Surviving Eden (Surviving Series Book 1)

by Virginia Wine

  I drop her off at her place, per her request. She stops half in, half out of the car.

  “I’m done, Theo.”

  Then walks away, never once looking back. I didn’t want to hurt her; that was never my intention. I only gave what I could give, it wasn’t a surprise that it wasn’t enough.

  ***

  Monday morning arrives just like any other, except for one difference: Miss Eden Barnett is coming in today. My black Armani suit and black tie fit to perfection. Why I’ve given this much thought into what I’m wearing is cause for alarm. How I choose to handle this will have repercussions, but I’ve always been the consummate professional, and I would never act on my feelings. I am the one in control, I tell myself. I’m the master of control.

  Yet, here I am toying with the image of her. The man in me is barging ahead. I wish I wasn’t so breathtakingly aware of her.

  I drive Red, my Triumph named for her cherry-apple color, into my parking spot. My thoughts are scattered as I ride the elevator. Once I reach my office, I smile at Miss Knight.

  “No means no,” she says into the phone as she offers a thumb’s up, scanning me from head to toe. “If his junk looks funky, it’s a no.”

  My body stiffens at the remark, so I quickly stride to my office, avoiding any need to participate in the subject at hand. Note to self: never ever meet Miss Knight’s friends.

  ***

  The day drags with only a few clients, mostly med scripts and quick evaluations confirming we are on the right path. I have a note to contact Levi’s aunt on her day off, to reiterate her commitment to Levi’s stability, we need to act as a united front, and clearly share the same goals. I can’t have her changing her priorities midsession if we want to build trust and finally expose the truth.

  “Dr. Grant, there’s an Eden Barnett here to see you,” Miss Knight announces.

  She’s right on time.

  “Thank you. I’ll be right out.” I take a breath and let it out slowly. I’m relying on my professional training to kick into high gear.

  I stand, straighten my tie, and button my jacket Reprimanding myself as I navigate my way to the door. Where the hell is my self-control when I need it the most?

  Opening the door, I stand in my doorway. Her gaze locked on mine, and I witness a single eyebrow rising in question. Her violet eyes are glowing, making me smile inwardly, it was irritating as hell. There’s no mistaking it. She was going to make this impossible for me.

  “Miss Barnett, won’t you please come in?”

  She nods and steps into the room, gently passing me Her hair is a rich shade of mahogany that flows in waves, framing her face and running down her back. As she passes she looks up at me and pauses.

  “Dr. Thor?” She smiles as if she holds all the power. Well, that’s about to change.

  “Have a seat.” I wave in the direction of my patient’s chair, then sit behind my desk. I usually don’t put barriers between me and my patients right away, but it seems appropriate in this case.

  She reaches over my desk with her hand extended to shake my hand firmly. Her assertion is unexpected.

  “You can call me Dr. Grant, Miss Barnett. I save the Dr. Thor for my younger patients.” I wonder if she can hear how loud my heart is beating.

  I reach for my reading glasses, which provide an extra layer of protection, creating the illusion of professional distance I so desperately need.

  “You can call me Eden.” Her violet eyes give nothing away. This is not the fragile sparrow with the broken wing I saw at the funeral. This Eden is edgy and confident, her directness taking me completely by surprise.

  “Eden, it is. I’d like to start by asking why you’re here.” I open my file, ready to take notes, my glasses resting on the bridge of my nose. I peek over the rims as I await her answer.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” One of her shoulders lifts, shrugging off my inquiry. She’s challenging my first question, flippantly discarding the cookie-cutter question used by every single therapist on the planet.

  “Not to me, Eden.” I study her for a long, intense moment. I square my ankle over my knee in an attempt to appear relaxed.

  “I thought my uncle called and…” She fades into silence. “They think there’s something wrong with me.”

  “Is there?” I ask, curious if this façade is only an act, masking the pain buried just beneath the surface.

  “Maybe.” Her voice is raspy. Her penetrating eyes are framed by her long, dark lashes and pierce deep within me. Her full lips… I stop there, I’m two steps away from creepy.

  “Your Uncle Vince called, and said you were in need of my support. Why is that, Eden?”

  “You knew my father, my family. Who else would I choose?”

  “So, you feel more comfortable here, with me?” Tapping my pen a few times on the file, I’m purposely constructing a professional analysis. “Trauma relating to grief.” I wait for her reaction, receiving nothing in return, so I continue.

  “Grief impacts all aspects of our lives, but it’s even more intensified when there has been a sudden, unanticipated death. This kind of loss changes an individual’s behavior. Sometimes they become withdrawn, passive, or introverted, feeling unworthy of happiness. Does any of this describe you, Eden?”

  “You sound like you’re speaking from experience, doctor. Let me ask you something. Whose grief are you describing, yours or mine?”

  What does she know about my grief? After a moment too long, I chastise myself. She’s clearly attempting to control this particular session, so I finally speak up. “That’s not the way it works, Eden.”

  I’m not willing to admit the similarities of our pain or grief—or any of my shortcomings—especially to her.

  “Why are you here?” I try again.

  Her eyes focus on me as if they’re constructing an answer. I just hope it’s a genuine one this time.

  “I want my life to mean something, like my fathers did,” she says, continuing her scorching, direct eye contact.

  It pierces through me like a knife, slightly tripping me up, even though I know this particular dance like the back of my hand.

  “And you feel your life doesn’t mean anything? Why?”

  “Not in the direction it’s going, no.”

  I’m starting to get a clearer picture of her now. She’s reevaluating her life, which is very common after tragically losing someone you love. I slightly shift my gears, knowing the path we’re on now.

  “You’re in college, the University of Nevada, Reno?” I check my notes, then look up.

  “Yes. Fine arts degree.” Her tone is challenging. Maybe she’s done battle for her choices in the past.

  “So, you’re smart.”

  “Yes, I’m smart.” I attempt to hide my smile and draw in a deep breath to calm my nerves instead.

  “So, no confidence issues, I see.”

  She smiles, confirming my observation. I’m slowly realizing that my regular rules don’t seem to apply here.

  “Everyone has a different perspective on what the problem is, and what the solution should be,” she explains.

  I nod in understanding. “Eden, were you coerced into seeing someone professionally?”

  And why that professional just happens to be me, I don’t know.

  “No, I understand that I was overcome with grief. What else could they do?” She shrugs.

  “People whose intentions are good may not always know exactly what is best for you.”

  “I’m angry,” she admits, “I know that much.” She twirls her hair with her finger, making her look even younger than she is.

  “At?” I pause for an answer, but it doesn’t come. “Angry about what, Eden?”

  Saying her name, I like the way it feels on my lips. I wage a silent war internally to stop myself from having these thoughts, but it doesn’t work.

  “At life, at people, at family, at myself.”

  “Yourself?”

  “Mostly myself, my choices.” Touched by her
words, I understand all too well that grief is a hard place to crawl out of.

  “Can you elaborate? Anger itself doesn’t make the problem go away. Anger is masking something deeper, like pain or grief. Blaming yourself and internalizing it won’t make it go away.”

  “And then there’s Denver Bishop.” Her body language shifts as if the weight on her shoulders just increased.

  “And he is?”

  “My boyfriend.”

  There’s a boyfriend! Of course, there’s a boyfriend.

  “Apparently he’s not meeting your needs?” I instantly regret my phrasing, wishing I could take it back and reword it. Real fucking professional, Grant.

  “Well, ex-boyfriend, off and on, I guess. I just feel misunderstood. He expects me to move on. Why grieve over something in the past that you can’t change? He doesn’t know what to do or say if I’m sad, if I cry, or if I just need comfort.”

  She needs to dump this guy now. He’s clearly not able to give her the support she needs to get through this. The thought of someone else caring for her is unsettling. Everything about this is unsettling. At this point, my own sanity is disputable. She’s quickly becoming a drug I have no wish to kick.

  “You are misunderstood, because he’s not understanding that grief is a slow process, and different for everyone. What you’re feeling is normal.”

  Noticing that I have not made one note, I start to write.

  “Tears are a way of releasing emotion, good or bad. Yes, we cry when we’re happy, too, but men never understand the difference, so here’s the barometer: If someone cries and refuses to talk, those are bad tears. However, if tears are shed and they want to spill their guts, they’re good tears.”

  “That’s very true and insightful.” She cocks her head, as if recalling memories and wondering when and where this rule applied.

  “I want to be understood. I want to grow and feel as though I’m making a difference. I want a relationship absent of games and power struggles.”

  I feel a flicker of desire as her eyes roll over my body the features of my face and land on my mouth. Her gaze is a warm, provocative invitation. And it feels consensual, which is a problem. I manage to snap out of my lustful thoughts in time to answer.

  “Is it safe to say that the people in your life that are misunderstanding you are the same ones preventing you from achieving your goals?”

  “Yes.” It seems as if she’s looking for more as questions simmer in her eyes.

  I think of all I could give her. Should give her. But some secret part of me is hopeful that we share the same silent struggle.

  “Eden, it’s normal to miss your parents, feel grief at their loss, and be sad.”

  Her entire being tells a story. I want to read it, analyze it, and fix it. I want to hold her and protect her. I want to be the most important person in her life.

  A sense of guilt sweeps over me and I push it away. Helping her overcome these obstacle is what I do, what I’m trained for. I have the ability and the knowledge to lead her to become her ideal self.

  Then why the fuck can’t I control the pull toward the dark side? Her. She’s the darkness. I can control everything, apart from her. Still, I continue to imagine the unthinkable, even though it could fuck up my entire life.

  “Our fifty-five minutes are up. We’ve covered a lot for a first session. I’d like to suggest that you start a journal, and that each day you write at least one sentence about how you’re feeling. Can you do that?”

  “Write about anything?”

  “Of course.”

  She turns and flashes me a warm smile. I walk her out, and she leaves a fragrant cloud in her wake that’s impossible to ignore. I purposely assist her in scheduling her next appointment. I have no intention of waiting an entire week.

  “Thursday work for you? Same time?” I’m unconsciously closing the distance between us.

  “I can make that work. Two o’clock?”

  Miss Knight nods her head, slightly off-kilter at my behavior as she enters the appointment into my schedule.

  I watch Eden walk out. All I can think about is her glowing porcelain skin, her beautiful voluptuous body, and her amazing eyes. I could get lost in them for days. What would her father, my friend, say to me if he knew how I was behaving? He’d kick my ass.

  ***

  I lower myself into my desk chair, resting my head back as I stare at the ceiling. Sharp violet eyes and salacious thoughts rush in. It’s hardly professional contemplation, but I’m powerless to stop the thoughts invading my mind.

  I’m brought back to reality when my cellphone vibrates on my desk. Alex’s name appears on the screen and I answer quickly. “I thought you were in Africa?” I say, thankful for the diversion.

  “I was. I just got back, and I can’t wait to tell you all about it. You free?”

  I hear his heavy breathing as he walks. He always seems to be barging ahead somewhere, constantly in a hurry.

  “Tonight? Sure.” Pushing all thoughts of her away, I focus on the here and now. “Where?”

  “Drinks are on me.”

  “That’s a first, Alex.”

  “No, that’s the name of the place. Just put the name in your GPS, and it will do the rest. Still driving that red piece of shit?”

  “The lady magnet? Sure am.” I manage a laugh despite the persistent condemnation going on throughout my conscience.

  “You wish, Romeo. See ya’ there.”

  Well, what do you know? Alex’s timing is dead-on. He’s the one person with whom I might find some clarity.

  ***

  I pull up to the bar on time, the red neon sign glaring. I park and walk in, taking the opportunity to look around. A long mahogany bar takes up most of the floor space, while a dozen or so tables occupy the remaining area. It appears crowded, but I find an open table in the back facing the door and order a beer. Taking a long draw from my bottle of Corona, I see Alexander Kincaid Storm III walk in. He’s not as stuffy as he sounds. He’s had his share of taunting over the name, but he takes it in stride.

  His spiked, short, sun-kissed hair and good looks inspire some serious glances from the opposite sex. He owns it, unlike anyone I’ve ever met. His ripped faded jeans and black T-shirt are pasted on, as though he’s truly God’s gift to women. Hell, maybe he is. I wave him over, then signal the server, holding two fingers up.

  “Hey man, good to see you.” He turns our handshake into a man hug. “I heard about Mathew Barnett. I know you two were close, and I’m sorry I wasn’t here. He was a great guy.” His hand lands on my shoulder, gently squeezing it with compassion.

  “Yeah, it was a shock for all of us.” I huff out a deep sigh, ignoring the memories flooding back from earlier about the voluptuous woman who is my dead friend’s daughter.

  “So, Africa?” I change the subject to keep those impure thoughts at bay. I have no problem diverting the attention from me to the lawyer-turned-activist.

  “Amazing in every way, Theo. An entire month of fucking adventures: a safari, an elephant orphanage, building a school from nothing, with nothing. After living with the locals, seeing the tragedies and their resilience, I’m a changed man. What I did was actually important. I know Mathew did similar things, and I definitely understand the appeal now.”

  As he clinks beers with me and takes his first drink, he says, “I did miss this, though.” He holds his beer up, admiring its splendor.

  I appreciate his new, laid-back demeanor. It’s a huge change from his usual high-strung nature, which often keeps him on edge.

  “You’ve certainly come a long way.”

  “Is that your way of saying I’m a grown-up now?” His lazy smile dangles on the corner of his lips.

  “And what about Olivia?” he casually asks.

  “I think I’ve been kicked to the curb.”

  “Really? Do tell.” His mischievous eyes miss nothing. It’s almost as if the news comes as no surprise to him.

  “I’m unequivocally convinced it
’s over. It wasn’t the heathiest of relationships.”

  Acknowledging the fact that I’m not affected by the loss says a lot about me, I know. It’s quite disturbing in many ways, to say the least—especially comparing the contrast to the hold Eden has over me, which has me torn inside out.

  Alex is the only one out of my few friends who has crossed the unscrupulous line on more than one occasion, causing his reputation to take a hit. He’s the only friend I can really confide in, especially in this matter.

  “Speaking of dysfunction,” I say. Slowly our eyes meet, and he leans forward intently, completely focused on what I’m about to say.

  “There’s this woman.”

  “Ah, there’s always a woman, Theo.” A smug smile spreads across his face. It’s Alex’s attempt to keep things light.

  “She’s completely off-limits.” As if in physical agony, I continue. “I feel this incredible pull toward her. I pinch the bridge of my nose, attempting to calm my racing heart.

  “Care to elaborate?” he asks.

  Taking a long swig from the now-barely-cold beer, I prepare myself to dredge up the gruesome truth.

  “It’s a patient of mine.” I don’t want to admit I was blindsided, but confessing it makes it all crystal clear.

  “Aren’t there all kinds of rules about that?” Alex arches a brow in disapproval.

  “I’m painfully aware of that.” I slam my eyes shut. “It gets worse.”

  “How can it get worse?”

  “She’s Mathew’s daughter, Eden Barnett.”

  Alex takes a swig of his beer, but waits, collecting his thoughts.

  “Well, let’s see.” He pauses. “This is professional suicide, not to mention entirely unethical. Sounds just plain wrong, kind of incestuous. And how old is she, anyway? Is she jailbait, too?”

  I’m momentarily thrown off balance by his comments. What was I expecting, compassion? Understanding over my conflict? He’s handing me a dose of reality I rightly deserve to hear.

  “Incestuous? I’m not related to her. In fact, I’ve never even met her until today. And to answer your question, no to the jailbait question.”