“Thank you.” I nod to Callie, kiss Hailey’s head one more time, and rush out of the bar and to my car. Tulane Medical Center isn’t far from the Quarter, but it feels like it takes me forever to find parking and get inside the emergency room.

Once there, I have to wait in line to talk to a receptionist.

“I’m looking for Sarah Cox,” I say immediately. “She was brought in by ambulance.”

The young man looks up her name and calls back. “What’s your name?”

“Adam Spencer.”

“I have an Adam Spencer here for Sarah Cox.” He listens and nods. “I’ll tell him. She’s just getting settled and evaluated. They’ll let you back as soon as they have her settled.”

“How long does that take?” I ask, impatient to get to her.

“It shouldn’t take too long,” he replies. “I can’t say for sure.”

I nod, and rather than sit in one of the infested waiting room seats, I pace the floor, back and forth, going out of mind with worry. If they needed an emergency contact, it must be bad.

God, could she be back there dying?

“Adam!” I spin and see Becca rushing toward me. “Oh my God, Adam.”

“Did they tell you what happened?”

“Just that she was shot.”

I stop cold. “Excuse me?”

Her eyes go wide. “Oh my God, they didn’t tell you?”

“I’m not immediate family,” I reply. “What did they tell you?”

Her eyes fill with tears. “They said that she was caught in some cross fire, and she was sh-sh-shot,” she stammers, the tears flowing now. “Just like when Kurt died. Oh God, Adam.”

“Shhhh,” I murmur and pull her in for a hug, rocking us both back and forth. When I find out who shot the gun, I’ll kill him myself.

“They said she’ll be okay,” she continues. “But what if she isn’t?”

“She’s going to be fine,” I reply, praying with everything in me that I’m right.

“Adam?” the receptionist calls from the desk. “Sarah says it’s okay for you to join her. You can go back now. I’ll buzz you through. Room nine.”

“Thank you.” I take Becca’s hand in mine and lead her through the double doors and down the hallway, searching for Sarah’s room.

“There!” Becca says, pointing at the doorway to the left, and we rush in, around the curtain, and freeze.

“Hi.” Sarah says and lifts her hand to wiggle her fingers. She’s grinning, the goofy grin of a woman on some serious painkillers. “Aww, you came to see me.”

“Are you okay?” Becca demands and lays her forehead against Sarah’s. I can’t move yet. I’m paralyzed with overwhelming relief and love and fear. I want to pull her to me and never let go.

So I’ll give Becca a minute with her first.

“I’m fine,” Sarah says. “But you’re squishing me.”

“Sorry.” Becca pulls away. “They said you were shot.”

“Well, I was grazed, really,” Sarah says with a giggle. “It’s just a flesh wound.”

“Whatever, Monty Python,” Becca replies, tears of relief falling down her cheeks. “I thought it was like when Kurt—”

“Oh no, baby,” Sarah says and kisses Becca’s hand. “I’m just fine. I’ll be busted out of here later today.”

“You promise?” Becca asks, suddenly sounding very young.

“Absolutely.”

“Okay.” Becca takes a deep breath and smiles back at me. “Where’s Hailey?”

“She’s at The Odyssey in the Quarter with my partner, Callie. They’re having a root beer tea party. You’re welcome to go pick her up.”

“I’ll do that.” She nods and wipes her cheeks dry. “I’ll crash their party, then take her home.”

“Good idea.” I hug her again. “Everything’s okay.”

She nods and leaves, and I’m left with the woman of my dreams. And she’s whole and healthy and she’s going to be okay.

“Hi there, handsome,” she says with that goofy smile.

“Hi.” I sit on the bed at her hip and drag my fingers down her flawless cheek. “You just took about ten years off my life.”

“It’s only a flesh wound,” she says again in that horrible British accent, making me smile at her.

“What is it, really?”

“It was a mess,” she says, her words only a little slurred. “’Member Mrs. LaCroix?”

“Of course.”

“Husband came back,” she says and shakes her head. “And he’s a mean bastard. Shot at us, and a bullet grazed my shoulder.” She nods to her left to show me the bandages. “I had to have stitches.”

“God, baby,” I inhale deeply and bury my face in her neck, breathing her in. “God, if it had been two inches to the right—”

“I know,” she assures me and plunges her fingers in my hair, holding on tight. “I know. But it wasn’t. And I’m okay.”

She shifts on the bed and hisses in pain.

“But it burns like a mother ducker.”

I pull back and grin. “Ducker?”

“Auto correct of the mouth. I have to have it turned on because I have a five-year-old.” She smirks. “You’re hot.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Really good drugs for this flesh wound.”