“Here I come.”

He helped her off the toilet like that was no big deal, but it was mortifying.

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I’m so fucking pissed with myself about this. It’s bad enough when I get hurt on the job, but this was just so stupid.”

Nick kissed away her tears. “Accidents happen to the best of us, babe.”

“When do they happen to you?” she asked as he helped her to the sink to brush her teeth.

“I had that thing with the ribs playing hockey last winter, remember?”

“One time. It happens to me monthly. I’ve got too much shit to do to deal with this. We’ve got a serial rapist on the loose who just killed someone.” The whole thing was infuriating. “How am I supposed to get downstairs?”

“The ushers are bringing up a wheelchair.”

“You can’t let me be photographed in that chair.”

“I told them to clear the area.”

“My hero,” she said tearfully as she kissed him.

“Don’t worry about anything. Let’s just rule out a fracture, and then you can go about your business making everyone’s day.”

“That’s my specialty, especially when they’re murdering scumbags.”

Chapter Fourteen

Gary, one of the ushers, was waiting in their sitting room when Nick walked her out.

“What about the kids?”

“I told Eli we’re leaving for a bit and that he’s on duty for when the twins wake up. Scotty will sleep for hours yet.”

“Sorry to hear you’re feeling poorly, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Gary,” Sam said as Nick placed a pillow on the seat and then helped her into it.

Sam gasped when her backside contacted the pillow. She wanted to cry from the pain as much as the inconvenience of being injured.

Nick insisted on being the one to push her to the elevator and then to the South Portico, where the Secret Service had positioned SUVs to block the view of the door. They smoothly delivered her to the back seat and shut the door before anyone noticed them.

“I never thought I’d be thankful to a blizzard,” Sam said when they were on their way in a five-car motorcade, which was small in comparison to the usual production. “Otherwise, we never would’ve gotten away with you pushing me out the door in a wheelchair.”

“Very true. The media scrum is taking a snow day.” He looked out the window as they made their way slowly to the White House gates.

It seemed that would be the theme of her day—slowly. She wanted to scream with aggravation, but when the car hit a bump, she wanted to scream from the pain. There wasn’t another car to be found on 17th Street, which was piled high with snow on either side. After flipping open her phone, she called Malone.

“Morning,” he said gruffly.