Chapter 32
Cocooned in warmth, he tried to surrender to sleep again, but a bright light against his closed eyes and a firm hand on his shoulder kept pulling him toward awareness.
“Julian. Wake up.”
The unfamiliar name drifted through the haze in his head without meaning. So did the voice attached to it—low, steady, and persistent.
Another sensation pushed through next. The rich smell of coffee and bacon. Warm. Real. His stomach cramped and growled in response, dragging him another step closer to consciousness.
He frowned, disoriented by the unexpected comfort surrounding him—the heavy blankets, the steady warmth pressed against his skin, and the absence of whatever had come before. He forced his eyelids up.
A man’s face came into focus above him. Auburn hair framed sharp features, and visible relief softened the hard lines of his expression.
He must have just taken a shower because the man smelled clean, like soap and fresh cotton, with a faint trace of salt air lingering beneath it.
The concern in the hazel eyes eased, replaced by a warm smile that stirred something unexpected deep inside him.
“Good,” the man said. “You’re awake.”
The voice and face were familiar now. Fragments of the previous night flickered through his mind—rain, darkness, rough waves, and the man who’d pulled him off the beach and brought him here.
“The storm’s passed. How do you feel?”
Taking stock of his body, he realized every muscle ached. A cough tore through him, scraping his throat and sending pain through his chest. Once it passed, he croaked, “Like I got tossed around by a tornado.”
The man let out a quiet snort. “Close. More like a bunch of ten-foot waves.” The humor faded almost immediately, concern settling back into his expression. “Do you remember what happened last night?”
He reached for the answer and found nothing but blank space. The effort sent a sharp throb pulsing through his head. Wincing, he abandoned the attempt. “No.” He glanced around before meeting the man’s gaze again. “Where am I? And who are you?”
“I guess you don’t remember me telling you last night—I’m Brett Larkin.
” He sat on an old wooden trunk that doubled as a coffee table.
“You’re at my place in Driftwood Pointe, Massachusetts.
I found you on the beach during the storm and brought you here.
You were soaked in salt water, so you must have come ashore somehow.
Were you on a boat that capsized or something? ”
He searched his mind again, pushing harder this time, but every painful thought slipped away before he could grab hold of it.
“I—I don’t know.” Frustration tightened through him. “You—you said a name when you woke me up.”
Something unreadable flickered across Brett’s face before he answered. “Julian. Julian Price.”
He stared at him. “Is that my name?”
“I think so.”
Julian.
The name was awkward in his mind, neither familiar nor wrong. But no other name came to him, no sudden memory rushing in behind it. Just the same hollow blankness waiting where his past should’ve been.
And that terrified him more than waking up on a stranger’s couch.
“You didn’t have a wallet or any ID on you,” Brett said.
“Then how do you know that’s my name?”
He shrugged. “I can’t explain it, but it popped into my head and feels right. Do you remember anything before last night? Where you’re from? What you do for a living? A relative’s name? Anything?”
Clenching his fist, he thumped the back of the couch and growled. “No! I… everything is a complete blank! Damn it!”
“Okay. Calm down.” Brett stood. “How about I help you to the bathroom? And when you’re done in there, I’ve got coffee and breakfast ready.
After that, we’ll head to the clinic and have the doctor give you a once-over.
You seem okay—I mean, other than the amnesia—but we should have the doc look at you anyway.
Then we’ll go to the police station and see if anyone has reported you missing.
He wanted to argue, but the pressure in his bladder crushed the impulse before it could fully form. Besides, everything Brett suggested made sense.
He pushed up from the couch but stood too fast. The room lurched violently, his vision narrowing as his knees threatened to buckle.
Before he could hit the floor, Brett caught him by both arms, steadying him with firm hands and surprising strength.
Heat seeped through the thin fabric covering Julian’s skin, and for one disorienting second, the contact felt far too natural.
“Easy,” Brett warned. “Your body’s been through hell. Lean on me.”
Those strong hands guided him to the bathroom.
After being helped inside, Julian—yes, he’d accept the name for now since it was as good a choice as any—leaned against the sink.
The gray sweatpants and long-sleeved shirt hanging off him obviously belonged to his rescuer.
Despite Julian’s own height, Brett was broader through the shoulders and chest, making the borrowed clothes loose against Julian’s leaner frame.
“There’s a new toothbrush in the top drawer and clean towels under the sink.
It’s probably better if you wait until after the doctor examines you before you take a shower.
I don’t want you passing out in there. Yell if you get dizzy again or need help,” Brett said before stepping back out and pulling the door closed behind him.
Once he was alone, he used the toilet, washed his hands, and then stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. A thin crack split one bottom corner of the glass, but it didn’t distract from the fact that he looked like hell.
Bruises and cuts marked every bit of exposed skin, darkening by the hour.
More were hidden beneath the clothes—he could feel them every time he moved.
His ribs ached with each breath, his shoulders felt bruised deep beneath the skin, and his legs carried the heavy soreness of someone whose body had been pushed far past its limits.
He scrutinized himself harder, searching for something familiar in the face staring back at him.
Dirty blond hair in desperate need of a comb.
Brown eyes shadowed by exhaustion. A firm jaw hidden beneath a layer of stubble.
None of it sparked recognition. It could’ve been anyone looking back at him.
That realization hollowed him out all over again.
Who forgets their own face?
After he finished brushing his teeth and using a washcloth to clean up, a soft knock sounded against the bathroom door before Brett’s voice carried through it. “You okay in there?”
Julian tore his attention away from the mirror and opened the door. “Yeah. I think so.”
Brett studied him for a moment, likely checking for dizziness or signs he might collapse again. Then he nodded once and stayed close as they made their way back down the narrow hall, one hand hovering near Julian’s back whenever his steps slowed.
The cottage looked even older in daylight.
Salt-worn wooden walls. Exposed ceiling beams weathered by age.
Shelves lined with books, sea glass, and strange bits of driftwood polished smooth by the ocean.
A black potbelly stove glowed nearby, heat radiating through the kitchen and adjoining living room.
“Sit before you fall over,” Brett said, guiding him toward one of the mismatched chairs at the small kitchen table.
Julian lowered himself carefully into the seat while Brett poured coffee into thick ceramic mugs that looked handmade. Steam curled upward, carrying a rich, roasted aroma through the air.
Brett crossed over and held a mug out to him.
The instant Julian’s fingers brushed the warm ceramic, heat rushed through him so suddenly his chest constricted. His pulse lurched, and sharp pressure built behind his eyes as a vivid image crashed into his mind.
A room that looked almost identical to the one they were in, yet its atmosphere was completely different. Lighter. Alive in a way that made this morning seem muted by comparison, as though the cottage had lost something important at some point.
Brett sat across from him at the table, laughing at something Julian had said. The scrape of forks against plates. The smell of coffee and bacon. Warmth. Ease. A connection so profound it wrapped around Julian like a fleece blanket on a cold January morn before vanishing almost immediately.
His breath caught.
The images disappeared as fast as they’d come, leaving only confusion pounding through him.
What the hell was that?
“Careful. It’s hot.”
Brett’s voice snapped him back. The man had already turned away toward the stove, reaching for the breakfast plates like he hadn’t noticed anything.
Julian swallowed hard and wrapped both hands around the mug, staring down into the coffee while his pulse steadied.
A dark shape brushed against his leg beneath the table. Julian startled and looked down to find a cat weaving between his ankles, its tail raised. Its fur was black except for a splash of white on the tip of its right ear.
“Well, that’s new.”
He glanced up. “What?”
“Orion usually avoids strangers.” Brett carried the plates over, now watching the cat with open suspicion. “Or acts as if they offended him by existing.”
As if proving him wrong, Orion rubbed against Julian’s leg again before hopping onto the empty chair beside him as if it were his throne.
“That seems judgmental,” Julian said.
“It’s accurate,” Brett responded as he sat across from him.
Outside, thinning gray clouds drifted across the sky while weak sunlight broke through in scattered patches, glinting off the still-restless waves crashing against the rocks beyond the grounds. From last night, he vaguely remembered a lighthouse next to the cottage.
“Eat before it gets cold.” Brett gestured to the plate laden with scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast.