“Jesus, Juliet.”
P.J. grabbed the bath sheet from the edge of the sink, shut off the steady stream of water, bent down, and wrapped Juliet into the towel. Then he carried Juliet into the living room where he sat her down on the couch and piled thick blankets on top of her. P.J. decided to wait on the soup and instead poured a cup full of blackberry brandy, honey and lemon into a pan and let it simmer until it was thick and warm. He brought out a huge box of tissues, sat down next to Juliet and wrapped his arms around her heaving shoulders. Then he fed her small sifts of brandy in between her hiccupping sobs.
P.J. had never seen so many tears in his life. They just kept coming. They spilt over from Juliet’s eyes and flowed down her cheeks like the notes of a sad song. Soft moans escaped through little hiccups. He could feel her shoulders rise and fall as the strength of her anguish ravished through her body. Juliet’s chin quivered against his chest. P.J. was no stranger to crying women. His mother, Claire, was a crier. Happy times, sad times, or sometimes just because. When he had asked his dad about it, Reno had told him that sometimes a woman just needs a good cry.
And now thinking over the last few hours, P.J. figured that if there was any woman in this world who deserved a good cry, it was Juliet Jones.
The rage of the storm railed through the night relentlessly. Rain continued to fall in great sweeping gusts that battered rooftops and beat against windowpanes. The cold Atlantic slammed against the craggy cliffs of Port Harbor with herculean force. Trees fell over, power lines snapped. Streams and rivers flowed over and washed out roads. Basements flooded, cars stalled, boats were tossed about like toys.
But inside, Juliet and P.J. were warm, and dry and safe from the storm.
She had finally fallen asleep. Her head lay tight under his chin while her arms wrapped around him. Even in her slumber, Juliet seemed reluctant to let him go. After what they had just been through together, P.J. couldn’t help but feel the same way. Looking out into the still raging wind and rain, he recounted the horrific events of the past few hours and thought how easily Juliet could have died out there. What if he hadn’t been home…what if the security system had been downed by the storm, what if he had found her too late. What if …what if…what if….
Little fool P.J. admonished her silently even as he placed a small kiss on the top of Juliet’s hair. What had she been doing out in weather like this? It was obvious she had turned around or tried to. But what the hell did that mean? Had she taken a wrong turn in the rain? Or had Juliet been coming to see him and changed her mind? These questions only added to the billion he had about her. Maybe the storm had been a blessing in disguise. Even if Juliet’s car wasn’t blocking the access way, it would take P.J. at least a day to clear the road, and he couldn’t even think about that until the storm wore itself out. Maybe it would give him the time with Juliet that he needed to talk to her.
But for now, P.J. had to stand up and get his blood moving. It had been at least an hour since she had fallen asleep with her arms twisted around him. Every time P.J. tried to disentangle himself from her, Juliet tightened her grip. His shirt was soaked from her tears, he had a raging headache, and his back felt like it was on fire. P.J. needed a couple of shots of his best whiskey, and a hit of the premium weed that he kept on his nightstand. He needed to get undressed, stretch out on his bed, relax, and catch his damn breath. But every time he moved, she locked in.
So P.J. carried Juliet upstairs with him.
Juliet opened her tear swollen eyes to find herself in bed with P.J. McCabe. P.J. was on his back, his arms stretched and pretzeled under his head and his eyes closed. Juliet’s leg rested high on his thigh; her hand sat low on his belly. She was snuggled close under P.J.’s chin. The only sound in the room was the soft, rumble of his breathing. The only movement was the steady rise and fall of P.J.’s massive chest. They were both naked as the day they were born. While Juliet had the idle thought that this should probably alarm her, she was too tired, too warm, and too comfortable to care.
Juliet snuggled deeper into the crook of P.J.’s arm and tried to recount the last few hours out in the storm. Her thoughts were jumbled, some moments crystal clear, others a foggy blur. But Juliet knew one thing, she owed her life to this man. And as her eyes drifted down his body, Juliet found herself wanting to know more, much, much more, about the man lying next to her.
Stealing a glance at his face, she saw that P.J.’s eyes were still closed and except for a subtle change in his breathing, he remained perfectly still. Juliet bent her elbow, rested her head on the palm of her right hand, and studied the magnificent body that was gloriously within her reach. P.J.’s body was muscled and hard, his
