“Maybe,” Brock murmured. Or maybe he was planning retaliation.
She sipped her tea and nodded thoughtfully. He found it increasingly difficult to avoid looking at her. Like a moth to a flame, she lured him in. His fingers itched to tuck the damp strands of hair curling along her neck behind her ear. In the dim light, her lashes cast tiny shadows on the apples of her cheeks. And despite his best efforts, he couldn’t help but notice the swell and curve of her breasts beneath his thermal shirt.
Juliette glanced over at him, and he dragged his gaze back to her face. “Have you made any effort to talk to him?”
“Have you made an effort to talk to your mom?” Brock countered.
“Touché.” She smirked, but then her expression faltered. A kind of vacantness stole into her eyes briefly before she blinked it away. She tugged up the ill-fitting neckline of the thermal, hiding away the glimpses of perfectly smooth skin. “But I did make up with Anne-Sophie tonight.”
“She was pretty upset with you then, huh?”
“Oh, definitely.” Juliette took another drink of her tea. “Furious.”
“What for?” Brock asked.
Juliette lifted her hands, then let them fall helplessly by her sides. “Everything. Leaving. Disconnecting. All of it.”
Brock stabbed two olives with a toothpick and leaned back, letting the couch cushion his weight and his worries. “I’m glad you two made up.”
“Yeah.” Staring into the fire glowing in the hearth, she grabbed another piece of cheese and nibbled. “I feel awful for not realizing it sooner.”
“Don’t let it get to you. We’re all just doing the best we can.” His own words hit him like a swift punch in the gut.
He was doing his best, at least he thought as much. But a sliver of doubt skated down his spine. If his best involved putting up walls to keep others out and keeping secrets from the girl he used to love, then maybe he needed to rethink some things.
“So, I told you why I quit design.” Juliette faced him, and her silvery blue eyes sparkled with a cool kind of somberness. “What’s the real reason you got out of the Marine Corps?”
Another gut check.
This one was entirely too close.
He could lie and save them both the heartache. The truth was too intimate, far too personal. He was supposed to be putting distance between himself and Juliette, not sharing hidden hurts from his past. Opening up might draw her in for all the wrong reasons. Pity. Remorse. Sympathy.
“Other than crappy leadership?” he asked, searching for humor but finding none.
Her lips lifted. Small and barely there. “Other than that.”
His mind scrambled to give her an answer. One that wouldn’t require too much depth, too much explanation. One thatwouldn’t leave him feeling exposed. Vulnerable. “I guess I was ready to be back home.”
“Really?” One dark brow arched in question. She didn’t believe him. Not in the slightest. “You missed Mystic Cove that much?”
This time he met her gaze and held it. “I missed what I thought I’d never see again.”
Her face crumpled, and she reached out, clasping both of her hands around his own. She scooted closer, said nothing, asked nothing, simply waited for him to continue…waited to see if he wanted to tell his story.
His defenses were useless around her. It was too easy to give in, too easy to want her to see all the dark and broken parts of him.
“My last deployment was a rough one.” The familiar knot of grief lodged in the back of his throat. It was absurd, really. How so many years could pass, but the moment he mentioned his time in service, the time he spent in various sandboxes throughout the world, it was as though no time had passed at all.
“How so?” Her voice was soft. Tender.
Juliette shouldn’t have to hear this part. No one should have to hear about what he witnessed, about what he had to do while over there. It was the stuff of nightmares.
He didn’t want to tell her how he’d pulled the dead bodies of civilians from a blown-up truck. The poor guys hit a roadside bomb made to disable military-grade vehicles. Their old pickup hadn’t stood a chance against the explosion. He’d never forget the smell of charred flesh and burnt hair, how it lingered in his nostrils for days afterward. He’d never forget how their eyes were open and empty, lifeless, staring up at the brilliant blue sky overhead. He didn’t want to tell her how he’d witnessed a grown man use a woman as a shield—the coward. He wouldn’t forget her screams. Or how a little boy had come running toward theirconvoy with bombs strapped to his chest and tears streaming down his dirty face.
The rules of combat over there were never quite black and white. They were often gray. Filtered. Left to the last-minute judgment of time and place. But all of it led to death. In one way or another.
“I saw some pretty bad stuff.” He ran a hand through his hair and discovered his palms were damp. Regretfully, she released him, and he scrubbed his hands on his jeans. “Lost some good guys.”
