Chapter 20
Brock didn’t want to open his eyes. The longer he kept them closed, the longer he could pretend to sleep, and maybe Juliette wouldn’t leave.
He cracked one eye open. The soft glow of dawn filtered through his curtains, drenching the room in cool, wintry hues. Either it was overcast this morning, or the sun had not yet reached the horizon.
Juliette’s warm body was curled up against him.
Waves of brown hair splayed over the pillow and tickled his chin.
Her breathing was slow and even, and her lashes cast little shadows along the tops of her cheeks.
She had both hands tucked under her chin, and he couldn’t help but notice the lids of her eyes were swollen and slightly pink, likely from all the crying the night before.
Carefully, so he didn’t wake her, he brushed a few strands of hair back from her face. A deep, contented sigh escaped her, and she snuggled in closer.
It was almost too much, too unbearable, but Brock couldn’t help but remember.
They’d been madly in love as teenagers and had spent countless nights lying on the beach long after the sun went down, counting the stars and making impossible wishes.
They shared their dreams with each other, confessed their fears, then sprinted toward the moonlit ocean on a rush of adrenaline and hormones.
Together they would skinny dip and swim, at least until Juliette inevitably got freaked out about not being able to see what was touching her ankles.
Usually it was seaweed, but Brock would scoop her up anyway and carry her back to shore.
On their last night together before he went to boot camp, she hadn’t cried. She swore she wouldn’t shed a single tear because she knew he was coming back to her.
Instead, he’d put intentional space and distance between them.
He often wondered if she’d cried for him then, or if she’d just been furious. He was too afraid of the answer to ask.
Brock’s stomach rumbled, and he attempted to get out of the bed.
He slid one leg out from under the comforter and moved inch by agonizing inch until he awkwardly rolled off the mattress.
He pulled on some pants and grabbed an old hoodie from on top of his dresser.
Then he silently crept from the room in an effort not to disturb her.
In the kitchen, he brewed a pot of coffee and tried to give himself a pep talk.
This didn’t have to be weird. He would just be cool.
Stay casual. He could scramble some eggs, maybe fry up some bacon.
Breakfast was a normal thing to do post-sex.
He had just cracked the first egg into a bowl when she came into the kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” Brock said automatically. His gaze stole over her. She looked absolutely perfect wearing his large sweatshirt and rolled flannel pants. Her hair was piled back on top of her head, and it tilted to the side. He smiled apologetically. “I tried not to wake you up.”
“You didn’t.” She yawned and took a seat on one of the barstools at the island. Her sleepy morning smile caused his heart to hammer. “I smelled coffee.”
“Let me get you a mug.” He grabbed two from the cabinet, assuring himself this was all perfectly normal. “How do you take it?”
“Just cream, no sugar please.”
“You got it.”
He poured them each a cup, added some creamer to Juliette’s, then handed her the mug. “There you go.”
“Thanks.” She took a sip and sighed.
He cracked another egg and decided he needed to keep the conversation rolling in order to avoid the inevitable awkward silence. “How do you want your eggs? And is bacon okay?”
“Scrambled is fine.” Juliette’s pale blue eyes watched him from over the rim of her steaming mug. Unreadable. Guarded. “And absolutely.”
He intended to ask about the crispiness of her bacon next, but she cut him off. “Listen, last night was…”
Brock braced for impact. He knew what was coming. She was going to say their night together was just a rebound. A lapse in judgment. A mistake. He could handle it, he’d been through worse. Hell. He’d been through literal hell while deployed. Rejection would be a piece of cake.
“Great,” she finished, and her cheeks flushed pink. She blinked, her gaze landing on everything in his kitchen but him. She took and breath and continued, “But I have to be honest with you.”
“Okay.” He nodded. He could appreciate honesty.
Even if it stung.
“These last few days have been nothing short of amazing. I feel like I’ve found part of myself again. Getting back into design has been the best decision I’ve made in…a while. And I’ve loved working with you.” She reached across the island and gently took his hand. Squeezed. “Being with you.”
“But?” he suggested, hating the knot of dread clogging the back of his throat.
“But I can’t promise anything. Like if I’m going to keep working with you and Anders.
Or if I’ll even stay in Mystic Cove.” Juliette took another sip of her coffee and released his hand, sitting up.
“There are too many unknowns right now. I still have to find a way to fix my relationship with my mother, and now this news about Rodrigo…”
Brock still couldn’t believe the bastard had been so shitty to Juliette. She deserved so much better. She deserved someone…
Like me.
The thought infiltrated his mind before he could stop it.
“I just don’t know.” Uncertainty weighed her voice. She chewed lightly on her bottom lip, her pretty blue gaze lifting to his own. “But I’d like to try.”
Brock felt like he was soaring. It wasn’t a promise, but it sparked a glimmer of hope in his heart.
Maybe, just maybe, there was something between them.
He lifted her hand and brushed the lightest of kisses across her knuckles.
He told himself it didn’t matter if it wasn’t forever. “For now is enough.”
He came around the island and pulled her to him.
The shyest smile graced her lips, and blood rushed in his ears, a steady roar that drowned out all rational thought.
He peppered her neck with kisses and let his hands wander, rediscovering her curves hiding underneath his borrowed clothing.
Her arms wove around his neck, her legs fell open, inviting him closer, just as his phone rang.
Juliette’s head fell back as his mouth sought the hollow of her throat. She smelled like him, and his cock twitched. “Shouldn’t you get that?”
“Some other time,” he murmured against the warmth of her flesh, lifting her off the barstool and into his arms.
“What about the bacon?” Her laughter caused his heart to stutter.
“Let it burn.” He nipped her earlobe, and she laughed, but his phone rang again.
He muttered a rather unfavorable curse and set Juliette down, then he snatched his phone from off the counter. “Hello?”
“Brockton Gallagher?” The feminine voice on the other end of the line sounded distant and concerned.
“Speaking.”
“This is Beth Matthews calling from Mystic Cove Hospital. Since you’re listed as the first point of contact, I need to tell you that your grandmother, Maureen Gallagher, was just admitted.”
His heart stopped. He felt it, the steady beating simply stilled, and in its place dark and familiar emotions took hold. Gripping him. Seizing him.
Panic. Fear.
“Is she okay? What happened?”
“I think it’s best if you can get here as soon as possible.” The nurse on the other end of the line kept her voice measured.
Juliette, on the other hand, was right by his side. Her brows knit together in a tight line of worry, and she’d taken hold of his hand.
“Of course.” Brock swallowed hard. His throat was unusually dry, as though somehow a piece of sandpaper had been shoved into his mouth. “I’m on my way.”
When he got off the phone, his mind went into full panic mode.
What if it was bad? Had it been a car accident?
No, it’s too early in the morning. A health issue then.
But what? Was it unexpected? Yaya was completely normal the last time he saw her.
Healthy, even. No, the last time he saw her, his father was tucking her into bed in the morning and reading her a story.
That was far from normal. What if it was detrimental? Or life-threatening?
“Come on, Brock. Let’s go.” Juliette bundled herself into her coat and handed his to him. She took his phone from the counter and shoved it into her purse, then grabbed his truck keys. “Yaya needs you, so you’ve got to focus, okay? Let’s get to the hospital.”
Right.
He wasn’t sure if he could do this, but at least for now, he had Juliette.
Her hand captured his own and she led him outside into the January cold.
She drove to the hospital and all the while, she reassured him.
Kept him calm and cool. Even though he couldn’t speak.
Could barely think. His mind was a tempest of agony, but she was his anchor. She kept him grounded. Steady.
Juliette was his safe haven.
At the hospital, she sat in the waiting room, but Brock couldn’t keep still.
Thought after unanswered thought pummeled into his head.
He paced the white tiled floor and hated the way everyone spoke in hushed whispers.
Every so often he’d get a whiff of the overpowering scent of antiseptic, or a voice would come over the intercom announcing some sort of code.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and tried not to let the familiar scene of determined footfalls, beeping, and other strange noises no one liked to hear take him back to another time.
To a time when a makeshift hospital tent was his only saving grace. When the stench of smoke and the metallic tang of blood hung thick in the air like a dense cloud of humidity. When shredded uniforms were used as bandages and screams of agony caused his ears to ring worse than a mortar round.
Those had been worse days, he told himself. Those kinds of days were burned in his memory. He’d never forget the way blood mixed with sandy soil, or how tears were easily mistaken for sweat.