“That’s true,” Sam said. “I’m a bear on a good day, and this is most definitely not a good day.”

“It can always be worse, as you certainly know, as well as I do,” Thurston said.

“Don’t make me feel guilty for wallowing in self-pity.”

The doctor laughed. “I’ll check on you in the morning. In the meantime, you’re in the hands of my very capable residents, who’ll be by to see you. I’ve instructed them not to be starstruck by the two of you.”

“Thank you for that.”

She handed her card to Nick. “Call me if you need me. My cell number is on there.”

“Thank you for everything, Doc.”

“My pleasure.”

“Her pleasure…” After the doctor left the room, Sam crossed her arms. “What about my pleasure or lack thereof for four to six weeks?”

“I’d never let my baby go that long without pleasure.”

“This sucks, Nick. Like, sucks-the-biggest-of-gigantic-donkey-balls sucks.”

“I know, but we’ll make the best of it, like we always do. Don’t worry about anything. Four to six weeks is a blip in the grand scheme of things.”

Sam knew that was true, but the weeks stretched before her like an eternity, keeping her from her favorite things, such as chasing murdering scumbags, playing with her kids and having as much sex as possible with her gorgeous husband.

It sucked. That was her story, and she was sticking to it.

Chapter Seventeen

After a restful night blissfully provided by the good drugs, Sam found out the next morning when the physical therapists arrived that the suck had only just begun. They wanted her up, out of bed and moving when that seemed all but impossible. And the good drugs had worn off by then.

She’d sent Nick home last night to be with the kids, and he’d promised to be in as soon as he could to spend the day with her. Thankfully, he was mostly on vacation this week and had the time to hang with her. Scotty had texted earlier to say they’d be in to see her after lunch.

Sam hoped she lived that long as the therapists put her through the paces of gently moving her surgically repaired hip. They had her holding on to a chair and moving her leg in a variety of directions that hurt like a mother-effer.

By the time they settled her back in bed with promises to be back later for another round—oh joy—Sam was weak and sweaty and more pissed off than she’d been in longer than she could remember. That she couldn’t even blame this on a murdering scumbag was the worst part.

Her spirits were raised considerably when her entire squad arrived, bearing a dry-erase board that immediately improved her mood.

“You guys know what I need,” she said.