Bringing Home the Bad Boy

by Jessica Lemmon

  “You noticed.”

  He had. He’d never noticed before. But nearly everything he’d seen her in since he got here—dress, pj’s, her beach towel—had flowers on it. “Real ones or just wearing them?”

  “Both. But I do not have a green thumb. I finally hired a guy to come out and do my beds this year.” She gestured at the colorful plants decorating the side of her house. “I have to call him, though, because I think the lavender bushes he planted are dying.”

  “Yeah?” he asked, having no idea which plant to look at.

  She pointed past him to a scraggly brown bushy-looking thing. “It bloomed earlier this year, but now it looks like something from The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. This is his signature plant. He’s not going to like that I killed it.”

  “The hell is a signature plant?” Evan had never been much of a toil-in-the-soil kind of guy. He loved the outdoors: running, swimming, and he was looking forward to boating and trying his hand at waterskiing for the first time in years, but plants? Not his gig.

  “He patented a plant.”

  “Nerdy.”

  “Science-y,” she corrected, elbowing him gently.

  “There a difference?” The plant guy sounded like Poindexter, with a pocket protector full of garden spades. “Whatever makes you happy, Ace.”

  “So, why couldn’t you sleep?” She dropped a foot to the bottom step. The silky material of her robe slid aside, revealing her leg all the way up to her thigh.

  He looked—how could he not?—and took another drink of his water as he tried to decide how much to share.

  After a beat, he said, “Rae.”

  The air changed between them, her silence saying more than if she’d filled the space with chatter. She was waiting for him to share more, but he didn’t want to share the memory of his late wife’s stillness after her last breath, or the memory of her sheet-covered body being loaded into a silent ambulance.

  Turned out he didn’t need to say more.

  Charlie’s free hand rested on his forearm and he looked down at her slim, delicate fingers over his inked skin. Her thumb brushed over the hair on his arm, and attraction he couldn’t categorize washed over him. He lifted his chin and met her seeking, hazel eyes.

  Charlie.

  In his peripheral for years, now front and center.

  “Painting didn’t help?” she asked, her tone cautious.

  She was right to be cautious. Whatever lingered between them was downright dangerous. He didn’t answer, tearing his eyes from her sympathy-filled, moonlit face and focusing on the reflective surface of the lake instead.

  There was a boat in the distance, lights swinging, the distinct sound of laughing and shouting followed by loud splashes. Kids on vacation, he imagined, diving where they weren’t supposed to, drinking where they weren’t supposed to. Like Evan, Donny, and Asher used to do shit they weren’t supposed to.

  “Ah, to be young,” she commented.

  “Yeah,” he commented back, but the only sensation in his body was her palm warming his arm.

  “You miss those days?”

  “Sometimes.” Things sure as hell were easier back then. The memory that hit him made him smile. “When we were sixteen, Donny stole a bottle of booze from his dad’s liquor cabinet and we got plowed.”

  “Sixteen? Bet it didn’t take much.”

  “It didn’t.” They’d all puked, rallied, then headed straight for the library. “That was the night Ash and I decided to leave permanent marks on Evergreen Cove.”

  “Donny didn’t go?”

  “He was our lookout. And by ‘lookout’ I mean he camped out on a park bench and finished the booze.”

  “Oh boy.” Her laughter did a lot to ease his earlier tension. “Not THE night?”

  He leaned a shoulder into hers in a playful bump. “The one and only.”

  “The rise of the Penis Bandits.”

  A laugh, his, took him by surprise. “Ace. Really.”

  Her cheeks stained pink as she closed her eyes and shook her head. “I did not mean to say that. I just meant”—she pulled her hand from his arm while he continued to laugh, then put it to her flushed face. “All I meant was that was the start of you breaking hearts and taking names.” Her teeth scraped her bottom lip. “I mean rules. Breaking rules,” she finished quietly.

  He studied her for a second, watching as she watched him back. Tension crackled between them. Tension having nothing to do with Rae or the nightmare that woke him. Tension that made him wonder whose heart he’d broken.

  Pushing a stray strand of her honeyed hair off her face, he allowed the back of his hand to graze her cheek. “Ace,” he whispered.

  She swallowed before she quietly answered, “Yeah?”

  He didn’t know what to make of any of this, if it was real, or the stuff that didn’t feel real in the middle of the night when his mind walked the line between escaping reality and facing it. “I’ll let you get some sleep.”

  “Oh.” She looked disappointed… or sleepy. “Okay.”

  That he couldn’t tell which one solidified his decision to leave.

  “Lyon,” he said in way of explanation.

  “Oh. Oh, of course.” She pulled her stretched leg in and started to stand. Before she did, he drew the parted robe over her legs, brushing his knuckles along the inside of her knee.

  Like the moment he helped her stand at the dock, and the other morning when he’d shielded her peaked nipples from his son’s view, Evan recognized her reaction for what it was. Attraction.

  A whole hell of a lot of it.

  His eyes went to her parted lips as she sucked in a breath.

  Then she stood and backed up her porch steps so abruptly, his hand still hovered in midair, no longer on her skin. He shot a look over his shoulder in time to see her slide the patio door open and step inside.

  “Good night.” She slid the door to, but just before it closed, he heard her mutter, “Sorry, Rae.”

  A second later, the kitchen was dark and Charlie was nowhere to be seen.

  * * *

  In a horrible Forrest Gump impression, Asher pointed to Deelightful and said, “That’s my boat.”

  Evan snorted.

  “You can be Lieutenant Dan.” Ash elbowed him, then stepped onto the dock and leaned in to check out the mode of transportation Evan couldn’t believe he’d been allowed to rent.

  “More like I’ll be Skipper to your Gilligan after you wreck this thing into the rocks.”

  “Who’s Gilligan?” Lyon asked, snapping his lifejacket crooked.

  Evan fixed the straps. “Uncle Asher’s long-lost cousin.”

  Asher did a good job driving, surrendering the vessel to Evan after cracking open a beer he’d smuggled on board. They dropped anchor for an hour to swim. Lyon had been learning to hold his breath underwater in class, and he insisted on showing off by putting his face in the water while he kicked. Evan had to smile at the image of his son clumsily moving through the water, the bright orange floating vest inhibiting more than helping him.

  Despite her dislike for the water, Rae would have been proud.

  On the deck, he opened the cooler and passed out lunch. Cheetos, ham sandwiches, Pringles for himself, another Miller for Asher, and one of those disgusting Go-Gurt things for Lyon.

  Evan had taken a huge bite of his sandwich when Ash spoke.

  “Find any babes for the boat yet?”

  “You’re the rock star. You flush ’em out.”

  “Charlie’s a babe,” Lyon chimed in with a grin.

  Evan looked at Ash but gestured at his son. “See what you did to him?”

  Ash smiled. “Atta boy, Lionel. Call ’em like you see ’em.” Then to Evan, he said, “Need to take the boat out for a night trip. Call your sitter for little man there, and come out with me.”

  He found himself smiling in spite of himself. Sure, Ash was dancing with immature, but Ash was also Ash. He had no need to bury who he was, at his core. Somehow, who Ash used to be a
nd who he was now blended together seamlessly.

  Then again, he had no wife, no kid. Minimal responsibilities.

  Like Ash had always been a musician, Evan had always been an artist. And not only one-half of the “Penis Bandits.” He remembered losing hours poring over comic books and attempting to draw the characters, or entering art contests but never hearing back. He’d once painted the inside of his closet solid black and then in white painted a pair of eyes and the outline of a figure that made his mother shriek the next time she’d opened the door to hang up his clothes.

  When puberty hit, his focus shifted from art to art and girls. Then Rae entered the picture… and, man. There’d been no going back. He was twenty-three to her twenty-one when they got married, which was crazy young, and they’d behaved like it. Fighting over stupid shit all the time. But the makeup sex, ah, the makeup sex with her had always been worth it.

  The Achilles’ heel in their otherwise picture-perfect marriage had always been the fact that he painted late at night. Back then he’d spent countless hours on new tattoo designs. Rae would be up breastfeeding Lyon, and unable to go back to sleep, Evan would wander to the freezing-cold utility room, crank on the space heater, and start drawing.

  So into it, he often didn’t notice how much time had passed until Rae interrupted him at five a.m., dressed in her scrubs, ready for work.

  Those arguments never ended well. And never ended with makeup sex.

  “And then what?” Ash was saying, and Evan tuned in to see his friend talking to an animated Lyon.

  He described a battle from his favorite iPad game—Evan had refused to let him bring the five-hundred-dollar electronic on the boat, much to Lyon’s chagrin—his cheeks lifted, a dimple denting one of them, his smile broad and genuine.

  Passion for a video game. Evan didn’t get it.

  He started to apologize and tell Lyon not everyone wanted to hear about Clashing Clans, when Asher asked, “What are you battling for in this game?”

  “The queen,” Lyon answered.

  “Man after my own heart,” Ash said.

  “I think she looks like Mom.”

  Evan felt his face go numb. He and Asher exchanged glances.

  “Aunt Charlie gave me a picture of her in a long, white dress wearing a crown.”

  Wedding photo.

  “The queen has a dress like that,” Lyon said, then took a bite out of the middle of his sandwich.

  Asher reached into his bag and pulled out a cell phone. “Well, this I have to see,” he said, followed by, “After I download it, will you show me how to play?”

  Lyon’s eyes lit, happiness evident in everything from his posture to his animated voice. “Yeah! And then you can join my clan!”

  To which Asher uttered a flattered-sounding, “Really? Me?”

  Evan watched the exchange, and Asher connect with his flesh and blood, and realized that he’d shrugged off his son’s passion much like Rae had ignored his—overlooking the fact that Lyon’s borderline obsession for that game had something to do with his mom.

  Evan’s fault for burying the pictures of Rae in the first place.

  Fuck.

  He watched, with a hint of jealousy, badass, rock god Asher Knight and his kid lean over Asher’s cell phone as Lyon described the rules of the game.

  Dedicated badass and good with his kid.

  Two things Evan had yet to pull off simultaneously.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Can Charlie come swimming with us, Dad?”

  He debated his son’s request, unsure how to answer. On the one hand, she might like a chance to take a break and swim with them, and he certainly wouldn’t mind seeing her in a bikini. On the other, after the night he’d wandered onto her porch, inviting her was playing with fire.

  “Who’s she talking to?” Lyon had his beach towel around his neck and his hand wrapped around the strap of the packed beach bag resting on the floor by his feet.

  “Buddy, get your sunglasses. And put on your flip-flops.” What he didn’t need was Lyon forgetting something and having to come back to the house to get it. Granted, the dock wasn’t that far away considering it was between his house and Charlie’s, but it was a long way to go when he could just get his shit together now—

  “I don’t know that guy.”

  “It doesn’t matter who it—” he stopped himself as his son’s words sank in. Guy? He walked to the window where Lyon stood peeking out. “What guy?”

  “That guy.” Lyon tapped the glass.

  Sure enough, there was “a guy” standing at Charlie’s back porch, gesturing at what, he couldn’t tell.

  “Should we still ask her to swim?”

  Normally, he would have answered “no” and given Lyon a lesson in privacy. Instead, and now that he’d seen the pair of arms on the man standing way too close to Charlie for comfort, he said, “Yeah. Let’s ask her.”

  As they drew closer, he was able to see more and more of Charlie’s guest. And the more he saw, the less he liked. The guy was probably around Evan’s six feet tall, his chest and arms massive. He wore shorts and a tank top, a tribal tattoo wrapping around his upper right arm. It was a good one, too. Despite already not liking the guy based on principle and proximity to Charlie alone, Evan appreciated quality artistry when he saw it.

  “Aunt Charlie!” Lyon burst onto the scene, and for once Evan was grateful for his son’s lack of couth. That little burst did exactly what he’d hoped for: it turned the guy’s head away from Charlie. His narrowed eyes assessed Lyon, then moved to Evan.

  He stood taller, mentally vowing to do more curls tonight. The other guy’s arms were tanks.

  Lyon invited Charlie to go swimming, and she bent at the waist, pulled her hair out of her face, and promised she would—God, Charlie. Such good people.

  The guy held out a hand in greeting. “Connor McClain. You must be the famous illustrator she was telling me about.” He smiled. Nodded toward Evan’s house. “Did all kinds of repairs at your house before the Millers moved out of there, so if something starts acting up, let me know.”

  He gripped Connor’s hand briefly, then let go, propping his hands on his hips. “Repairs?”

  “Connor works for his father’s handyman company,” Charlie put in, stepping closer, her long, beachy—and flowered, he noticed—dress blowing in the breeze.

  “Part-time,” Connor was quick to add. “I’m recently out of the service, but I help out some.”

  Ex-military, too. Shit. Probably was a decent guy.

  He gestured to the fresh dirt and Evan recognized the scraggly brown plant was gone, a fresh green one with pale purple buds in its place. “This is my real gig.”

  “Right. The lavender.” He and Charlie were both wrong. Connor McClain didn’t strike him as nerdy or science-y.

  “Landscaping,” he clarified. “Library Park’s my most recent design.”

  He’d noticed how nice the park looked, mainly because Mrs. Anderson had pointed out what was new while showing Evan and Gloria where the setup would be for the Starving Artists Festival. He didn’t know a lot about landscaping, but he noticed the place was highly manicured with plenty of small fruit trees and a line of hedges along the back of the library.

  “Yeah, I saw that. Looks good.” Evan threw Charlie a glance and she gave him a demure smile.

  “The three of us have childhood friends in common,” she said.

  Evan frowned. How? The sandy-blondish-haired guy in front of him had to be at least five years his junior. “Yeah?”

  “Donny Pate was my roommate and drinking buddy.” He shrugged massive shoulders. “I was underage. He was my supplier.”

  “Sounds like Donny.” Evan had kept in touch with him over the years. He’d left the Cove a few years back, making his home, and finding his calling, in New York. Evan had flown out to the Hamptons for a party thrown by one of Donovan’s crazy-rich clients. They’d hung out near an outdoor fireplace Donovan had built with his own two hands, while Evan had
noted things: one, Donny had morphed into more of a loner, but less of a fighter, and two, in spite of that loner status, he seemed a hell of a lot happier there than when he’d lived in the Cove.

  Connor reached in his wallet and extracted his card. “My cell number.”

  The card was white with black block lettering and Evan’s first thought was that an aspiring landscaper needed something much more artsy than this snooze fest of a business card.

  “Repairs, landscaping, or if you want to sell me a signed book for my nephew”—Connor smiled and though he’d been trying not to, Evan decided he already liked the guy—“gimme a buzz.”

  He left Charlie with a few more instructions for her new lavender plant, bent at the waist to high-five Lyon, and ambled out to the driveway before climbing into a huge white Ram truck.

  Damn. Nice truck, too. Made Evan’s family-guy SUV look tame.

  “He’s super nice,” Charlie said from beside him.

  “Seems okay.”

  “Can you believe he knew Donny? Used to work with him, Faith, and Sofie at that seafood restaurant on Fifth. Small world right?”

  “Very,” he agreed. And getting smaller by the minute.

  “Daaaad,” Lyon said, proving his impatience had reached Code Red.

  “Meet you at the dock, okay, buddy?” she said to him. “I’ll get my suit.”

  With the promise of getting to see Charlie in a bathing suit, the rest of Evan’s day instantly got better.

  * * *

  It didn’t fit well, but she’d decided the black one-piece bathing suit and printed sarong looped around her hips were far more appropriate than her hot pink bikini around Evan and his seven-year-old son.

  But mostly Evan.

  After the night he arrived unexpectedly, and the bizarre yet permeable air of sexual tension between them, she understood that this Evan-living-next-door thing had come with a certain set of challenges. She was sure she’d get used to seeing him shirtless eventually—and get used to him being in her space more often than not. But for now, she seemed to be reverting back to when she crushed on him at fifteen.