Need You for Mine (Heroes of St. Helena)

by Marina Adair

  Only, before she reached the shop, she noticed the Closed sign hanging in the window. She also noticed a big, shiny, black ego-trip with mud tires, a lift kit, and a mountain bike secured to its top.

  The truck was parked directly under the town’s flapping banner—which read COME FOR THE ADVENTURE, STAY FOR THE PEOPLE—and practically on top of her Mazda’s bumper. Not only did it have a toolbox in it’s bed, the box appeared to be unlocked—and it’s owner nowhere in sight.

  A private person by nature, Avery would normally ask for permission to rifle through someone’s personal affects, but since no one was around to grant nor deny her access, Avery reminded herself that living loud required no permission. So she pulled her journal from her purse. It was made of a buttery leather and had a vintage map of the world burnt into the cover.

  Avery lightly traced a finger over the branded message on the bottom edge.

  “Don’t go where life leads, lead your life in the direction you want to go,” she whispered, her voice thickening with emotion.

  Brie Hart, a friend from Living for Love, a local bereavement group Avery belonged to, had given it to her the day Avery started dialysis. She was still in shock over the news that at twenty-six she needed a new kidney when she’d met Brie, a two-time transplant survivor, and the two became immediate friends.

  Brie had given Avery the courage to hope and the strength to fight, even when Avery felt as if she were losing every battle. More importantly, Brie had given her something to fight for and someone to fight with.

  When times got rough, and treatments got longer, they scoured travel magazines at the hospital together, clipping out pictures of all of the places they’d go and the things they’d do when treatment was over. It had all started with an article on an amazing island in the Pacific that had endless beaches, bottomless daiquiris, and a surplus of suntanned men, but as time went on the clippings grew, and little mottos for life and affirmations about enjoying the journey were added to the pile, until Brie had pasted them all in the journal.

  Avery carefully thumbed through the pages, her eyes burning as she flipped past the map of Disneyland showing all of the hidden Mickey ears in the park, the island off New Zealand where Tasmanian devils lived, skipping over the article about the jellybean factory in California that gave out free samples, and stopping when she found what she was looking for. Brie’s favorite saying.

  LIVE LOUD, WITHOUT FEAR AND WITHOUT APOLOGY

  Brie was the strongest person Avery had ever met, yet in the end she’d somehow lost the war—and Avery had lost her biggest alley and her closest friend. So after the funeral, she’d taken that journal and made a list of things she’d do if she weren’t afraid. Some were hers, some Brie’s, and others were in honor of the women she’d met at Living for Love, who would never get the chance.

  Yet there she was, just cresting the one-year mark, and there were more blank boxes than check marks in the column.

  Avery scanned the street for again for passersby. With the streets empty, she suppressed the urge to jump up and down because that kind of motion in the harness would end badly, and instead reached over the side to play with the latch and—

  “Look at that?”

  With one toggle the latch came undone, two and Avery had the lid propped open and was staring at handy dandy screwdriver sitting on the top, as if waiting for a stranger in need to happen by.

  She was a stranger, and she was in need, and when she happened by no one was there, which meant no one would know she borrowed the tool for a second or two.

  Palms sweating and heart racing, Avery did one last quick scan of the area, then snatched the screwdriver and quickly stuck the flat edge between the opening of the carabiner. With a calculated twist she wedged open the two metal clasps and—

  “Shit. Shitshitshit!”

  The tip of the screwdriver launched itself up into the air only to come down and land near the storm drain. Avery scrambled to catch it before it rolled out of sight, but her short legs combined with the restrictive harness made retrieval without diving head first into the greater Sierra sewage system impossible, leaving her stuck in a harness and holding a stolen tool.

  She couldn’t leave without coming clean and a promise to at least replace his screwdriver, but she couldn’t stay too long either because Nelson headed for home around sunset. And if she didn’t catch him tonight, her adventure would have to wait until Monday.

  And Avery was tired of waiting, so with the first hints of orange peeking over the mountains, she pulled out her brightest lipstick—stiletto red with a gloss luminous enough to be seen from space that she’d bought when she’d decided to start living bold. Propping her knee on the hood of the car, she gripped the windshield wiper for leverage and pulled herself up.

  Perched on top of his hood on all fours, she took a bold breath and ever so carefully scrawled across the front windshield: I OWE YOU A SCREW—

  Damn it! Her lipstick, warm from the day’s heat, broke and rolled down below the wipers and out of sight. She leaned forward and slipped her fingers inside the crevice to get it, thunking her forehead against the windshield when she realized it was just out of reach.

  “Either you were going to write in your ex’s phone number or this is my lucky day.”

  Avery slowly turned her head, and what she saw sent her heart to her toes. Leaning against a lamppost, looking relaxed and incredibly dangerous in a pair of battered hiking boots, low-slung cargo pants with a million and one pockets holding a million and one surprises, and enough stubble to tell her it was five o’clock, stood a mountain of hard muscles and pure testosterone—wearing a Sequoia Lake Lodge ball cap.

  She reread what she’d written and felt her face flush.

  “This isn’t what it looks like,” she said, because it was so much worse. Two seconds into living loud and she was caught defacing the truck of a man who, although she had never seen him before, she could tell by the well-worn but well-kept Gore-Tex mountaineering boots, wasn’t a weekend warrior.

  But a Sequoia Lodge member—and a serious climber. That he found amusement in her situation told her he knew she wasn’t.

  “I figure you’re either testing out a new lip color or making a declaration, in which case you might as well save us both some time and just give me your number.”

  “My mother warned me about giving my number to handsome strangers. She said they either call or they don’t, but either way you’re in for a world of hurt.”

  “Handsome stranger, huh?” He pushed off the lamppost and approached the truck, his hand extended. She ignored it under the pretense of looking for her lipstick. “Easy fix. Name’s Ty.”

  Just that. Ty. With a shrug. As though Mountain Man was too badass for anything more than a couple letters thrown together—and big enough to get away with it.

  In her experience, big, badass men who pretended to be bulletproof were the first to take cover the second that whole through sickness and in health part came into play. Unfortunately, big, badass men who dropped five hundred bucks on a pair of hiking boots also tended to drop serious cash on adrenaline-pumping excursions, which meant she needed to appear somewhat neighborly.

  And normal.

  Eyes making direct and unwavering contact, she said, “I’m Avery. Avery Morgan.”

  “Well, Avery Morgan, if you aren’t making an offer, then my guess is you mistook the hood of my truck for a mountain.” He chuckled, and she found herself smiling back.

  He had a great laugh, warm, deep, and a little tired. Living loud might not require permission, but in this case is did require an apology.

  “It’s not an offer, just an apology,” she clarified, giving her most apologetic look, which was completely wasted on him since he was too busy staring at her ass to notice.

  “And just what does one need to do to receive that kind of apology?” When she went back to looking for the lipstick, he added, “You know, so I can be prepared.”

  “Underestimate me,” she sai
d, then smiled over her shoulder. “Or keep staring at my ass.”

  Mountain Man grinned. Slow and sexy and completely annoying. “I was staring at your harness. It’s really wedged up there. Looks painful.”

  Avery was well aware that she was sporting the biggest wedgie known to man, and yes it was not a comfortable experience, but she’d rather die than admit that to him. The man looked smug, capable, and like the kind of guy who could spot weakness a mountain away. And this wasn’t her finest moment. “I’m fine.”

  “You sure?” He stepped even closer, turning his ball cap around to get a closer look and—sweet baby Jesus—Mountain Man was seriously sexy. Rugged sexy with a strong jaw, piercing lake-blue eyes, which were currently sparking in her direction, and a confidence that said he was prepared and ready.

  For anything.

  And why that made her stomach flutter she had no idea. Avery was on a flutter-free solo adventure, damn it. No fluttering allowed, sexy stranger or not.

  “Yes, just part of my job.”

  “As what? A window washer?”

  Shrugging off the little voice reminding her she was on the hood of a truck in a pair of strappy sandals, pressed capris, and a safety harness, she said, “As an adventure coordinator.”

  She had to give him credit, he didn’t laugh. But he wanted to, she could tell. Why was it so hard for people to understand that she was perfect for this job?

  Sure, she might have been hesitant at first too, but after settling in she realized that she had all of the skills required to be awesome at her job. She just needed time to gain her bearings, then she would be proficient. And, as Avery had learned over the years, with proficiency came respect. And confidence.

  Something she needed a shot of right then. Fully embracing her new mantra, live like you aren’t afraid, she said, “So as you can imagine, this is nothing I can’t handle.”

  She lay flat on her belly and held on to the windshield wiper, annoyed that she was going to have to scoot to the end, since her legs were too short to reach the ground. Something he seemed to notice because before she’d even reached the grille, one big hand closed around her waist, the other on the back of the harness, and suddenly she was airborne.

  “Put me down,” she ordered, her legs flailing as she tried to spin herself to face him. It didn’t work. “What part of I got this did you not understand?”

  “The part where you got it.” He placed her on the ground, and she spun to look at him and felt her heart stutter. The man was bigger than she’d originally thought, so tall in fact that she had to take a step back just to glare up at him. He was grinning, the big jerk.

  “Yes, well, I would have had it.” At least she hoped that she would have, but she wasn’t entirely sure. That little flight had her a bit off-kilter.

  That he was staring at her made it even worse, so she channeled her inner awesomeness, the same way Brie had taught her to do when facing down unexpected outcomes, and stared back, not noticing how well he filled out his fitted tee or how her belly quivered when he smiled. Hard to do when her body revved every time he so much as breathed.

  “Interesting,” he finally said. “Your eyes are dilated and you’re breathing hard. Admit it, you like me.”

  “Not possible.” Only it was. Go figure that the first time she had a reaction to a man in three years, and it had to a lodge guest. Which meant that it was time for her to leave.

  “Then you’re apologize again. Even better. Does this mean I’m on your IOU list?”

  She rolled her eyes, not amused.

  “No?” He studied her for a long minute, then leaned in and whispered, “How about now?”

  Both of those big hands, strong enough to break granite, wrapped around the front of her safety harness—bringing his fingers right within grazing range of her nipples, and they noticed—then tugged her close. So close she could feel the afternoon’s heat roll off his skin. He smelled like fresh mountain air, pine trees, and sex—not the kind of sex that could be penciled in between meetings, but the kind that lasted for days on end with only body heat for sustenance.

  And if that thought wasn’t enough to get her moving, then the reminder that she’d lost her best shot at happily ever after when Carson decided his love only covered the “in health” part of the deal.

  He’d not only hesitated when she’d explained her kidney was slowly dying, but he’d walked out when she’d needed him most.

  Turned out the only dead weight Avery lost in the surgery was Carson, and even though it had been a rough time in her life, she was a stronger person for it. Now she was a pain free, Carson free, and ready to move forward.

  In theory, she was making progress. Her feet were moving in the forward direction. Only Ty’s hands were still on her harness and—oh my God—he was staring at her lips. Like a wild bear settling on his prey, and she was pretty sure he was either going to throw her over his shoulder and take her back to his cave or kiss her. Either way she couldn’t seem to get traction. Unless she counted shuffling closer.

  Page six in her memory book flashed in her mind and her belly heated. She hadn’t kissed anyone since Carson, and she’d never kissed a stranger—and this stranger looked as if he were about to kiss her.

  His grin went full watt and her breath caught as he closed the last shred of distance and whispered, “You’re welcome, Avery Morgan.”

  Avery felt the pressure in her chest release on one big whoosh as the harness slid down her legs, the straps clanking against the concrete. She was free. “How did you do that?”

  “Extremely talented fingers.”

  about the author

  Photo © Tosh Tanaka

  Marina Adair is a #1 national bestselling author of romance novels and holds a master of fine arts in creative writing. Along with the St. Helena Vineyard series, she is also the author of the Sugar, Georgia series. She lives with her husband, daughter, and two neurotic cats in Northern California. She loves to hear from readers and likes to keep in touch, so be sure to sign up for her newsletter at marinaadair.com/newsletter.