Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)

by Adair, Marina

  “Winter is right around the corner,” Emerson said. “If the rain gets here before my truck, then I am back to dressing like a clown and catering kids’ parties full-time until spring.” And that would feel like taking a huge step back. Something Emerson wasn’t willing to do.

  The Pita Peddler, although a money maker, was a seasonal business. Her single umbrella didn’t offer much protection from the elements, and water-soaked falafel didn’t rate high in customer satisfaction.

  “So you’re almost there?”

  Emerson smiled. “Almost.” According to her plan, she was just six thousand dollars, or three private VFW parties, shy of her goal. Which meant that come January she would be trading up and accomplishing what she and her mom had dreamed of.

  “Good, because look what came in.” Harper pulled a certified letter from the back pocket of her jeans and waved it in Emerson’s face.

  “Oh my God!” Emerson grabbed the letter, a punch of excitement slamming against her chest. “Is that from—”

  “Street Eats?” Harper’s grin was so big it shone. “Yup. The mail guy needed a signature, so I pretended to be your roommate.”

  Emerson looked at the empty pastry box in the kitchen, the mango-colored backpack sprawled across the table, and the stack of Harper’s laundry on the chair waiting to be folded, and figured it wasn’t that far from the truth.

  Emerson ran a finger across the side of the envelope, hesitating at the back flap. Inside could be a rejection, or an opportunity of a lifetime, and Emerson wasn’t sure which she wanted more.

  Street Eats was the nation’s most competitive and prestigious food truck competition. Hundreds applied, only a few were lucky enough to be accepted, and this year it was coming to wine country. The cook-off would attract thousands of foodies and some of the best gourmet food trucks from around the country. The top chefs in her field would go head-to-head in her own backyard, showcasing their cutting-edge eats, and Emerson dreamed of being one of them.

  A lot of things had changed since she’d applied last year. Violet had started school, her dad had found every reason in the world not to get a job—in fact, her family seemed more dependent on her now than ever. Plus, she was still shy a gourmet food truck. And short on cash to get one.

  Harper scooted to the edge of the couch. “Open it before I combust from nerves!”

  With a deep breath, Emerson pulled out the letter and—

  “No freaking way.” She held up the gold script invitation certifying that Emerson Blake, culinary school dropout, had an exclusive golden ticket to live out one of her life’s greatest dreams. “I got in.”

  “You got in!” Harper, being 100 percent chick, let out a huge squeal, then pulled Emerson in for one of her infamous hugs. It was warm, long, and full of all those female bonding sounds other women seemed to make when they hung in large groups. Emerson had never been big on large groups, or female bonding, but knowing it would go faster if she didn’t resist, she allowed the embrace—but didn’t return it. Counted to three. Gave a closing pat to her friend’s shoulder, then tried pulling back.

  “Um, Harper?”

  Harper finally released her and clasped her hands in front of her face. “This is huge, Em!”

  “I know.” With a sigh, she dropped her head on the back of the couch, because it was also a year too early. Emerson had dreamed of competing in Street Eats since watching the first show with her mom and coming up with a plan for their Greek streatery fleet. Serving her food in that arena would be all the endorsement she’d need to get her truck into big events throughout San Francisco and Silicon Valley. One of last year’s competitors had gone from one truck on Main Street, USA, to six trucks in the six biggest cities in the country. He even had his own show on television.

  “Then why didn’t you tell me you applied?” Harper asked, and Emerson slid her a sideways look. “No way! You didn’t tell me because you weren’t sure if you were going to do it, and that constipated look you have, yup, that one right there”—she pointed in accusation at Emerson’s face—“that says you have somehow convinced yourself the responsible choice is pass up the biggest opportunity of your life, which is insane since you have been talking about this for years, about how you would dominate and kick some serious culinary butt. Butt that cannot be kicked if you don’t show up.” She grabbed Emerson by the shoulders. “Why aren’t you going to show up?”

  “Because it is a food truck competition, not a food cart competition.” The duh went unsaid but it was thick in her tone.

  “You said you were almost there.”

  “Yeah, almost there as in three months out.” Emerson took one last look at the letter, then folded it up. “Street Eats is one month away.”

  “Whew,” Harper said, sitting back and making a big spectacle out of putting her hand to her heart. “And here I thought you were going to say it was because your dad is still unemployed and Pixie Girl got suspended for lobbing a lethal glitter bomb in class.”

  “You know?”

  “The entire mommy community knows. Brooklyn’s mom had it all over her mommy blog by lunch,” Harper explained as though it wasn’t a big deal. Although Harper wasn’t a mommy herself, she managed the Fashion Flower, the only kids’ craft and clothing boutique in town, which made her the great Mommy Oz of wine country. It also explained the Easter egg outfit and preschool teacher vibe she had going on. “But if a truck is all that’s stopping you from checking the yes box, then let’s get a truck.”

  “Sounds great,” Emerson said, clapping her hands and mimicking her friend’s sunny tone. “You happen to find an extra six grand in the mail when you were snooping?”

  “No. But . . .” Harper reached under the couch and pulled out Emerson’s laptop. “I happen to know of someone who can help.”

  “Oh, please God, no,” Emerson moaned, but it was too late. The screen flickered to life and a spreadsheet complete with a running balance, remaining deficit, and an animated trench coat dancing next to the target amount filled the screen. It was the same fund-raising mascot and propaganda presentation Harper used to persuade her preschoolers to sell cookies for art classes or collect coats for charity. She had convinced her students, some of their parents included, that if they all reached into their pockets to help, the Coat Crusader could turn pocket change into social change.

  Anytime someone needed cash for a cause, Harper and her you can do it coat friend came to the rescue. “He prefers Coat Crusader,” Harper clarified. “But he is a miracle worker, so I can see how you’d make that mistake.” Back to the spreadsheet. “I had you at ten grand shy, but you only need six.” Her fingers clicked away, then she looked up and smiled. “Two seconds at work and already the Coat Crusader found you four grand.”

  “When did you do all of this?”

  “The second I saw the letter this morning, I knew you’d get in,” Harper said so sincerely Emerson felt herself shift on the couch cushion. “Which is why when I spoke with Grandma Clovis, we decided you need to go see this potential client.” Harper pulled out a candy bar wrapper with an address scribbled on the inside.

  “What’s this?”

  “Your missing money,” Harper said. “Last week Giles’ grandnephew came home from the hospital.”

  Giles was four thousand years old and a Rousseau, which meant he was related to half of the town. He’d dated the other half until he’d snagged himself Clovis Owens and gave up his ladies’-man lifestyle for the only lady he’d ever loved. “She said that his grandnephew is supermoody and a total handful, running his family ragged. So they were talking about hiring someone to cook a few meals each day.”

  Emerson felt for the boy’s parents. Although Violet had been a miracle child, she’d been a turd until she turned two. Fussy, colicky, refusing to sleep or eat on any normal schedule. She also had a wail that could be heard from Mars. “Did Clovis say if they are looking for food delivery or more of a personal chef?”

  Because, holy hell, this could work. Sure, t
he first option would be easier to manage, cooking up their meals for the day and delivering them each morning. She’d worked her way through culinary school doing just that. Made good money too. But the latter option had her heart thumping, because even though it would be more time-consuming, if their schedules matched, being a private chef could bring in some serious cash.

  “I think they need someone to make fresh meals on-site. Nothing says home like a fresh-made meal.”

  Emerson couldn’t agree more. And not just because she wanted the business. She’d seen the power that a home-cooked meal made with love could have on a family. Some of her happiest memories had been around her family table. Her mom had made mealtime the most important event of the day, a time of exchanging stories and love, and Emerson tried to pass that along to her customers. “Do you know how long they’d want a chef?”

  “At least a few weeks. Maybe four.”

  “Four weeks?” Emerson tried to play it cool. No sense in getting excited until the job was secure. “Do you know their budget? Because three meals a day, seven days a week, would cost about three thousand dollars.” Which would be huge for Emerson but a bargain in a town where the average personal chef charged upwards of three grand—per week.

  “I don’t think that would be a problem,” Harper said, and Emerson wondered if maybe she’d gotten lucky after all.

  Dax had spent the last fifteen years wading, waist deep, through the bowels of humanity in some of the most dangerous hellholes on the planet. He knew when to fight, when to regroup, and when to get out of Dodge.

  Most importantly, he knew when shit was about to get real.

  This was one of those times. Yet instead of lying low, getting in and out unscathed, he’d abandoned every hard-won instinct and fired the first shot. Maybe it was suburbia fever, or maybe they’d missed a chunk of shrapnel in his head, but damn if he wasn’t excited to see the ticking bomb on the other side of the door.

  Granted, this bomb was more of a bombshell, equally as lethal but certainly more fun to look at. Her dark auburn hair was loose and curly, her dress surprisingly feminine, and she had on a pair of black leather boots that were sleek, above the knee, and ended a scant inch before her dress began. Little Miss Bite Me was dressed to impress. She looked sophisticated, sexy as hell, and as if she were about to kick him in the nuts.

  Nothing new, he thought, keeping a close watch on those pointed boots since he was within kicking distance. Emerson had been four years behind him in school, a scrappy little thing with a lethal glare who never failed to give him a hard time when he deserved it. Which was saying something since Dax had been voted Best Wingman in a Bathroom Brawl.

  “Morning,” he said, resting a shoulder against the door frame, sure to plaster on a big smile.

  “You,” Emerson accused, taking in his bare feet, workout shorts, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, his tattoos. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here.” He pointed to the bullet-shell doormat his stepsister, Frankie, had given him for a housewarming present.

  “Alone?” she asked, and he could practically feel her willing him to say that, yes, he was just visiting, and behind him was a happy and homey family in desperate need of her services.

  She was going to be disappointed.

  “Yup. And you”—he tapped his watch—“are very punctual. I like that. Shows me you don’t always have to be the one in control.” He stepped back in invitation. “Now, would you like to do the interview in the kitchen, or maybe in the hot tub?”

  “Unless you’re a fussy child, then this interview is over.” She paused to glare, and it was a good glare. One that would have had most men squirming. Dax was just amused, and it must have shown because she threw her hands up and said, “Scratch that, you are a child. An overgrown child in need of a time-out. Interview definitely over.”

  And then, because she looked like she wanted to inflict bodily harm, he said, “I’m not opposed to spanking or a time-out, hot-tub style, as long as you play lifeguard. But we’d have to add the right verbiage in the contract.”

  “Didn’t you hear a word I said?”

  “Sorry. Still thinking about that verbiage.”

  “Is this fun for you? Finding amusement at my expense?” she asked, and he could tell this was nowhere near amusing for her. There was something about the way her voice shook that told him he’d screwed up. That she wasn’t angry, but genuinely upset. “What part of my life being crazy did you miss?”

  “I didn’t.” In fact, part of the reason this plan was so good was that it would help them both out. “I knew you wouldn’t come if you knew it was me, so I asked your friend to keep it quiet.”

  Wrong thing to say, he realized, because her eyes went so frosty he felt his nuts shiver. “Do you have any idea what I had to do in order to make this appointment? How much money I am going to miss out on because I had to cut my prep work in half to get here on time?” She lifted her arms to the side and looked down at herself. “I’m in a freaking dress.”

  “It’s a pretty dress,” he said, feeling like a grade-A jerk.

  “That I bought. For an interview. With a potential new client.” There went that anger again, which was a hell of a lot better than the disappointment he’d seen. “Who doesn’t exist. God, you’re a jerk.”

  This was not going as planned. Dax had expected her to see him, get a little pissy, then a whole lot bossy. Then they’d work out some kind of arrangement to stop the never-ending covered-dish parade through his house so he could finally get some peace and quiet, and Emerson would make some cash out of the deal. It was win-win all around. And if they happened to get a little hot in the kitchen, so what? They were grown adults with enough chemistry to launch a land-to-air rocket.

  But there wasn’t going to be any cooking—in the kitchen or otherwise—if he didn’t fix this.

  “I am a jerk and I’m sorry. There is a job offer and you didn’t waste your time.”

  He pushed off the wall and stepped onto the porch. She didn’t budge. Nope, Emerson jabbed her hands onto her hips and strained her neck to look up at him. “Go on,” she said, and the fact that her bossy tone was back told him he hadn’t blown this completely. So he decided to go for honest.

  “I suck in the kitchen. A decade and a half of eating in a mess hall means I suck in the kitchen.”

  This made her happy. “You can’t cook anything?”

  “I can grill,” he said a little defensively. “And I cook a mean almond-crusted salmon with fingerling potatoes.” He grinned. “I should make it for you sometime.”

  “Your make-it-happen meal? I’ll pass, thanks,” she said and then laughed at his expression. “Whenever a guy wants to seal the deal with a lady, they invite her over, lower the lights, and cook that one dish that was on the cover of Maxim. Voilà, her panties hit the floor before the salad course is served.”

  She was good. “Fine, no salmon. Bottom line is, I’m in town for another four weeks, and if I have to eat one more tuna casserole I’m going to weigh three hundred pounds.” He placed a hand on his stomach and she rolled her eyes. “Seriously, we don’t need one more fat security guy on the street.”

  “Security?” she asked, confusion creasing her brow. “What about the army?”

  He lifted the leg of his shorts to expose a raw scar going from his thigh to below the kneecap. “The doctor said this would make it a little hard to jump out of choppers.” Although he hadn’t needed some fancy stethoscope wearer with letters after his name to confirm what he’d known the second he heard the first mortar explode behind him. The shrapnel had torn through his knee and shattered what had been one hell of a career in the making.

  Spending the rest of what had been a high-octane career sitting behind a desk was not an option. And training more kids to put their trust in some guy like him? Nah, he had enough nightmares as it was.

  “Must have hurt like a bitch,” she said and he had to laugh. Emerson didn’t faint or fuss or ask him stupid question
s like if it hurt or if he was pissed his career was over. Didn’t even ask him how it happened. Instead, she raised a brow, admired the scar for what it was, and said, “So a mall cop, huh? Do you get to ride one of those Segways?”

  “Private security,” he clarified, because that sounded way more manly. Then he crossed his arms, sure to flex his biceps and send that Special Forces tattoo dancing. She seemed fond of that one. “I’ll be protecting politicians and Silicon Valley hotshots.”

  Usually this got women going. Not Emerson—she just yawned. “So you’ll play with civilian-approved toys instead of federal toys. Isn’t that trading down?”

  When put like that . . .

  “Security was always my plan B.” One that he’d never imagined he’d have to implement. Dax had gone into the service expecting to be a lifer, but his one bad decision had changed everything. For a whole lot of people. “Better than plan C.”

  “Which is?”

  “Hiring myself out as a male model.”

  She laughed, and what a great laugh she had. Bold and uninhibited and showing all of those white teeth. She cleared her throat, then her face softened. “I’m sorry. I know how much it sucks when plan A doesn’t work out. And I want to save you from your crazy family.” Something about the way she said it made him believe her. Made him wonder if her food cart was her plan A or if, like him, she was living her backup life.

  “Look, I have four weeks to get myself ready if I’m going to secure the job.” After his meet and greet with Fallon, Dax was certain he was a front-runner. “Not easy when every person on my family tree has dropped by to check in on me, bring me cake and covered dishes, or invite me to dinner. My great- aunt Luce showed up yesterday morning with her cat and enough toaster waffles and bacon to feed my entire squad. The woman sat with me until I finished the entire plate.” It was as if his pores were seeping bacon grease and syrup. “I swear, one more cheese-covered casserole and I will bust out of my pants.”