I stared at the window a nanosecond before I crouched down behind the island as more gunfire sounded and it penetrated my frozen-with-terror mind that it sounded like return fire.

As the gunfight continued, I came to my senses, scuttled in a crouch to the landline phone, reached up, grabbed it, hit the on button, then dialed 911.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“Gunshots outside my house,” I whispered.

“Where are you, ma’am?”

I started to give my address as I heard noise at my front door and I stopped, staring through my house at it, paralyzed with fear.

“Ma’am,” the operator called, “please confirm you’re safe and your address.”

“Someone’s—”

The door opened and Brock walked in, his overcoat on one side dusted with snow. He turned, slammed the door, locked it, and prowled to me, holding his gun in his hand.

I didn’t, as I usually did, admire him in his work clothes. Today, a nice, thick black turtleneck (one, incidentally, I bought him for Christmas and I say one because I bought him three). Jeans that weren’t nearly as faded as his normal jeans. A great black belt that the sweater was tucked behind (and that was the only part of the sweater tucked, I didn’t know if he did it on purpose or what but for some reason I thought it looked awesome). And a handsome, tailored, black wool overcoat (which, also incidentally, Laura and Jill got together to buy him for Christmas and on him it was the bomb).

Although his work attire was only a nuance away from his nonwork attire, when he got home, after greeting me, he never hesitated in taking it off, putting on faded jeans, no belt, and, now that we were in the dead of winter, either a faded long-sleeved tee or a thermal.

Now he prowled through the house toward me and I didn’t notice how hot he looked in his work clothes. I only noticed the dusting of snow on his overcoat and the gun in his hand.

How did he get that dusting of snow?

“Ma’am?” I heard the 911 operator call. “Are you with me?”

“That emergency?” Brock growled when he got to me, staring down at me still crouched by my kitchen counter.

I didn’t respond. He bent and pulled the phone out of my hand and put it to his ear.

“This is Detective Brock Lucas. I was just fired on and exchanged fire with an unidentified male…”

He kept talking but my mind blanked of everything but his words repeating in my head.

I was just fired on and exchanged fire…

I was just fired on and exchanged fire…

I was just fired on and exchanged fire…

I straightened as he continued to growl into the phone, his eyes on me, but my thoughts were still elsewhere.