, barefoot and shirtless, serenaded by the sound of Ginny half-singing, half-humming. He stepped into the kitchen and saw her.

Part of her, anyway. She was bent over, with her head in the oven, presenting him with a stunning view of her backside covered by those innocent white shorts.

“Ginny.”

She looked over her shoulder at him, smiling. “I think that’s the first time you’ve called me—” But as she took in the sight of him standing there her words trailed off and the smile disappeared.

“I hope this isn’t one of those no shoes, no shirt, no services places.”

The smile snuck back to her lips. She straightened and closed the oven. “No. We’re pretty casual here at Casa Boca. Can I get you a beer or something?”

Alcohol had turned into a hazard as soon as his sleep problems had started, but it was one he’d been smart enough to recognize and avoid. “I’m fine. I’m no Anthony Bourdain, but I can stir a pot or—”

She waved his offer off. “Everything’s under control. I put the game on in the sitting room. Go on in, relax, and take a load off. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

He wasn’t sure if she was trying to indulge him or get him out of her hair, but either way, the idea of kicking back for a few minutes suddenly sounded pretty damn good. A few steps down the hall brought him to her sitting room. The lighting was low, and mainly from the television. Springs in the dark blue sofa squeaked as he sat. He moved a fancy, fringed decorative pillow off to the side, and fingered the fluffy, matching throw draped over the back of the sofa. Girl stuff—as fascinating as it was confounding.

He slung an arm along the sofa back and stared at the screen. Seventh inning shut-out. The remote sat on the dark, mission-style coffee table in front of him. He picked it up, intending to channel surf, but ended up just turning the volume down and leaving the game on.

Virginia’s soft, smoky rendition of “Umbrella” drifted to him from across the hall. The images on the screen started to blur. He blinked them back into focus, once…twice…and then gave in to the compulsion to rest his eyes for five lousy minutes.

…

“Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

Shaun jerked upright and looked around as if totally disoriented.

“Hey.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “Ginny’s house, camera install, thank you dinner, remember?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes, and she suspected he wouldn’t appreciate knowing how much he looked like a tired little boy, but the gesture transported her back in time, to an early memory. She couldn’t have been more than four or five, sitting between her parents in a pew at Bluelick Baptist, watching young Shaun Buchanan several pews over, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

“You snuck in a nap.” Hoping to tease the haunted expression from his face, she took a seat beside him on the sofa and added, “That’s twice you’ve fallen asleep on me. I think I’m boring you.”

“No.” He shook his head. “It’s not you. It’s me. I…haven’t been sleeping well.” The words came out reluctantly, like the last drops of water from a dry well.

“You poor man. How long has this been going on?” She didn’t know about anyone else, but her life went to hell in a hand-basket pretty damn quick if she dragged around more than a few days without a good night’s sleep.

He stared at her for a long moment. “On and off for seven months.”

“Seven months?” Men. “That’s a ridiculous amount of time to suffer. Have you talked to a doctor?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but then expelled a breath and ran a restless hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in the kind of haphazard disarray some guys spent lots of time and product trying to achieve. “I’ve talked the whole mess to death—with my commanding officer, my doctor—”

“Well, fine. Now talk to me.” She scooted closer when he edged away. He was feeling penned in? Too bad. People talked to her. That was her gift. “Talk to me,” she repeated, never taking her eyes off his face.

His hand attacked his hair again, and then he dropped his arm, tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Surrender.

“My sleep problems started shortly after my last mission with the SEALs.”

Her heart sank under a creeping wave of dread. Whatever came next was going to be bad. Not Justin-painted-a-foul-word-on-my-wall bad, or anything else that passed for bad in Bluelick, but the kind of fucked-up that messed with the head of one of the strongest of the strong. She took a fortifying breath, and pressed on. “Coincidence?”

His laugh contained absolutely no humor. “Not so much. My last mission went sideways, to put it mildly.”

“Tell me.”

He laughed again, and shook his head. “Trust me Virginia, you do not want to hear the details.”