Chapter Two

Complications? What in the hell does that mean? Thought Woody, as he began to pace again. What was taking so much time?

The waiting was killing him. Slowly, but surely, with each tick of the clock, it was killing him. He had too much at stake here for anything to happen. Too much at stake with his mind and soul.

Too much at stake with his heart.

She had it, you know. His heart, that is. She had it for a long time. As a matter of fact, she had him from her first hello. He had been fascinated by her. Her mind, her spunk, her knowledge of forensics.

The tragedy that shaped her life held his special attention, because it mirrored so much of his own. No mother. No father. All each one of them had in the past was themselves to depend on. But not now. Now they had each other.

Jordan had worn her past on her sleeve. It was apparent and as big as a train wreck. He hadn't been so open about his past. His mother's cancer. His father's murder. Jordan had never suspected. Not once. Until one night, when he had gone to the bar to help her close up and walk her to her car. She had been in the back, working and didn't know he had come in. She came out later, thinking everyone had gone home. When she emerged from her office, she had been crying, and was surprised to see Woody. He had been concerned about her tears. He had held her and gently dried her face, asking her what was wrong. In a moment of un-Jordan-like weakness, she had confessed how much she missed her father, how she didn't know where he was....and how lonesome she felt. He had just held her and let her cry for a while, and told her how he knew just what she was feeling. She had pulled back out of his arms and asked how could he? It was then, in quiet voices and sometimes whispers to fight off the tears, that he had told her all about his mother's death and his father's murder – that his dad had been a cop, too, and was shot in the back.

How his life had never been the same....about Cal....about not really having any home any more...until now. How Boston had become his home....and how she made it seem warm. Made him want to stay.

She had blushed and said she had no idea...how sorry she was for him...and for herself. He had just held her longer, neither one of them wanting to let go of the other...somehow being together then had made everything easier...just for that moment.

Woody checked his wristwatch again. Two hours. Two hours had passed since she went upstairs for surgery. When would they know anything?

When would he get to hold her again?

"Any word on Jordan?" Nigel asked, as he entered the emergency room and sat down with Woody and Garret.

"None. It's been about two hours, so it should be soon," Garret replied.

"I hope so. I don't know how much more of this I can take," Woody quietly said.

"She'll be fine, mate. She's a strong lass. It's just a matter of time before the doctor comes out and tells us all is well," Nigel answered.

Time...there it was again. Woody was getting more than weary of waiting. His stomach felt leaden and his head had a dull roar in it. He hurt...mentally and physically. And not for the first time concerning Jordan.

He had taken a lot from the lady. He had been shot at, tasered, blasted with bug spray, and driven to distraction. He had nearly pulled all of his hair several times, over her. She wouldn't follow orders. More specifically, she wouldn't follow his orders. More than once, when they had been out on a case together, he had told her to "stay put – stay right where you are," only to find a few minutes later either she was right behind him or had moved off the screen of his visibility.

And nearly gotten hurt or killed. Or rescued his butt from a world of trouble.

And he couldn't be mad at her, no matter what. No matter how hard he tried. One look at her eyes and he'd melt. That was one of his problems. Her eyes. Those eyes. Those eyes that could be honey-colored when she was playful, or as warm as whiskey when she was in deep thought.

Or turn nearly as dark as chocolate with passion.

It was that last color that had gotten his attention lately. This past weekend, as a matter of fact. It had been the usual date for them on Fridays...she'd get off work and go to the bar. She always worked Friday nights. He'd go home, change, do his grocery shopping and whatever, showing up at the bar between nine and ten. Only last Friday night, he was late. He didn't get there until almost closing time. Jordan didn't say anything, but just gave him a look. He thought she was mad at his tardiness. After everyone had left, she had told him, "No. I wasn't mad because you were late. Everybody runs behind sometimes. I was worried that something had happened to you." And she gave him such a look of meek rebuke that he felt two inches tall. She had worried. About him.

"I'm sorry," he had said. "I should have called...I just didn't think..."

She had shaken her head. "No, you didn't...because you didn't know I'd worry. But I do. Worry that is. A lot. About you. When you go out on a call – are you wearing Kevlar? Who's backing you up? Are they any good? I worry, Woody. I worry about you."

He had been surprised at her heartfelt admission. He was even more surprised at the slight tremor that edged her voice. He had helped her close, wiping down the tables and sweeping the floor. When they finally finished, he had walked her to her car. "So...can I make it up to you — the being late and not calling?" he asked. She had raised an eyebrow at him, giving him a questioning look. "I was thinking maybe breakfast?"

She had sighed and leaned against him. "That sounds wonderful. But I am honestly just too tired, Wood. It's been a hell of a week, and all I can think of is sleep. I'm afraid I wouldn't be very good company."

On impulse he had said, "Then come back to my apartment and sleep. When you wake up, I'll cook breakfast."

To his surprise, she agreed. "That sounds good," she replied and followed him home in her car. He had gotten them both upstairs and she immediately laid down on the couch and fell fast asleep. He had covered her with a blanket and had thoughts about putting her with him in his bed, but decided against it. That might make things uncomfortable for her. So they both had slept until nearly dawn the next morning when a thunderstorm had rolled through.

Woody had no clue that Jordan was afraid of thunderstorms. Not until he heard her get up...and look out the window. He had gone to check on her...only to find her frightened. He persuaded her to come to bed with him so she wouldn't be by herself...A few hours of holding her would be a nice way to start the day, he had thought. She had climbed in his bed and snuggled close. Eventually they both woke back up to a tangle of legs, and an acute awareness of each other. She was nearly on top of him. He had grinned up at her and dared her to kiss him good morning.

A dare was as good as the deed with Jordan. She had leaned down to brush her lips against his, something he was sure she meant to be a brief caress, that almost immediately turned into something hotter than either of them intended. He had slid one of his hands up to cradle her head, holding her to him, and the other slid around her waist...and suddenly the storm outside was forgotten, as the one inside took over their consciousness.

And when it was over, he was afraid he had ruined the best thing that had ever happened to him. He had kissed her and pulled away from her, still struggling to catch his breath. She had gazed up at him and ran her fingers through his hair. Her eyes...her eyes had been dark...the same color as rich chocolate, and just as sweet. He couldn't help himself. He had whispered, so low that he wasn't sure she even heard it, "I love you, Jordan."

She had sighed, pulled his face down to hers and said, "I love you, too."

And breakfast was forgotten until well after lunch time.

Woody checked his wristwatch one more time. Two and a half hours.