Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)

by Adair, Marina

  She released a big sigh, her gaze going back to his knee, so he hobbled a bit for added effect. “So you’re looking for a personal chef?” And bingo, she was interested.

  “More of a personal assistant. Someone to stock the fridge with good food, make healthy meals, pick up prescriptions.”

  Her face went flat, her eyes were back to frostbite again. “Sorry, I don’t have time to run your errands, Ranger. Call someone else.”

  She turned to leave, so he reached out and grabbed her arm, and the sparks that shot off had every inch of him standing at attention. She turned to look at him and, yeah, honey, that kind of heat was nuclear grade. “I don’t want anyone else.”

  He didn’t want people in his space, asking him to retell the story, looking at him like he was a broken soldier every time someone found out the real reason behind his return. He wanted the sexy, sharp-mouthed chef in front of him. “I’m offering you four grand for four weeks of meals and a few errands.” Her gaze didn’t look as chilled as it had moments ago. Her eyes even dilated at the price, something he took as a good sign. “You want the job. I want you to take the job. So just say yes.”

  He recalled liking the way she said yes. Loved when she screamed it.

  Emerson waffled for a long moment, glanced at her POS car, then back to her dress, and finally looked him dead in the eye. No BS present, she said, “I can’t work for someone who knows what my tattoo looks like.” He dropped his gaze to her boots and the cute little daisy he remembered that sat above her right ankle. “Not that one and, hey!” She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Don’t look.”

  He didn’t need to. Every branch and slope of that tattoo was also firmly cemented in his mind. All he had to do was close his eyes and he could picture the elegant vine of purple flowers that he had traced from her right shoulder, curving down her back and over the gentle slope of her ass to her other hip.

  With his tongue.

  “And stop picturing it,” she demanded, poking a finger in his chest. “This is why I can’t take you on as a client. Sex makes things weird.”

  “Then we did it wrong. Which means, for the sake of my ego and pride, we need to give it another try.”

  “Sorry, you’re not my type.”

  Too bad she was looking at his chest when she said it.

  “Emi,” he whispered and she slowly met his gaze. “I was your type when you were screaming out my name.”

  She ignored this. “I’m done with that type. All mysterious and intense.”

  “What you see is what you get.”

  Now it was her turn to laugh. “Dax, you are a human puzzle. One of those superhard round puzzles. Of Darth Vader’s cloak. All dark, and complicated, and brooding. I have enough complication in my life. I want someone who is nice—”

  “Check.”

  “Sensitive—”

  “You’d eat sensitive for breakfast.”

  “Rock solid.” He flexed a little, even though he knew she meant stable. “And makes me laugh.”

  “Knock knock,” he said.

  “Good-bye,” she said, turning toward her car, those hips of hers swishing right down the walkway and toward the street.

  “So is that a no on the job or the sex? Or both?”

  His only answer was the slamming of a car door.

  Asshole,” Emerson said as she pushed through the front door of the Fashion Flower. A warm blast of cinnamon-and-crayon-scented air greeted her, along with the sunny jingling of a bell and a collective gasp so loud it was as if all the oxygen were sucked out of the room.

  It was Watercolor Wednesday at the kids’ boutique, so the room was filled to capacity with kid-sized easels and three-foot-tall Picassos vibrating with titillation over the masterful use of the naughty word. The moms looked neither impressed nor titillated.

  “Apples,” Harper said in her singsong voice, shooting Emerson a look. She stood at the head of the room in a sweet-potato-colored dress, green tights, Mary Janes, and an apron that read FLOWER POWER. Both teacher and apron were covered with a light smattering of what Emerson assumed was dirty paint water some kid had flicked at her. She looked like Rainbow Brite with a boob job. “What Emerson was trying to say was ‘apples,’ which is what we are painting. Can we say it together?”

  “Apples!”

  Harper clasped her hands in the universal sign of Teacher Approved. “Great, now let’s get creative.”

  Seventeen hands shot up simultaneously. Harper pointed to a little girl in the front who was wearing paint-stained overalls. “But you said we was painting pumpkins for fall.”

  Smile never faltering, Harper said, “You’re right. I did. And now you have the choice to paint a pumpkin or an apple.”

  Seventeen hands shot up again. Harper pointed to a bean of a kid with buckteeth and a ball cap. “Can I paint a pumpkin with an apple on it?”

  “Sure,” Harper said and there went the hands again. “Pumpkin or apple, those are your two choices.”

  Several sighs and a loud raspberry sound later, the hands dropped and paintbrushes were moving across the paper.

  Emerson felt a tug on her arm and looked down to find a little blonde looking up at her. Goldilocks ringlets piled on her head, she had a pert nose, the perfect amount of freckles, and a familiar know-it-all expression.

  Brooklyn Miner was the spitting image of her mother, Liza. And look at that, not a single indication of glitter-induced irritation in those wide eyes.

  “My sister can’t talk either so my mom says if she opens her mouth like this”—Brooklyn made a big O with her lips—“then she can say it right. Apple. See, perfect. You should go home and practice.”

  “Really?” Emerson said, leaning down and lowering her voice. “Because my mom said if you open your mouth really wide, then—”

  “Okay,” Harper interrupted, grabbing Emerson by the arm and dragging her away. “Brooklyn, it is paint time, not talk time.” They didn’t speak again until Harper pulled her to a quiet corner, insulated between the fleece Woombie swaddles and a display of Molar Munchers with bling.

  “How did it go?” Harper asked in her inside voice.

  “It didn’t!” Emerson hissed. “There is no way I’d take on a client who I’ve had sex with. You know that.”

  Emerson must have used her outside voice, because Harper’s eyes darted around, then she pulled her farther back behind the plushy dolls. “Which is why I didn’t tell you. I knew you wouldn’t go for it with him, and Em, you so need to go for it. Have you seen that body?” Harper laughed. “Of course you have.”

  “Killer abs aren’t a qualification for taking a job.”

  “Doesn’t hurt, though.” Harper lowered her voice further. “Did you know he was in some kind of explosion or attack and his family begged him to come home until he was healed?”

  Based on the scar, Emerson figured it would have had to be pretty bad to take a guy like Dax out of commission. Then there was his shell-shocked look, which Emerson knew all too well, the one that signaled a deep pain that had never really healed because there were no visible scars.

  That reached out to her on an elemental level.

  “Did you know he was looking for a personal assistant?”

  Harper knew everything Emerson had been through the past few years, which was why she was so upset. She was the one person who made life easier, who understood just how many different ways Emerson was being pulled, and just how complicated her life had become. Harper would never do anything to make Emerson’s world harder, yet today she had. And Emerson wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  Harper rested a hand on Emerson’s shoulder. “This will be different than it was with Liam.”

  “Yeah, because I’m not doing it,” Emerson clarified. “And what happened to never speaking his name in my presence?”

  Liam was a celebrity chef in San Francisco who Emerson had met shortly after coming home from Paris. He was also her biggest regret.

  Sensing that her daughter n
eeded a break from the stress at home, her mom had signed Emerson up for a week-long seminar with the world-renowned restaurateur. Liam had taken immediate interest in Emerson’s drive and talent, even convinced her to come on as his personal assistant while he opened his new eatery in Napa. One too many late nights in the kitchen led to blueberry crepes in bed, and before Emerson knew what had happened she and Liam were making plans for forever.

  Then her mom passed and her father’s world fell apart, and Emerson knew that her family needed her at home. Too bad Liam’s idea of forever didn’t extend to her loved ones. He took one look at what forever with Emerson would include and offered it, and her job, to a fancy-and-free twenty-two-year-old pastry chef named Lena.

  Emerson had learned the hard way that love didn’t always conquer all, and that she would never again work for someone she was personally invested in. She also learned she was too talented to be picking up dry cleaning.

  “Wow.” Harper let loose a low whistle. “Never thought I’d see the day where the girl who beat down Jimmy Wagner with a water wiennie for pulling her pigtail would let some guy walk all over her dreams.”

  “That is not what I’m doing.” Although it totally was and they both knew it. “Between Violet getting suspended and my dad interviewing, I won’t have time to be a gofer.”

  “You won’t be a gofer. We’re talking stocking the refrigerator and picking up prescriptions,” Harper said, making it clear she knew exactly what kind of interview she’d sent her on. “And what if it gets you your truck faster?”

  “There’s always next year.” Wow, saying that hurt.

  Harper lowered her voice to that disappointed level that made Emerson squirm. “Two years ago you didn’t apply because your mom was sick. Last year it was because your family needed you.”

  “They did,” Emerson defended. She couldn’t even imagine what would have happened to her family if she hadn’t stepped in and picked up the pieces. She thought Harper would have understood that. “Violet wasn’t even talking to humans, my dad slept all day and stared at the garden all night, and—”

  Harper placed a silencing hand on Emerson’s arm. “I know. I know what it was like, what you went through, and how incredibly selfless you have been. Just like I know that if you don’t make some space for yourself, you’ll be in this same place in five years. Maybe even ten.”

  Wasn’t that exactly what she’d told her dad the other day?

  “As your best friend, I can’t let you do that.”

  Not one to be told what she could or couldn’t do, Emerson was about to explain where Harper could shove that BFF entitlement when Harper reached behind the counter and pulled a weathered notebook out of her backpack.

  Emerson felt her stomach bottom out.

  It wasn’t just any notebook. It was small, leather bound, and the spine was worn from use. Across the front in blue script was The Greek Streatery Fleet.

  “Where did you get this?” She took the journal and ran a finger down its side. She didn’t need to open it to know what lay beneath the cover. Every family recipe, every idea, and every dream she and her mother had made for their streatery was in her palms. “I thought I had lost it when I cleaned Mom’s things out of the attic.”

  “Your mom gave it to me before she passed,” Harper said quietly. “Made me promise that if you had the chance to do something amazing, I wouldn’t let you talk yourself out of it. So I’m playing the mom card, Em. What would Lillianna want you to do?”

  Emerson swallowed hard as she opened the cover, and her eyes burned. There on the first page, framed by chef’s-hat scrapbooking trim, was the hundred-year-old handwritten recipe that had started it all: her great-grandmother’s baklava. Beneath the recipe was a photo of a young Emerson, standing on a kitchen chair, helping her mother glaze the phyllo layers with honey. And beneath that, in beautiful script, was her mother’s favorite saying:

  If ever in doubt, eat the whole tray.

  It was still dark when Dax awoke, hot and sweaty and tangled in the sheets, gasping for breath as if he’d just had a weekend-long sex marathon with a bossy little chef. And he wished to hell it had been a smoking-hot sexathon that had his heart pounding out of his chest.

  He threw the covers off and grabbed for his knee, hoping to catch the cramp before it settled into his entire leg. Too late. His muscles tightened and a thin sheen of sweat covered his entire body.

  Dax looked at the bottle of pills on his nightstand. Completely full, not a single one missing. He could take one now. This was the exact kind of situation the doctor had prescribed them for, to take the edge off the pain. Problem was, it would take the edge off everything—and pain was the only thing keeping him grounded.

  It was also an acceptable alternative to the memories.

  He swung his legs over the bed and sat up, letting the cold air from the open window roll over his body, every sharp gust bringing his heart rate closer to normal. He straightened his left leg, nearly passing out as a shot of bone-gritting heat exploded from behind his kneecap. He rotated it to the right, then holy hell to the left, just like his doctor showed him, and gave the stretch exactly two minutes to overpower the cramp.

  When that didn’t work, he cursed his weakness, kissed the extra two hours of sleep good-bye, and grabbed his running shoes.

  The only thing that was going to help was a fast ride on his bike. Not turning his leg like some ballerina.

  Giving his knee a few minutes to adjust to holding his weight, Dax pulled on a pair of jeans, grabbed a T-shirt from the hamper, and—smelling the pits first—tugged it on while heading toward the front door. One step outside and he knew he’d made the right decision. Sitting idle, being surrounded by walls and memories, was slowly driving him crazy.

  He stepped off the front porch of his rental, a 1920s Craftsman bungalow that sat right off Main Street, and grimaced through the stiffness as he headed down the driveway.

  The early morning dew still covered the ground and glistened off the oak trees lining the road, leaving the air cool and fresh, almost cleansing to his lungs. When Dax had been in the Middle East, roasting in an army-issued bunk, he’d dreamed about mornings like this. When the only people awake were the vineyard workers, and the hot air balloons were slowly rising off the valley floor, and the world seemed at peace.

  Only now that Dax was home, surrounded by what seemed to be a snapshot of one of his favorite memories, he wasn’t sure how to tap into that peace.

  So he’d outrun it.

  His fingers twitching to crank the throttle, Dax got to the curb—and stopped short when he spotted Lola.

  Lola had been Dax’s treat to himself a few years back. His Indian bike was a handcrafted work of innovation. With her sculpted chrome exhaust, polished midnight body, and incredible 119 feet per pound of throttle, she was trouble on wheels. And the exact kind of rush he needed when stateside.

  Only today she was wearing a boot.

  A big-ass, bright orange boot that had ST. HELENA SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT engraved on the side.

  Unconcerned about the time of day and saving the barrage of oncoming f-bombs for his brother, he fished out his phone.

  “Want to tell me why you’re calling me at five in the morning?” Jonah breathed into the phone. His voice was groggy and thick with sleep—which made Dax happy.

  “Because you’re the only loser who would answer his phone at five in the morning,” Dax said. “Come on, man, Lola?” He looked at his pristine bike with that god-awful lock on it and wanted to cry. “It’s abuse of power. Plain and simple.”

  “I’ll let the sheriff know,” the sheriff said with a chuckle, and Dax heard a lightness to his brother’s voice that he hadn’t heard much since their dad died. He would have been happy for him, but messing with another man’s bike was on the same level as messing with another man’s woman.

  “Make sure you tell him that it’s a total dick move,” Dax said.

  “He’d tell you so is driving around town before
the doctor gives you the go-ahead,” Jonah said, and Dax could hear the prick smiling.

  “I have PT today,” Dax reminded him. “What do you expect me to do? Walk?”

  “Nope.” And because his big brother had a solution for everything, he added, “Frankie should be there twenty minutes before your appointment.”

  “So I can ride on her bike, but not my own?” Because like him, Frankie believed that vehicles with more than two wheels were made for pussies.

  “She’s borrowing Nate’s truck.” Despite the fact that Nate was a DeLuca, he was a stand-up guy and made Dax’s sister smile, so Dax chose to overlook the fact that he was born into the wrong family. “And Shay’s got you covered next week.”

  “Actually, Sheriff, I’ve got you covered right now,” a muffled but definitely feminine voice came through the phone. “Put your hands where I can’t see them.”

  Dax threw up a little in his mouth. “Jesus, man, I don’t need to hear this, and I sure as hell don’t need help setting up a damn carpool. Come unboot my girl.”

  Jonah didn’t give him an affirmative that he was headed over, but when Dax heard the phone hit the ground and some questionable noises follow, he decided to hang up and start running, because it was going to take more than a few miles to erase those sounds from his head.

  Just because it felt like Dax was taking a round to the knee didn’t mean he had to show it.

  “This is what you get for running on it,” Kyle said, laying into Dax’s leg, then applying a tooth-grinding pressure to the back of his knee.

  Kyle O’Malley was one of Dax’s oldest friends. He was built like an MMA fighter, had the hands of a butcher, and could teach the Taliban a thing or two about the art of torture. He was also the best orthopedic specialist in the county, but before that he’d been in the air force as a pararescue, which was the only reason Dax was putting up with his BS.

  Sure, he wasn’t G.I. Joe, but any guy who had the balls to parachute into a hot landing zone to rescue a soldier he’d never met had earned the right to be heard.