Page 82 of High Intensity

She never moves in my arms, and I’m not sure how long we sit like that. At some point I may even have dozed off, but then I notice—glancing at the window—the sun is sinking lower in the sky already. I have four dogs I need to get home to, but I hate leaving her here.

She’s asleep when I carefully ease myself out from under her. I set the tray on the nightstand so it’s right there for her, and write her a quick note.

Then I tuck her under the covers as best I can, lift Nugget under my arm, and stick my note under the corner of the tray, so it’s the first thing she sees.

Hey, Sweetheart, I had to run home to look after the dogs (I’m afraid their bladders are about to explode), but I PROMISE I will be back in the morning, and will bring Peanut too!

If you need me for any reason, my number is 406-554-3911.

See you in the morning.

xox Jillian

I take one last look and slip out the door.

Twenty-Four

Wolff

“You’re up and about early.”

Nella walks in from the kitchen area with a tray of pastries, a welcoming smile on her face.

Fletch’s wife does all the baking for one of our local coffee shops, Bean There, which is why I stopped by extra early this morning.

“I didn’t want to miss the boat like last time.”

If you stop in too late in the morning, chances are all the good pastries are gone, as I discovered at eight thirty in the morning a few months ago when I was looking for some fresh croissants.

“Are you picking up for the ranch?”

I shake my head and clarify, “I’m taking someone breakfast.”

“Ah, the woman who made you whistle.”

Nella smiles, but doesn’t ask any nosy questions. Fletch obviously shared. Bunch of old maids.

I watch her fold together a good-sized box and grab a pair of tongs.

“So what would you like?”

“I was just going to grab some croissants.”

“You should give them a choice. Add something sweet, maybe something savory,” she suggests, pointing at the display case which is overflowing with baked goods.

“Sure. What would you recommend?”

Ten minutes later I walk out with two designer coffees I don’t much care for, and a massive box of croissants and assorted pastries I can’t remember the names of.

When I pull up to Jillian’s house, it’s still pretty much dark outside. It’s only seven; sunrise won’t be for another twenty minutes or so. The house looks dark too. Dammit.

I may be a little early.

In my defense, I come bearing breakfast AND coffee.

A few moments later I see lights go on in the house, including in the front entrance. By the time I walk up the steps, the front door swings open.

Jillian is wearing a pair of leggings and an oversized sweater about ten sizes too big for her. Other than that, she looks like she just rolled out of bed, the creases of her pillow still imprinted on her cheek.

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