Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)

by Adair, Marina

  “It’s the orange one,” Emerson said quietly.

  “I know what color carrots are.”

  She grinned. “I meant the pie dish. Nora always serves her pie on an orange plate. She says it matches the carrots.”

  “You sure?” Dax asked, his forehead furrowed as though doing a mental search of his fridge to see if he remembered an orange platter.

  “Yeah, when my mom passed she brought one to my dad every week for a month straight. My suggestion is scrape it down the sink and give her the plate back, then don’t answer the door when she knocks again.”

  “Noted,” he said, then shook his head. “I still don’t get it. That’s like bringing a six-pack to game night and then expecting the guys to give me back the empty bottles.”

  “It shows how little you know about women,” Emerson said and shifted her gaze slightly to the eggplants, which were conveniently located just left of his biceps, and reached around him to pick one. “Do you like these?”

  “I know all the important stuff about women, and yes, I like. Very much,” he said, his eyes squarely on her hindquarters. She cleared her throat and he lifted his gaze to her hand, but not before perusing her other produce. “Oh, that. What the hell is that?”

  “Eggplant. It doesn’t smell, isn’t green.” And it was the first thing outside of dessert she’d ever mastered in the kitchen.

  “Is it mushy?” he asked, looking hesitant, then took it and weighed it, as though he was the resident expert on mush factor. “Because it looks like it would be mushy.”

  “Not the way my mom taught me to make it.” And when he didn’t look as though he was about to object, she added, “I slice it really thin, cover it with feta cheese and a bunch of yummy Greek seasonings, roll it up, and bake it. We used to eat it at least a few times a week.” Just thinking about those meals, that time with her mom when she wasn’t even big enough to reach the counter without a kitchen chair, made her smile. “Even Violet likes it.”

  She waited for him to answer, but he just stood there, balancing the eggplant in his palm while silently assessing her. And he had the weirdest look on his face that no matter how hard she tried to translate, she couldn’t. Then he gently nodded and said, “How can I say no to your mom’s recipe?”

  “Nearly everything I cook is one variation or another of my mom’s recipes,” she admitted.

  He placed the eggplant in the cart and led them to the other side of the produce section. “Did your mom own a restaurant?”

  “It was always her dream, but her health wouldn’t allow for her to be on her feet that long. She did a lot of catering for family and friends, though. Had more offers to cater than time,” she said, determined not to make her mother come off as a victim. Because that would have been the furthest thing from the truth. Her mom was one of the strongest, most dignified and determined people Emerson had ever met. Around town she was known as the sweet, soft-spoken Greek lady with the mouthwatering dolmas and contagious smile.

  What most people missed was that under her mom’s velvet exterior was a power and courage that were awe-inspiring. Traits that Emerson worked tirelessly to embody—without much luck. “It was her idea to open the food cart. The next step in the master plan is to upgrade to a food truck.”

  “Food truck?” he asked and she could hear the confusion in his voice. The same outdated underlying question everyone had when they first heard her plan. “Like the burrito wagon that used to come through base?”

  “No.” Definitely not. “A state-of-the-art, gourmet food experience on wheels. A mobile way to bring top-quality eats to everyday people.”

  “I knew what you meant, I was just giving you a hard time,” he said with a smile. “And your idea is smart. How far you’ve come is impressive,” said the most impressive person in her life right then. “What do you think your mom would say?”

  Over the years, Emerson had been bombarded with that same question. However, few took the time to listen to her answer. They were too busy telling Emerson their opinions of exactly what her mom would be feeling.

  Proud, impressed, tickled pink. She’d heard it all from the time she was seven and her mom was diagnosed with ALS.

  After her mom’s death it only got worse. Family, friends, sometimes even strangers would approach her to give their condolences, which usually led to a story about losing their own loved ones or how missed Lillianna would be. In those situations, Emerson found herself swallowing her own emotions to take on the role of nurturer.

  With Dax it felt different. For a guy who seemed to have the emotional capacity of a rutting stallion, his compassion and understanding went much deeper than she’d expected. Maybe it was firsthand knowledge of the complexity of losing a parent, since he’d lost both, or maybe he was showing her his hidden layers.

  Either way, Dax seemed to get her in a way that was refreshing, and she found it incredibly appealing.

  “She’d probably tell me it’s about time,” she said and found herself laughing, because she could almost hear her mom saying those exact words. “Then she would tell me that if I was a real chef, I would find a way to get a grown-ass man to eat his vegetables.”

  And there went the double-barreled dimples that excited and confused her all at the same time. Because when Dax smiled like that, real and from the heart, she wasn’t sure how to react. Dismissing him when he was being a flirt was easy. Ignoring the way her heart fluttered when he engaged fully was impossible.

  “So tell me, Ranger. Are there any vegetables that don’t scare you?”

  He thought about it for a long minute and, smile dialed to dangerous, said, “I like corn.”

  She didn’t have the heart to tell him that corn was a grain, so she grabbed a couple of ears and tossed in an avocado just to throw him. “We’ll start with the eggplant and work up to kale.”

  “You don’t look so good. How bad is it?”

  Dax wasn’t sure how to answer that. His chest burned, most of his organs felt like they were shutting down, and he was pretty sure he was two seconds from losing his lunch.

  “I can handle it,” he said, gritting through the pain.

  “Sure you can,” Kyle said, taking the weights from his legs and setting them on the floor. “That’s what all the G.I. Joes say right before they pass out. So why don’t you lie down on the mat and we’ll cool down.”

  “I can do one more rep,” he said but realized that he was already on the floor, his back pressed hard into the mat. “Why is it I feel fine until I come here?”

  “That pain you’re feeling is a good sign,” Kyle said, putting a death grip on his kneecap and leaning into him like he was a man sled and this was the NFL.

  “And here I thought dying was a bad thing,” Dax joked, but no matter how hard he tried to laugh, he couldn’t.

  “That pain right there”—Kyle pressed farther just in case Dax didn’t know exactly what pain he was talking about—“that’s the nerve endings coming back to life. It means you took well to the surgery and now your body’s healing.”

  Kyle released a fraction, then pressed in an inch farther. Dax sucked in a breath. “You want me to stop there?”

  “No way.” Dax pressed through the next thirty seconds, ignoring the dots of light piercing his vision, and when he felt his leg finally hit the mat, he allowed himself to breathe. And that’s when a new wave of pain rolled through him like a tsunami.

  “Your flexibility is improving too. All signs that—”

  “You’re an asshole?”

  “I was going to say that things are on track.” Kyle squeezed out the knot that had formed in Dax’s thigh from the strain. “But you need to do more stretching at home and less pounding the pavement.”

  “Okay,” Dax said like he did every session, knowing he wouldn’t stop. Running was the only outlet he had left, and unless the doctor wanted him to officially lose it, he couldn’t give it up. But he’d try more stretching.

  Maybe get his crazy cutie of a chef to assist hi
m.

  “Take some of those pills the doctor prescribed tonight or in about two hours you might embarrass yourself.”

  Dax opened his eyes, and it took a moment for Kyle’s two bodies to merge back into one. “Not happening.”

  “It will make the recovery more manageable.” Dax remained silent and Kyle shrugged a shoulder. “Yeah, I didn’t take them either.”

  A silent understanding passed between them, and every reason Dax had for coming home, for entrusting his recovery to Kyle instead of some physical therapist in San Diego, was confirmed. Only someone who had marched in his shoes before could understand his need for the pain, because with pain came clarity, and right now Dax needed something in his life to make sense.

  “Just know that in order to heal, your body actually needs rest.” Kyle held up a hand. “Which I know for guys like us feels like crawling our way out of our own skin. Slowly. But your injury is like a woman, it makes its own set of rules that change hourly and gets pissy when you don’t listen.”

  Dax knew a woman who got pissy whether he listened or not. In fact, she got pissy whenever he was around. There was one time she hadn’t been pissy at all, but he knew that thinking about San Francisco made her pissy all the same.

  “Are you telling me how to handle my women?”

  Kyle laughed. “I’m telling you that if you don’t take it easy and let this heal in its own time, you’ll be riding a desk for the rest of your life.” Dax ignored the first part, since that was a nonoption, and focused on the second part, about him being stuck in St. Helena for longer than planned. Also a nonoption. Because in a few weeks the elite team position would need to be filled, so that was when he needed to be ready to go. “I have a new job starting and I need to be in peak shape.”

  “You’re looking a little green to be talking about peak shape. If I were you, I’d skip shaking it for the ladies this weekend and rest,” Kyle said, then burst out laughing.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Kyle jerked a thumb to the newspaper clipping on the community board next to the water cooler. Dax looked at the heading and that gnawing itch moved from his thigh to behind his right eye. “‘St. Helena’s own beefcake bodyguard to work ladies’ night at Cork’d N Dipped.’”

  “The article goes on to say that last week’s party was crashed by a bunch of underagers. In order to keep things orderly and safe, and to please the fire marshal, management is hiring local muscle to work the door.” Kyle grinned. “Nice picture, man.”

  Yeah, he looked like a stripper. Wearing nothing but rip-away pants and a shirt that was halfway over his head, looking like it was coming off and not going on.

  “My earlier client was talking about going mainly to see if you were photoshopped. She’s eighty-two and has a titanium hip.”

  “I was out running,” Dax said, unpinning the paper from the board. He went to throw it in the trash, only to stop short when he saw the photo underneath his—and smiled. In the middle of a tsunami of pain, he actually smiled.

  Then laughed, because—best day ever—directly below his snapshot was one of the wine bar’s caterer. A hot little Greek number with auburn hair, sexy lips, wine-colored Converse, and wearing a cork-inspired costume. Big, brown, and concealing every delicious curve beneath the wire-shaped cylinder—with a corkscrew-shaped hat up top.

  Dax ripped off and pocketed the photo, tossing the rest of the paper in the can. “I stopped in the wine bar on Main Street. A crazy lady snapped it.” Then gave him information on Emerson in exchange for a favor. Looked like Ida was calling in her marker.

  And Emerson was the resident cork bunny.

  “I don’t know what’s worse, admitting to the one guy who stands between you and a doctor’s signature that you were running or that you were in a wine bar.” Kyle stopped and smiled. “So, when were you going to tell me you’re the new Lady Bug leader?”

  “Is anything private anymore?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Kyle grabbed a towel and wiped it down his face, then tossed one to Dax. “You were wearing a hat that said Lovely while eating an ice cream cone at the community park.”

  “It was a popsicle,” he clarified. One hundred percent real juice, no added sugar. Emerson’s rules. “And Jonah said I needed to get more involved in the community.”

  The popsicles had been all his idea. The girls had taken to steel wool and batteries faster than most new recruits, so he’d rewarded the little pyros with a treat from the market.

  “According to my earlier patient—”

  “The hip replacement?”

  “No, stroke survivor. She said that you were seen sharing your Cyclone pop with the food cart girl.” Kyle let loose a whistle. “Emerson Blake? Gotta say I’m surprised.”

  “You take up coupon bingo when I was gone? Because you sound like my great-aunt Lucinda quoting the senior grapevine like it’s the Washington Post. And for the record, I hired Emerson to cook me food that wasn’t a token of gratitude for doing my damn job,” Dax said and Kyle sobered. “And why are you surprised?”

  “She’s not your normal type.”

  “I have a type?” This was news to Dax. He liked women, all kinds of women. Blonde, brunette, redhead, he especially liked those. Big boobs, spinners, didn’t matter. If there was an attraction, he was game. With Emerson, though, he feared he was attracted because they were playing a game. Although what had happened in the market earlier had felt like a whole lot more.

  “Yeah, you like them easygoing, up for a good time, and not interested in breakfast the next day. Emerson is smart, straightforward, and, after her mother passed, has more ties than a parachute.” Something Dax was beginning to understand. “She also isn’t a booty-call kind of girl. She’s the kind who leaves a mark.”

  Kyle was right and Dax knew it.

  Clenching his jaw, Dax stood, proud when he didn’t wobble. But Kyle saw through his military-grade exterior and offered him a hand up. Dax waved it off because, what the hell? “You seem to know a lot about Emerson.”

  Kyle stared at Dax. Dax stared back. His friend was big, but Dax was bigger.

  “I treated her mom,” Kyle said slowly. “Lillianna was the first patient I lost after coming home.”

  Not what Dax was expecting his friend to say. He’d thought his buddy was warning him off because unlike Dax, Kyle had a type. And Emerson was it. Worse, though, that meant she’d lost her mom recently enough that the wound was still open.

  “When Lillianna’s condition worsened, Emerson moved home to help, came to every appointment, and was with her mom right up until the end. She’s spent the past year and a half taking care of her sister and dad, and from what I hear, she pretty much is the only thing holding her family together.”

  “Sounds like something she’d do.” Dax pictured the tough girl with the smart mouth and sad eyes putting her life on hold to come to her mother’s side. A lot of things started to make sense. Including San Francisco. It was probably the first time she’d let loose, taken something for herself since her mom got sick.

  That she’d chosen him was humbling, because although they could chalk it up to timing and opportunity, that night had affected him more than he’d like to admit. Then she’d left—now he knew it was to go back to her life. And damn if that didn’t make him want to carry a part of her burden. Or at least not add to it.

  “My suggestion is to go home, put your leg up, take one of those pills you hate so much, and get some sleep.” Kyle shook his head. “I know that look and I’ll tell you the same thing I tell all of the idiots who come through here. Healing takes time, and only a fool would rush that.”

  Being a fool was better than going crazy, he thought, and that was exactly where Dax was headed if this injury put him out longer than he’d been told. Between the surgery and recovery, he’d planned for twelve weeks total. Twelve weeks of sitting on his ass and thinking about things he’d rather forget. His twelve weeks were almost up, and if he wasn’t ready at the end of
them, the job would go to someone else and he’d be stuck riding a desk just like Kyle said. It was an unacceptable scenario.

  Dax took a step and felt the weight of ten countries press down on his knee. By the time he dragged himself off the mat, a sharp gnawing had taken up residence in his left leg and lower back. Sweat beaded on his forehead and—Jesus—the only thing he could think about as he ran toward the garbage can was that the prick was right.

  Dax was going to embarrass himself.

  Confused and, quite honestly, concerned, Emerson tried to keep her eyes on the road, but they continued to stray to the silent passenger next to her. The sun had set, casting a tangerine hue over the valley floor, setting fire to the changing grape leaves and making for an amazing autumn sunset.

  It could have been snowing for all Dax seemed to notice. He hadn’t said a single word since she’d picked him up other than to tell her that PT was fine, his knee was fine. Everything was fine.

  He looked fine, didn’t limp when he walked to the car, even smiled. In fact, outside of the dullness behind his eyes, there was nothing outwardly pointing to the fact that he wasn’t being honest. Nope, Dax was the captain of calm.

  But Emerson had a gut instinct that something was off. And her instincts were rarely wrong.

  “Glad your knee’s fine,” she said, pulling into his drive and putting a little more oomph behind hitting the brakes than necessary.

  Dax didn’t flinch, didn’t even react other than to flash her a knowing smile. How did he remain so controlled when she knew his knee was killing him?

  Emerson threw the car in park and reached across the console. She placed her hand on his knee and pressed her fingertips under the kneecap.

  “Jesus,” he gasped, partly out of pain and partly out of relief.

  “I thought you were almost done with PT?” The way he had made it sound the other day, he was on his last few visits, but this felt like more-than-a-few-visits kind of recovery. She released her grip only to tighten again, and this time his leg jerked, but she held on. “How bad is it?”