Page 26 of Fighting for Julia (Laguna Beach Cops #6)

LAGUNA BEACH, CALIFORNIA

Miguel and Julia

The gunfight with General Escobar’s men and their subsequent escape from the hospital took their toll on Miguel. He slumped in a chair at the airport while they waited for their flight to be called, chest heaving as he had trouble breathing.

At his request, Julia called Brielle to explain why they were on their way to Laguna Beach. “Miguel is in bad shape, Brielle. He caught Covid and?—”

“Bring him straight to my house,” Brielle cut her off.

“What about the kids? We don’t want them to get sick.”

“The kids are on a weekend camping trip with their grandparents in the redwoods.”

“Even the baby?”

Brielle chuckled. “The girls wouldn’t go without their little brother. Don’t worry, Julia. I have plenty of room for you and Miguel. We’ll take good care of him, won’t we?”

Julia glanced at Miguel’s pallor above his mask. As a coughing spasm hit him, he held his wounded side and let out a small groan. “Yes, we will.”

“Finnigan will meet you at the John Wayne Airport. Don’t worry,” Brielle said again. “Miguel will be okay.”

Julia gripped Miguel’s hot hand. “We’ll be home soon, baby.” The endearment slipped out, and she blushed beneath her mask.

He didn’t reply but squeezed her hand. Words weren’t necessary. The expression in his gold-flecked eyes communicated far more eloquently.

Miguel slept for the duration of the flight to California. By the time they landed at John Wayne Airport, he’d grown so weak and feverish that Julia had to support him with her arm around his waist. He leaned heavily upon her.

When Marcus Finnigan, an LA SWAT officer who was married to Tawny and worked with Brielle, saw Miguel’s condition, he jumped out of his car to help him into the passenger’s seat. “Jesus Christ, Miguel! I should drive you straight to the hospital.”

“No!” Miguel gasped. “I’ll be all right. Please, Finn. Just take me to Brielle’s house.”

Finnigan broke the speed limit and wove in between cars to get to Brielle’s house. Though they sped past Laguna Beach cops, none stopped them. Julia assumed they recognized Finnigan and Miguel.

When they pulled into the driveway of a huge multi-level glass and cement structure built into the cliffs above the Pacific Ocean, Brielle came out to meet them. She greeted Julia and turned to gaze at Miguel, who still sat in the car, unable to move.

“Oh, my God, River,” she said in a soft voice, using his nickname. “Finnigan, help him.”

“On it.” He practically lifted Miguel out of the car as if he weighed no more than a sack of potatoes and set him on his feet. Finnigan looped one of Miguel’s arms around his brawny neck and held him steady as they shuffled toward the open front door.

“Take him to the guest bedroom upstairs,” Brielle directed.

Miguel collapsed on the queen-sized bed. His teeth chattered as he shook from chills. Julia removed his shoes and arranged the bed sheet and comforter around him. Brielle went into the bathroom to retrieve a digital thermometer. She aimed it at Miguel’s forehead.

“It’s one hundred and two. I’ll get some Tylenol. Julia, it might be a good idea to apply cold compresses to help bring down his fever.”

“His antibiotics are in my backpack. He missed taking them today.”

Miguel managed a wan smile. “Be careful. She’s carrying grenades and smoke canisters, and God knows what else in her backpack. Although, I have no idea where she got them.”

Finnigan let out a laugh. “She’s my type of woman.”

Miguel’s smile faded into a scowl. “You’re a married man, Finn. Back off. Julia is my woman.”

Brielle reappeared with the Tylenol and a cup of water. She’d heard the banter between Finnigan and Miguel and shot Julia an amused expression as he swallowed the tablets.

“He’s delirious from the fever and doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Julia explained.

Finnigan and Brielle shared a knowing glance and burst into laughter.

“Yeah, right,” Finnigan drawled. He patted Miguel’s shoulder. “You’re in good hands, buddy. I’ll check on you tomorrow. Bri, is there anything else I can do before I head home?”

“No. Thanks, Finnigan. I’ll see you at the command center in the morning.”

“Julia, nice to meet you.”

“You, too, Finnigan.” She used his last name because that’s how Miguel and Brielle addressed him.

Before Brielle left Julia alone with Miguel, she said, “The bathroom connects to a smaller guest room. You’ll find it comfortable with everything you need.

I have to be at the SWAT command center by seven, but the kitchen is fully stocked.

Please feel free to help yourself to anything you want.

Good night, Julia.” Like Finnigan, she patted Miguel’s shoulder. “Good night, sweet friend.”

Miguel whispered, “Good night.”

“Thank you, Brielle,” Julia added. “I appreciate your kindness and hospitality.”

Brielle smiled. “No thanks necessary. This is what we do for each other.”

Julia nodded. She was beginning to understand just how deep the friendship ran between the Laguna Beach cops and their wives. “Good night.”

Although Julia yearned for a warm shower and to crawl into bed, she couldn’t think about herself right now.

Her primary concern was to bring down Miguel’s fever and try to keep him hydrated.

In the pretty bathroom decorated in shades of light and dark blue and complemented with beach-themed fixtures, Julia found a plush royal blue washcloth and soaked it with cold water.

She returned to Miguel’s bedside where he lay half-unconscious.

She raised his head long enough to give him his antibiotics and began to apply the cold washcloth to his hot face.

“Mm…that feels nice,” he murmured with his eyes closed.

“Shh. Don’t speak. Go to sleep. I’ve got you, Miguel.”

Because she couldn’t sing, Julia hummed what she remembered of the Spanish lullaby Miguel had sung to her. She hoped it soothed and comforted him as it had for her at the worst moment of her life.

For the next couple of hours, Julia bathed Miguel’s face, hands, and arms with cold water.

When she took his temperature, his fever had dropped three degrees.

Relieved by this positive improvement, Julia let out a sigh and rose from the bed.

She went into the bathroom, luxuriated in a warm shower, washed her hair with sweet-smelling shampoo, and dried her body with a fluffy royal blue towel that matched the washcloth.

Exiting into the adjoining bedroom, she separated her and Miguel’s clean clothes from their dirty ones and slipped into a pair of cotton sleep pants and a thin white tank top.

Julia found a blow-dryer in the bathroom and dried her hair.

Instead of crashing in the adjoining bedroom, she curled next to Miguel.

She rationalized her decision by convincing herself she could aid him if he needed her, but it was more for her.

Because his declaration that she was his woman, even if spoken while feverish, sparked reciprocal feelings in her.

Miguel Rivera was her man.

Julia fell asleep listening to Miguel’s labored breathing.

In the morning, something startled her awake.

The sound of a garbage truck lumbering down the street.

When she became aware of how warm and cozy she felt, Julia’s heart skipped several beats.

She lay with her head on Miguel’s chest, and one of her legs was thrown across his.

His arm snaked around her, holding her against him, and his hand rested on her hip.

She relaxed, enjoying the intimacy between them.

As she closed her eyes, Miguel murmured in her ear, “Is this real, or am I hallucinating?”

His husky voice sent a thrill through her. “It’s real.”

“You’re risking your health by being this close to me.”

Julia raised her head to stare into his eyes now dulled by his fever. “I know. It’s reckless, but I didn’t want to leave you alone. How are you feeling?”

“Honestly? Pretty crappy.”

Julia rose reluctantly from the bed to fetch the thermometer. She pointed it at Miguel’s forehead. “Your temperature is holding steady at ninety-nine.” She shook two Tylenol tablets and the antibiotics out of their bottles, handed the medication to Miguel, and passed a cool glass of water to him.

“Thank you, Jules.”

His nickname pleased her, and she smiled at him. “I’ll get dressed and head downstairs to make something for breakfast. Do you feel like solid food or soup?”

“Soup.”

“All right. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Julia threw on a clean pair of jeans and a plain yellow T-shirt. She carried an armload of dirty clothes to the laundry room, tossed them into a large washing machine, and started a cycle.

In the kitchen Julia discovered a container of frozen homemade chicken soup thawing on the granite counter.

Next to it sat a box of saltine crackers, chamomile tea bags, and two coffee mugs.

Julia spooned some of the chicken soup into a bowl and set it in the microwave to heat.

While she waited, she made a cup of hot tea for Miguel and popped a K-cup into the Keurig to make coffee for herself.

Her stomach growled, so she scrambled a couple of eggs, toasted two slices of bread, and placed everything on a serving tray that Brielle had thoughtfully left on the kitchen table. When she reached the bedroom and pushed open the door that had been left ajar, Julia almost dropped the tray.

Fresh from a recent shower, Miguel stepped out of the bathroom.

He wore only a royal blue towel around his waist. Julia’s mouth went dry.

She stared at his broad, muscular chest that tapered into a well-defined six-pack.

Imagining what lay beneath the towel caused her heart to pound and her pulse to race.

Julia raised her eyes. Despite his illness, Miguel regarded her with a lazy expression that indicated they were sharing similar thoughts.