Hold Onto Me:
A Secret Baby Romance
Copyright © 2018 by Juliana Conners; All Rights Reserved.
Published and Edited by Sizzling Hot Reads
This book is a work of fiction and any portrayal of any person living or dead is completely coincidental and not intentional. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the author, other than brief excerpts for the purpose of reviews or promotion.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Brandon
Chapter 2
Juliet
Chapter 3
Brandon
Chapter 4
Brandon
Chapter 5
Brandon
Chapter 6
Juliet
Chapter 7
Brandon
Chapter 8
Juliet
Chapter 9
Brandon
Chapter 10
Juliet
Chapter 11
Brandon
Chapter 12
Juliet
Chapter 13
Brandon
Chapter 14
Juliet
Chapter 15
Brandon
Chapter 16
Brandon
Chapter 17
Juliet
Chapter 18
Brandon
Chapter 19
Brandon
Chapter 20
Juliet
Chapter 21
Brandon
Chapter 22
Juliet
Chapter 23
Juliet
Chapter 24
Juliet
Chapter 25
Brandon
Chapter 26
Juliet
Chapter 27
Juliet
Chapter 28
Juliet
Chapter 29
Brandon
Chapter 30
Brandon
Chapter 31
Juliet
Chapter 32
Juliet
Chapter 34
Juliet
Chapter 34
Juliet
Epilogue
Juliet
SEAL's Virgin: A Bad Boy Military Romance
Just Pretend – A Navy SEAL Fake Fiancé Romance
First Comes Love: A Navy SEAL Secret Baby Romance (Ramsey’s Story)
Brothers United: Bonus Novella Exclusive to the Bradford Brothers Box Set
Their Protector: An MC Outlaw Romance
Mountain Man’s Baby: A Billionaire And Virgin Romance
Wife Wanted: A Billionaire Fake Fiancé Romance
Don’t Stand So Close: A Brother’s Best Friend Romance
Caveman’s Captive
Chapter 1
Brandon
Tijeras, New Mexico. The East Mountains. February/ Winter.
Never in my life did I think I would ever agree with those Eastern monks. You know, the ones who say that if you’re looking for a spiritual practice — your place in the world — it can happen when you’re chopping wood and carrying water?
Doing the simple things can be very meaningful. The small things. The important, needful things.
Like what I’m doing right here, right now. Chopping firewood right outside my cabin. It serves an important purpose. The warmth and comfort are the tangible results of its final product – a fire – but the act of chopping the wood to make it also serves as my time to think. My time to reflect on who I am, what I’ve done, and what I’d like to do and be in the future.
You see, I wasn’t always a mountain man, like most people would probably see me as now. If I ever wandered into the heart of Albuquerque from my little mountain sanctuary, they’d think me one of those wild types. Secluded, real down-to-earth and all that, but I used to be the exact opposite.
When I served in the Navy, served my country as a SEAL, I was all over the place. I was where all the action was, whether it was already popped off, or ready to go. I was there, giving my all. Sacrificing not just my time — but also potentially my body and my life — so that other people could remain free. So that other men and women didn’t have to be consumed in fire and flame.
But now I don’t need to be an action hero. I’d be happy just being a hometown hero type. Nice and quiet. Laid-back, but meaningful.
Just like the construction job I’m going to start in a week, I think, bringing down the axe another small piece of wood, splitting it fairly evenly. As evenly as I can manage, mostly using my stronger arm. The arm that hasn’t had the muscles fried in it from running up on the bad side of an explosive.
Not hard labor, but supervising. Guiding. Making sure the guys (or gals) give it their best with each job. Under these thoughts, I’ve cleared the pieces of wood I’ve split. Moved them into my “cut” pile. I take another good-sized log and line it up under the blade. I steady it the best I can with my non-chopping arm, before taking aim.
“And to make sure they don’t fuck it up,” I mutter, bringing the ax up and down on this new piece of wood. Unlike the last one, it doesn’t go clean through. The blade gets stuck halfway down, forcing me to wheedle it through. I jam it, with a little help from my number, less-functional hand and arm.
Not the most fun thing to do — too much jiggling and jarring on this side, and I feel like I have a small firestorm in my veins — but it’s gotta be done. This may be New Mexico, and therefore, a little warmer than most places in early February, but it still gets cold at night. Which is falling fast.
Out here for no more than an hour and a half or two, the light has already dimmed from late afternoon into dusk. The evening has arrived. Which means I only have probably another half hour of chopping time before I have to lug all this wood in.
I stand up from the stump I’ve been using as my chopping block, and take a breather. Not necessarily because I’m tired, but because I’ve just remembered I might need to chop some extra wood, for a little modification I need to make on my log cabin.
Part of the railing on the stairs up to the house is getting a little rickety. And I’ve just forgotten which part I thought was leaning too much. So, I’m looking at it now, trying to remember which part I lean into a lot every time I go up and down. It’s definitely on the side of the railing that is on my stronger side.
Figures. Here I use all my inheritance — the money Mom and Dad left me when they passed away — on Grandpa’s old log cabin, and it’s the railing that still needs attention! I chuckle, remembering how Granddad used to bitch about that. How he used to say the railings were ricketier and more unsteady than he was. And he was over 100.
Granddad was always fixing it. Dad told him he should just rip it out. Replace the whole damn porch and stairs, but Granddad wasn’t having it. And I understand why. All of us kids — great grandkids, grandkids and so on — we’ve all had our names up there. Carved into bits and pieces of the railing. Especially as boys, so of course Granddad wanted to keep that. And so did I. That’s why I tried to keep it, even with all the renovating I did.
But if I don’t fix it, I’m gonna end up biting it one of these days. And I can’t risk that happening — anything unexpected happening — right before I’m due to start my new job.
I sigh, looking at my woodpile for a suitable piece. Something I can split into a small, manageable part that can be sanded down and made into a railing. Or at least a piece of connective
tissue.
I’ve just spotted the lucky winner from my firewood pile — a small, raggedy-looking piece of log — and lined it up a little off center, for just the perfect cut — when I see something even more urgent than the repairs needed on the railing.
Just through the trees, I’ve spotted a young woman sitting out there on the other side of my little screen of pine. Dressed as she is — in pale white or gray pants and a matching T-shirt — she looks like a ghost. At least she does to me.
Her dark, messy hair is windblown. Part of it seems to be an edgy style; the other part of it, my gut tells me, is the result of desperation. The frayed end of a rope.
My stomach dips, then knots. Though I can’t see the woman’s face, her posture tells me everything I need to know— she could be suicidal, not really “here.” It’s in the way her shoulders droop. Her back bends with the manner in which she hunches over the cliff there. The opening in the mountain range, almost waiting for the rock and wilderness to swallow her whole.
I drop my ax and run for the trees— or, more accurately, for her, on the other side of them. It might just be my eyes — the change in the evening light as it goes from dusk to night — but it looks like she’s wobbled forward, leaned closer to pitching herself over the edge, and I’m not gonna have that. Not while I’m around and can do something.
After all, there’s no such thing as an innocent bystander. Just a silent accomplice.
“Hey, young lady!” I shout, hoping to get some attention. Some response. “Don’t stay like that. You might fall, miss!”
Even at my semi-loud bark — the tone I used a lot when I wanted to get my fellow SEALs’ attention — the woman doesn’t respond. She just continues to face out toward the horizon, toward the drop off below, like she really is a ghost. Like she really isn’t here anymore.
When I get within arm’s reach, I think I see her starting to pitch forward again. And that’s when I make up my mind: whether she hears me or not, I’m going to let her know I see her. I’m going to snatch her from the precipice, before she does something she can’t take back.
I put my arm around her small, frail body and pull back.
And that’s when my ghost girl decides to come to life.
Chapter 2
Juliet
From my daze — my willful and mindless descent into my inner world where there is nothing and no one to break my heart — I’m suddenly yanked back. Pulled away from my bleak interior. One that matches the steady, skeletal horizon. The foggy, impure light of the twilight amongst the trees. The darkened edges, tugging at my heart.
But those are nothing compared to the strong, capturing arm I feel wrapped around me and pulling me away from the cliff. Away from the edge. In that moment, all my instincts kick in. All the ones my dad taught me.
Sweetie, while I hope I’ll always be there to protect you, God knows I may not be. So, you’ll have to be able to protect yourself. Stand on your own two feet. This is a world run by men, sweetheart, and not all men are kind. Not all men are so service minded like myself. They will serve themselves and use and abuse you if you let them. Especially the lonely ones.
Now that someone is pulling me, I can’t help but think, It looks like one of these men you mentioned might’ve found me, Dad.
Despite the welling tears I can feel starting in my eyes, I immediately struggle against him. Slam my elbow into whatever I can reach fastest — his chest or his stomach — and hope something lands. It does, but it doesn’t do anything, except make this stranger grab ahold of me even tighter.
“Hey, hey!” says my assailant, “I’m not trying to hurt you, miss. I was just asking whether you were okay.”
Despite his words, I’ve already been kicked off into my “zone.” My fight or flight mode, which Dad built into me, and which only makes me fight harder. I turn — twist — in his grasp, so I can land another hit on him. This time, I go for his arm. The thing gripping me.
I punch at it the way none of the girls I grew up with would have the strength — or the guts — to do. It’s hard. Fast. Merciless. “Let me go. I’m fine!”
As I say this, I’m practically screaming. Following the wired feeling in every nerve, every muscle, preparing to go over the cliff with him if I have to. Though I wasn’t ever thinking of jumping, like he obviously thought I was.
I punch again, though this one sloppier. “If you don’t let go of me, I’ll bite you. I’m not kidding!”
The third time’s the charm. As I strike his arm again — channeling all my energy into his elbow/forearm area — he lets go, though I’m not sure whether it’s from any actual pain I’ve caused him (that arm looks big and bulky enough to rival an elephant’s trunk or leg), or because he wants to avoid an incident. Whether that incident would be me putting my teeth in him, or calling the cops, either one seems to be enough to scare this deep-woods creeper.
With him no longer holding me back, I turn the rest of the way, determined to get a good look at him. Mostly for ID purposes. Especially if he turns out to be anything but my Savior. More like my worst nightmare, maybe.
“I’m fine,” I say again, looking at every inch of him. His tall bulky frame. Arms and chest muscles so thick and toned, it’s obvious he doesn’t spend time with people. Social people don’t have muscles like that.
His dark, unruly hair strikes me as intimidating, but not immediately a threat. His eyes, looking like two polished pieces of obsidian in the light, are warm. They soften, like two burning coals under something he sees in me.
He is hot. I can’t deny it. His body looks like he spends hours every day in the gym, but it’s probably the result of chopping wood and moving rocks or something. His chest, which is peeking out through the opening in his unzipped winter coat, is chiseled. From what I can see of his arms under the jacket, they look muscular and strong, like he could just pick me up and throw me over his shoulder, even though I’m no dainty petite girl. I remind myself not to get distracted by his looks.
“You looked like you were about to take quite a dive there, miss.” His words are soft, though heavy. Edged with a sorrow I can’t quite place, and a history I don’t care to know. If he’s out like this in the woods, it can’t be good. “Didn’t want you to do something permanent in a world of temporary,” he whispers.
“Just leave me alone,” I say, feeling chilled by both the air and his words. I hadn’t had the intention of throwing myself off the cliff, but I suppose I’m in an abyss. I have been since that day. Since those people showed up on my doorstep. “I’m fine,” I add, but I know I’m not fine. I will never be fine.
Thing is, I will never be fine. Not after what happened to my world.
Something I’m not going to share with Lonely Guy, I think, folding my arms over my chest, and making plans to get around him and escape from this once-special spot. I used to share it with my dad, but now Lonely Guy’s fucking it up by being in my space, with his stalking of me, which he must’ve been doing for quite some time to think I was about ready to commit suicide over the cliff.
“Thanks for nothing,” I say, letting them hear my feet on the pebbles. The loose rocks. Dad and I collected these things when I was little. Agates.
The thought is as fleeting as it is vicious, mostly because my unwanted Savior pipes up with another offer. “It’s almost nightfall,” he says, “it’s gonna get cold. Well, colder than it already is, miss, and I don’t want you wandering around out here without someplace to go.”
As he speaks, I can hear him fussing with his big coat, zippering it. His blue roly-poly sleeping-bag winter jacket. “Do you live around here, miss?”
I don’t answer. Another thing dad taught me. Don’t volunteer information to someone you’re not sure is a friend. And even then, keep one or two cards to your chest. Giving people too much information is dangerous, because they can use it as a weapon to hurt you.
I take my dad’s advice. I don’t fall for this stranger’s bait. I just keep walking in one direction. I
think it’s the way I came in, and I should know because I used to go all the time with Dad when we came here. But my mind feels chaotic and confused, so I’m not exactly sure.
“If you have somewhere that you live close by, that’s fine,” says Lonely Guy, following after me. Still, I hear him fiddling with his coat. But it doesn’t feel real to me anymore. Just a distant buzzing. Warm, fuzzy static. Which isn’t all that different from what I’ve been dealing with lately.
“I’ll gladly take you home if you’ve got somewhere else to go that’s warm and safe, miss,” he says. I hear more footsteps behind me. “But I’m not letting you alone until you tell me something about what your situation is.”
I slow down my pace. I stop, but I don’t answer. Instead, I just hang my head, tense my shoulders. Let my once happy and vivacious hairstyle ebb around my face and eyes like all the tattered memories— parts of my personality I’ll never get back.
“If you don’t have a place nearby, or it’s not a place you want to go back to right now, I understand, miss,” he says gently, stopping just short putting his hands on me again. “I won’t ask you why, but as a man with a nice warm cabin a little ways away and an extra room, I can’t in good conscience let you fend for yourself or stay out in the cold, no matter what you’re going through. It’s not my way. Now how I was raised.”
Something about his words bring a swirl of emotion into a space I’ve been trying to keep vacant, featureless and faceless since that day, but he’s cracked it open a little. And now I’m not sure what I feel. Scared? Desperate? Happy? Swaying on my feet a little, I feel something I’m not expecting. Warm need. Horniness. But in a vacuum. In a place that might simultaneously explode and implode, if he came too close.
“Do you wanna come to my place?” Gently, he brings the tips of a few fingers to my shoulder, but only enough to make sure I know where he is— so as not to surprise me, though I still flinch under his touch. My muscles tighten, preparing to go on the attack, the offensive. Unlike last time though, I manage to control my impulse. Not all the way, but enough to keep from slamming some part of my body into his again.
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