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Hannah drew in a shocked breath.
He felt real.
He felt alive.
Her knees buckled, but before she could crumple, she was being swung up into Tom’s arms. He carried her inside easily, even pausing to balance her in one arm while he scooped up the contents of her bag. He wasn't walking like he was in pain—had she imagined the whole phone call thing?
In the living room, he set her down on the sofa and squatted in front of her. If she hadn’t seen the small grimace, she really would have believed the whole thing had been a figment of her imagination.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Me?” she asked—or possibly screeched. She would have been more embarrassed about her meltdown, but she had already been running on empty and then finding out Tom had been shot and driving here in a panicked blur had her at the end of her rope. “Areyouokay? I thought you were shot.” Her eyes were roaming his body, searching for his wound.
“It was just a flesh wound,” he assured her, reaching out to hold her, but she swatted his hands away.
“Where?” she demanded.
“Really, Hannah, I promise, it’s nothing. Just a scratch.”
“Where?” she repeated. She wasn't going to be coddled and kept in the dark.
“My leg. But the bullet just skimmed me. It didn't even need stitches.”
Hannah stopped listening after the wordleg. Instead, she scrambled to her feet, dragging Tom up with her and began to unbuckle his belt, tossing it aside and sliding his pants down his legs.
When she saw the bandage wrapped around his left thigh, she dropped down to her knees.
Her husband had been shot.
The word echoed in her head.
She could have lost him.
What if the bullet had hit his inner thigh instead of his outer thigh? Then instead of just skimming across his flesh, it might have nicked his femoral artery, and he could have bled out before help ever arrived.
“You keep that up, and I'm going to have you naked upstairsin bed before you can blink,” Tom said wryly. His eyes were on her hands which were convulsively rubbing his leg above the top of the crisp white bandage.
She glanced up and saw that his body was clearly interested in what was about the last thing on her mind right now. He was such a man. “How can you even be thinking about sex after you were just shot?” she asked as tears began to well up in her eyes, spilling out onto her cheeks.
“Because I’m really okay and I have a very beautiful wife.” He took hold of her hands and drew her up to her feet, wrapping an arm around her waist and settling her against his chest.
“Tom, what happened?” she asked as another shudder rippled through her body.
He tightened his hold on her, one hand stroking the length of her spine, the other settled against the back of her head, rubbing small circles. “Chloe and I were at the house of a suspect. We thought we heard cries for help inside, so we broke in. Once we got inside, we found out it was only a cat. We were checking out the house anyway just to be safe when the man returned. I identified myself as FBI, but he pulled out a weapon and shot at me. Then he went running off. Chloe followed him, but he tried to ram her car with his, and she ended up crashing.”
“Is she okay?”
“Yes.”
“And you're sureyou'reokay?”
“Positive,” he assured her, pressing his lips to the top of her head.
His assurances did little to calm her wildly thumping heart. “I'm sorry. I shouldn’t be crying all over you.Youwere the one who was shot.” She sniffled and tried to get control of herself. She wasn't usually such a mess, but anything to do with guns—especially guns in conjunction with her husband—made her lose her mind a little. She really was going to have to try to get ahandle on her phobia.
“Shh, don’t be sorry,” he soothed, catching her tears on his thumb and brushing them away. “I'm sorry you were scared. I wanted to go to the store right away so you could see for yourself that I was fine, but my leg was a little sore to try driving.”
“You should be keeping off it,” she said, pushing him down onto the sofa, ready to descend into full-on fussing mode. But Tom hooked an arm around her waist and brought her down with him, laying her on top of his body. “I’ll hurt you,” she protested.
