Her eyes narrowed into two pissed-off slits. “Cut the shit, Dax. You’re that someone.” Then the strangest thing happened: her anger turned to agitation. She was nervous. “I thought there wasn’t going to be any weirdness.”
He pushed off the wall, approached her, and rested his hands on her hips. “There isn’t.”
She batted at his hands but didn’t back away. “The guy who I just saw naked is finding my dad a job. That’s weird.”
When put like that, yeah, it was. Even weirder than his asking his grandpa for a favor—something he never did.
“For the record, I saw you naked too,” he said, and she didn’t laugh as he’d hoped. “And even though it sounds weird, it’s not. You said he needed a job, I knew that my grandpa was hiring. I might have mentioned your dad’s name.”
There. Simple. Very normal. Nothing to be upset about.
But she was still upset.
“That wasn’t your place.” She poked him in the chest. Hard. “It was supposed to be one night, no strings, and now you’ve just gone and . . . well, you’ve . . .” she sputtered, made a few exasperated huffs, then poked him again. Right in the pec. “You tied us together.”
“I made a call.”
She turned and paced, and he could see her mind processing the information. Emerson was independent, liked to stand on her own two feet. He got that. He wasn’t called Wolf for nothing. But Dax knew when he needed backup. And Emerson needed some in a bad way.
“What if my dad gets the job?” She spun around. “Or what if he gets the job and they fire him because he isn’t qualified? Then he’ll be unemployed and a failure.”
“It’s talking about wine,” he said. “I doubt that a guy who’s worked with grapes for thirty-five years can’t talk about wine to some customers.”
She blew out a breath. “Why did you recommend him?”
This time he paced the room, until he was standing back in front of her. “Because your dad needed a job, my grandpa had one, and that’s what friends do. You’re helping me out with rehab. What’s the difference?”
“I’m cooking for you because you’re paying me, and because you’re helping out with my sister’s Lovelies.” Yeah, it was still a pussy title. “We were even. This makes it . . .” She took another breath, and when she looked up at him, all he saw was exhaustion. Bone-deep exhaustion that rubbed him the wrong way. “It’s just easier to manage expectations when I handle everything myself.”
He wanted to argue that she couldn’t balance the load she’d been carrying forever. At some point she was going to break, and he didn’t want to see that happen. Then again, he wouldn’t be around when it finally did.
“You, Emerson Blake”—he poked her shoulder—“have a God complex.”
And he meant that in the best possible way. Not in the same way as his, staring down the scope, deciding who lived and who died. Emerson was a nurturer, feeding and caring for everyone in her life, doing whatever it took to make their lives better.
Fuller.
“Takes one to know one,” she finally said, gifting him a small smile. She was still frustrated, that much was clear, but most of her defensiveness had faded. “No more weirdness. You are my client, I am your Lovely co-leader. That’s it. Got it?”
He gave her a slow, thorough study until her face was as red as the flames on her shoes. “Something we can talk about tonight, over dinner.”
“Oh no.” Hands out, she took a big step back. “I will cook you dinner, then leave.”
“That’s not the deal.”
“The deal was a meal a week. Over three weeks would equal three meals. We had three meals Saturday.” She held up three fingers to demonstrate.
“I had three.” And because he loved to see her squirm, he took her other hand, which was jabbed into her hip, and pushed up four more fingers. “You had seven.”
She snatched her hands back and picked up the grocery bag. “No one likes a bragger, Dax. No one.”
A few days later, Emerson stood in front of the post office on Main Street, her jacket pulled around her ears. The office was clearly closed, and according to the sign, it wouldn’t open for another two hours. Two hours was a long time to wait.
She could go for a run, eat an entire pan of bread pudding, pick the lint off her couch.
“I should come back,” she said to no one in particular.
Or you could drop it in the mailbox. Because she knew if she walked away, come tomorrow that envelope would still be in her backpack, and then it would be too late.
She pulled out the envelope and looked at it in her hand, then at the mailbox, even touching the little handle to see how easy it was. Open, insert, and snap, it would be mailed.
Then she would be one of the fifty official contestants in Street Eats, and all she’d need was a truck. Which, if everything went perfectly between now and next week, she’d have. It wouldn’t be the fancy one she’d imagined, but it would be enough to get started.
If everything went perfectly. She wanted to laugh because lately her luck had been fairly crappy. Perfect had become such a foreign concept, wishing for it made her palms sweat.
Last night she’d made up her mind: she was going to go for it. She even set her alarm for the crack of dawn and came down in her Converse and yesterday’s makeup. But now, standing here in her pj’s hidden under her coat, knowing that if she mailed this letter and something went wrong and she didn’t get the food truck . . .
Wouldn’t that be a mess?
She would miss out on her only chance. By nature, golden opportunities came around once in a lifetime, and the rule was you had to take them. She knew the committee would be unlikely to choose her again if she never responded or wasted their time by applying, then saying no thanks. But if she sent it in and then was a no-show?
Emerson closed her eyes and took a slow breath, trying to get a handle on every possibility. When that didn’t work, she changed tactics and tried to think of what her mom would want her to do.
If ever in doubt, eat the whole tray.
Lillianna Petridis-Blake would rather risk a tummy ache than settle for a nibble of crumbs any day. Kissing the envelope, Emerson reached for the handle, and her phone buzzed. She dug it out of her coat pocket and read the screen.
If you need help putting it in the box, just ask.
Emerson paused, then slowly turned around to see if Dax was behind her and, “Holy hell,” her throat closed in on itself, making her battle cry more of a squeak. She clutched the envelope protectively to her, as if the act alone would stop her heart from exploding out of her chest.
Dax stood right behind her, towering over her, actually, pulling in air as if he’d just run a marathon. It didn’t seem to matter that there was frost on the ground, he stood confidently in a pair of low-slung shorts that fell midway down his impressive thighs, a black shirt that clung to his biceps and abs, and a pair of mirrored wraparound sunglasses that said Make my day.
He looked sweaty, sexy, and like the kind of man who could make her day. Only that day—and night—had come and gone and they were back to being client and chef.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, irritated that her heart was still racing and it had nothing to do with the scare.
“Out for a run.” And as if planned, a single bead of sweat rolled down his temple, which he wiped on his shoulder. He took in her ponytail, winter coat, and flannel pajama bottoms peeking out beneath, and grinned. “You?”
“Mailing a letter,” she said.
He lowered his glasses to look at her. Or maybe it was so he could see just how amusing she was. “You know you actually have to put the envelope in the mailbox for the magic of the postal service to work.”
“I am.” But she was still clutching it to her chest.
“Is that why you’ve been doing recon and collecting intel in your pajamas for the past fifteen minutes?”
“‘Recon,’” she said, mimicking his voice. “Oooh. Is that official army jargo
n?” He actually smiled. “And why are you stalking me?”
“I’m a Ranger,” he said, lowering his voice and stepping closer—if that was possible. “If I was stalking you, you’d never know it until you felt my hot breath on your neck. And even then you’d wonder if I’d been there.”
“Your hot breath is everywhere now.” She waved a hand in his face and the envelope slipped out of her fingers.
She bent to pick it up, but he was quicker. He was also a snoop.
“Street Eats,” he read, then those steel-blue eyes met hers and she felt a whole lot more than her palms sweat. “Is that what you need the money for?”
She snatched it back. “Why is it any of my client’s business what I need the money for?”
“A question with a question. Why am I not surprised?”
“Says Mr. Open Book.” She tucked the envelope in her coat pocket with a pat. “You’re always sneaking around and snooping in my business, yet you’ve never once told me, well, anything. I drive you to PT and I don’t even know what happened to your knee.”
He looked at her for a long moment and Emerson considered taking it back. Telling him she didn’t want to know, because knowing meant sharing, and sharing, as Violet would tell her, meant caring. She had too many people in her life to care about. She didn’t need to add another.
“My knee . . . I got distracted,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “Long enough to give up my location and put my teammates in a shitstorm that ended in two casualties. The knee is nothing compared to what could have happened, though.”
Emerson stilled in horror over what he must have gone through. What he’d seen and what he’d lost. A tough, stoic soldier who’d probably visited every corner of the earth but carried few, if any, happy memories from his travels. “Did you lose someone important there?”
“Everyone there lost a lot of someones,” he said, the guilt and pain still clear in his voice. “But that day?” He shook his head. “Thankfully, we all made it out.”
Emerson wondered if he really had. Or if, like her, he was going through the motions so fast there was no time for a real life. No time to reflect and take stock. If he was moving forward, he’d never have to go back.
“Not because of me and my elite training,” he said bitterly. “We got lucky. And since Lady Luck can be temperamental at best, I don’t want anyone standing near me when she decides to go hormonal again.”
Emerson could have said something encouraging, some little tidbit on life to tie up what must have been an incredibly difficult and gut-wrenching time with a pretty bow. But shit happened, she knew this, and quoting motivational posters didn’t take away the stench of guilt. Or the pain. It just diminished the importance of the loss.
“To Lady Luck,” Emerson said, holding up a double birdie, and Dax laughed. “And now for the show-you-mine moment I owe you, I was waffling because once I mail this envelope I have three weeks to find a truck, get it ready, come up with a winning menu, and find a crew to man it.”
He shrugged as if that was no biggie. When in fact it was the biggest biggie of her entire career. “Then why not just drop it in the box?”
“Because I haven’t decided if a bellyache is worse than crumbs,” she said and felt an irritating burn start behind her eyes. Blaming the early hour and lack of sleep, she blinked, but it only got worse.
Allergies. It had to be some allergic reaction to all the weirdness in the air. It was throwing her off, because surely they couldn’t be tears.
She cleared her throat. “My mom and I were supposed to do this together. I would do the cooking and she would help with the prep and work the window, since we were afraid my intensity would scare off customers.”
He chuckled. “And now you are short a team member?”
She was short so much more than that. She was short her mom’s laughs, and hugs, and endless love and support. Such a deficit was created when her mom passed that Emerson wasn’t sure if her dream held any real value anymore.
Emerson didn’t even know what she was going to serve. There hadn’t been enough time to put together a concrete menu plan. They’d made a list of possibilities, a backup list just in case, but nothing had been decided, and making that decision now, without her mom, made her feel empty.
“Yeah, and Harper and Shay have a Kitten Therapy for Kids conference that weekend, so I’d be flying solo. And solo doesn’t work in a food truck.”
Unlike her cart, a successful food truck required a team effort. Which was why they’d planned on hiring an employee or two. But to find someone she could spend twelve hours in a pressure cooker with and not want to stab them in the throat would be difficult. To find that perfect someone before Street Eats?
Impossible.
Dax shrugged, different than his normal I’ve got this shrug. It was almost shy in nature and self-conscious in its delivery. “I’m not much help in the cooking department, but I am lethal with a knife and excel at giving and taking orders.”
Emerson blinked, certain she was having a negative reaction to the weirdness, because she must have misunderstood him. “Are you offering to be my sous chef?”
Dax opened his mouth, then closed it as if he too were confused by his offer. Then he grinned—all charm and swagger. “Why, Emi, are you offering me a job?”
She took a step back. “Negative, Ranger. I need to be able to work with a sous chef and I don’t even know if I like you, let alone if we could work together.”
“Oh, you like me, Emi.” He grinned and came at her. “And we work together just fine. The other night proved that.” She swallowed—hard. “It also proved that I know how to bring in a crowd.”
This was true. With Dax working the window every woman at the event would flock to her truck. And as of now she didn’t have a better plan. Her dad would be more of a distraction than a help, her friends were out of town, and her mom was gone.
Which left Violet or Dax. Violet couldn’t reach the window. But Dax had hesitated—she’d seen it in his eyes—and that, more than the flutters in her belly, made her nervous. “Why are you offering to help?”
“I don’t know, maybe I can pick up some basic cooking skills and learn to make more than toast and steaks.” He fiddled with the yarn ball at the end of her hat. “Or maybe I feel like I cornered you into taking the job with me and now that I see how busy you are I want to help you out.”
“I’ll figure something out, but thanks.” She was fine, absolutely fine. Fine, fine, fine. And if she said it in threes it would magically become true.
“Never play poker,” he said with a laugh. “And before you tell another lie, think about it. It’s one event, then you hire someone else, and we both move on.”
It sounded so easy. Just like one night, no strings, which didn’t seem to be working out all that well.
“I’ll think about it.” He looked at her like her pants were on fire, so she added, “All right, Tough Guy, have you told Jonah your decision about the weapons training position?” His expression said no, that he too was a big fat chicken, and Emerson made the appropriate sound.
“Did you just cluck?” he asked, and she did it again—this time flapping her arms. “Fine, if I go across the street and talk to Jonah, will you put the damn envelope in the box and hire me for the day?”
She looked at the box, then back to the man who had given her one of the best nights she’d had in years. If she had settled for crumbs with Dax, she would have missed out on what it felt like to be carefree again.
Decision made, Emerson pulled the letter out, sent up a silent prayer to her mom, and dropped it in the box.
“Good decision,” Dax said softly, and she felt a secret thrill from his approval.
“What are you going to tell Jonah?” she asked, telling herself that it didn’t matter.
He leaned in, and she felt that hot breath on her neck like he’d promised, and in a conspiratorial voice he whispered, “I said I’d talk to him, not tell you what I decided. Why? Do
you want to know?”
“Nope.” She pulled back, tightening her coat. “No weirdness.”
Which brought her to the next topic of conversation she hadn’t wanted to address. “My dad went on the interview. And he seems to be excited about the job.” She cleared the humble pie from her throat. “He liked how flexible the hours were and is excited about working with tourists.”
Roger was more than excited. He’d talked nonstop all through dinner. Apparently, before he landed in wine he had wanted to be a cruise director, which in retrospect shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was. Living on a floating daydream on the high seas was right up her dad’s alley. And working in a warehouse with the same people, day in and day out, had become taxing, he’d said.
“He still hasn’t gotten an official offer, but it was the first time he seemed open to going back to work,” Emerson finished. “So thank you.”
“I’m happy it worked out” was all he said. No “I told you so,” no rubbing her nose in it, like she would have done. Just sincere happiness that maybe her dad had found something he could take an interest in again.
“I want it to work out,” Emerson said, surprised at how her voice caught. In fact, thinking about her dad finding his place irritated her eyes and her chest. Thinking about him finally finding happiness, well, that about took her out at the knees.
Emerson wasn’t sure what overcame her, but one minute she was staring up at Dax and wondering why his eyes looked so soft, and the next she was stepping into him and wrapping her arms around his middle. Without hesitation, his big arms came around her, until she was completely engulfed in 250 pounds of bad-boy brawn and gentle steel.
Emerson allowed herself to lean into him for just a second to collect herself, to absorb how amazing it felt. Her life had become some abstract equation of love and duty, balancing her own needs against those of her family. Yet a guy who professed to be allergic to obligation had the emotional awareness to give her what no else in her world took the time to understand.
Unwavering support.
“This doesn’t change anything,” she said into his strong chest. “And I’m still mad at you.”
Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena) Page 16