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“Brotherly duty.”
“Above and beyond the call, if you ask me.” She poured herself another glass of wine, though she was already light-headed. She was a widow. A widow, for goodness’ sake. The future, once so certain, seemed suddenly bleak as it stretched endlessly before her. “Join me?”
“I think I’ve had enough.”
“Me, too.” But she took a long swallow of last year’s Santini Brothers premium pinot noir. Feeling dead tired, she kicked off her high heels and leaned over to rub her arch.
“I’ll help you to bed.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. But don’t fight it.” He eyed the wine bottle and scowled. “Didn’t the doctor prescribe some tranquillizers for you?”
“Haven’t taken any.”
“Don’t. Not until you’re sober.”
“I am sober,” she argued, and defiantly drained her glass.
“Come on, I’ll help you upstairs.”
“I don’t need any help,” she lied, determined to appear independent. She’d fall apart when she was alone.
“Fine.”
She started for the staircase and nearly stumbled. J.D. caught her and sighed. “Come on, Tiff. I know it’s been hard.”
His gentle words, so unexpected and sincere, caught her off guard. With a tender smile, he managed to pierce the emotional armor she’d worn since the accident. Tears gathered in her eyes for the first time since the funeral service. “I’m…I’m okay.”
“So you’ve been trying to convince everyone.”
“But I am.”
“Sure.”
She swayed again, and he picked her up, swinging her off her feet as deftly as if she weighed nothing. “Come on, Tiff, let’s put it to rest.” He carried her upstairs and down a long hallway to the bedroom she’d shared with Philip. Once there, he placed her carefully on top of the bed and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “It’s all right to break down, you know.”
Her chin wobbled and tears drizzled from her eyes.
“You were married to the guy.”
“I’ll miss him.”
His jaw hardened. “It’s only natural.”
She dabbed at her eyes and sighed. “Oh, God,” she admitted, “I’m so scared.”
He stared down at her for a long moment, then shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it over the back of a chair and lowered himself on to the bed beside her. The old mattress squeaked as if in disapproval. “You’ll be all right,” he said, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close. His breath whispered across her hair, and she let go of the storm of tears that had been building for days. Sobs racked her body as he held her, keeping her safe, whispering soft words of encouragement. She didn’t fight him but let him hold her, and by the time she fell asleep, emotionally and physically exhausted, the front of his shirt was wet with her tears and smudged by her makeup.
During the night, he’d pulled the covers around them, and when she awoke sometime before dawn, her head aching, she turned and found him staring at her with eyes a deep, smoky gray. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. He kissed her gently. Once. Twice. A third time.
Something inside her stirred. They kissed again—longer this time—and his lips were warm and gentle; his hands, when they touched her, were loving.
He didn’t ask.
And she didn’t say no.
Yet they took comfort in each other. Loving, kissing, stroking and finding solace in their shared grief.
