Page 68 of High Intensity

Jillian

“I amfine.”

He’s grumbled that same line several times over the past hour or so, and his irritation is starting to get on my nerves.

My body is shaking and tears threaten when finally, the dam breaks.

“What do you mean you’re fine? You arenotfine. You were shot and you have a gash in your head from flying glass.”

“It’s just a flesh wound,” he counters predictably.

“A flesh wound? You’re not Arnold Schwarzenegger. You could’ve been dead. So I want you to sit here, wait for them to stitch you up, and stop being such a damnman!”

He tries to grab the finger I’m poking his chest with, but I’m not done.

“Do you know how hard it is for me to be sitting in a hospital—again? To see someone else I care about bleeding? Do you realize how hard I am fighting not to run out of here, away from you, because the thought of what might have happened terrifies me so much, I’m not sure my heart can handle another hole.”

Suddenly he’s there, all around me. My face is pressed into his chest, as his arms surround me and his mouth is by my ear, mumbling soothing words while I completely lose my shit in the hospital emergency room.

“I’m sorry. Don’t cry, Jilly.Shit. I’m so sorry.”

Good God, what is wrong with me?

I’m mortified. Not only do I embarrass myself by going ballistic on an injured, bleeding man in full view and hearing distance of the entire emergency room staff and patients, but worse; I’m embarrassing him and making him feel guilty.

Jesus, I’m a basket case.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he says when I try to worm out of his hold.

“I’ve gotta go,” I sob.

Apparently, the wrong thing to say, because the next thing I know my face is once more buried in his shirt as I’m lifted off my feet, and hear Wolff grumble, “I need someplace private.”

“Second door on your left,” an anonymous voice responds.

It’s not until I hear the click of a door closing, he loosens his hold on me. As soon as my feet touch the floor, I step out of his arms.

We’re in a small treatment room with just a hospital bed and one stool. Wolff is blocking the only exit, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Just us in here, sweetheart. Let’s slow down a minute and take a breath.”

“I’m a mess,” I blurt out.

“Well…so am I, so you’re in good company,” he confesses, taking the wind out of my sails.

“You? How are you a mess?”

“When that guy pulled open your door and reached in for you, I’ve never been so fucking scared in my life.”

He unfolds his arms and runs his hands through his long hair.

His hat got lost in the shuffle, and is probably still somewhere in his truck, which we left at the side of the road when EMTs and Jonas—who’d arrived not long after first responders got there—insisted Wolff be taken by ambulance. I wasn’t about to let him go to the hospital alone, and hopped in there with him after Jonas promised he’d take care of the dogs.

“Look,” he continues, his head still hanging low but his eyes fixed on me. “I’m new at this…whatever is happening with us. I’m practical, normally lead with my head and operate on training, and feelings don’t really come into play, but that’s obviously not the case anymore.”

“Obviously?” I echo. I have an idea what he is talking about but I want to be sure.

It takes him a moment to respond, and by the time he does, I’m squirming under the intense look in his eyes.

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