Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena) (16 page)

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 jargon?” 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.”

She felt him chuckle. “I figured as much when I saw the pureed broccoli in my breakfast. The bits were too small to pick out but big enough to make my eggs green.”

“It was a quiche and broccoli is the supervegetable. All the big-boy soldiers eat it because it makes them grow up tall and strong.”

His pecs danced under her cheek. “I think I’m good.”

I
t doesn’t look like Elsa’s castle?”

Dax looked out at the five pint-sized survivalists in training, all sitting knee to knee, crisscross at his feet in a “Bug Huddle,” as Pixie had called it. He was at the head of the huddle, as crisscross as his leg would let him. “Which one of you is Elsa?”

Giggles erupted among the troops. When no one spoke up, he asked again and the girls looked at each other like
Who is this guy?
And just when Dax was about to tell them to run until they were too tired to giggle, because Lord knew he was too tired to hear any more giggling, Violet raised her hand.

She was in jeans and her Lady Bug uniform, but unlike last time, she had on hiking boots, a red knit cap, and matching mittens—and no wings. “Hey, what happened to your wi—”

Emerson jumped up from the picnic table behind Violet and started slicing her hand frantically across her throat, a clear indication that she needed him to cease his interrogation immediately. Distress call heard and understood, he coughed and finished, “Your Converse?”

Violet looked down. “These are my hiking boots. See?” He did. And he wasn’t impressed. They were pink, with pink sparkly laces—and not a speck of dirt on them. As if she’d never been hiking a day in her life. “And Elsa’s not a Lady Bug, she’s the princess from
Frozen
, Lovely Co-leader Mister.”

Dax scrubbed a hand down his face. And here he’d thought today would be easy. Because, surely, how difficult could it be, hiking in the park and teaching a couple of capable kids to build a shelter using limited supplies? They could walk, talk, read, and giggle—surely they could follow simple instructions. Making it through Ranger selection and his sixty-one days of spec-op training at Fort Benning had been easier.

“Well, according to the official Loveliest Survivalist Campout rules,” he said and could imagine his brothers laughing. A big military badass like him quoting Lovely rules.

But he was already sitting on the ground, crisscross applesauce, as Violet had instructed, and wearing a stupid-ass hat. Might as well commit.

He held up the book as proof. He felt like he’d been pretty clear, and the troops had been nodding, but now that he was done explaining, they were looking at him as if he were an alien with three heads. Who was slow in the three heads. And perhaps had cooties. “To qualify, the shelter needs to be constructed from a single eight-by-ten tarp and things found in nature.”

He pointed to the pine boughs he’d collected and tossed in the center of the Bug Huddle. Then he smiled, because he’d learned that when he didn’t make a conscious effort to look friendly, the little brunette with freckles would duck her head to avoid eye contact and try not to cry. And she was disappearing behind her curtain of hair.

Next to her sat the blonde with curly hair who came with a note explaining that she couldn’t eat dairy, gluten, peanuts, soy nuts, corn nuts, nuts of any kind, refined sugar, imitation sweeteners, soda, or food coloring. Dax couldn’t remember if air was on that list but ignored the food coloring and sugar part since he was certain those Astro Pops were not made with real fruit juice. The poor kid was so buttoned up Dax could barely see her face peeking out from beneath her jacket.

“Well, Elsa made hers out of ice, isn’t that nature?” This came from the one with the Coke-bottle glasses.

He leaned down and squinted at her name badge. “Kenzie, right?” She nodded. “Why don’t we make one out of a tarp like the rulebook says?”

At his suggestion all of the girls’ faces fell. Except for Kenzie’s—hers went combative. “Is that because you can’t make one from ice or because the rules say we can’t use ice?”

He looked at his co-leader for some help, but she was too busy pretending to organize the handouts on indigenous plants for the Fun Forest Foods portion of this survival training class. She was also grinning behind the handouts, he could see it in her big green eyes. Sure, they’d had a plan coming into today—divide and conquer—so he’d taken shelter and she’d taken food sources in the wilderness. But a little backup would have been nice.

“Since it needs to be less than thirty-two degrees for ice to form”—Dax licked his finger and put it in the air as a cool breeze blew by, scattering the pine needles and carrying the fresh scent of Christmas and rich earth, but his finger didn’t freeze—“and it’s clearly not below thirty-two, it would not be a naturally occurring element in the wilderness we are going to enter.” And since they still didn’t look like they believed him—
him
, the guy who had survived being stranded in the desert with only his rifle, his blade, and his ruck—he added, “It will be insulated, so it will keep you warm even if it did snow.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t going to be cold enough to snow,” Violet said to the glee of Glasses.

“I did. It’s not.” Dax cupped the bill of his hat and curled it for a moment. “Look, making a shelter out of ice is stupid.”

The girls all sucked in a scandalized breath and almost—almost—drowned out the single chuckle. From Emerson. Who, if she weren’t looking so damn good in those snug Carhartts and a snugger thermal top with the top two buttons undone, would be on his list.

The undone buttons, though, put her on an entirely different list.

“The first rule in survival?” he said.

“Stay calm!” they said in unison.

“Great. And the second rule?”

“Work smart!”

Now they were getting somewhere. “Right. And working smart is finding the easiest path to the best solution. And making a castle out of ice when you are in a survival situation isn’t as smart as making a shelter out of branches or a downed tree, things you can find easily.”

The girls all shared a look. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but then Violet reached over and patted his hand. “It’s okay that you haven’t built an ice castle, Lovely Co-leader Mister, you could have just said so. We’ll make a regular old shelter from your tarp.” She turned to the rest of her troop. “Right, Bugs?”

“Right,” the girls mumbled disappointedly.

Maybe this was one of those pie dish moments and Emerson was right. Maybe he knew zip about females. Obviously even less about princesses and ice castles. But he knew how to survive so they’d do it his way—plus he was bigger. “This shelter I’m going to teach you about. This is what Rangers would build if they found themselves in trouble. So if there are no more questions—”

Kenzie’s hand shot up and he ignored it. “Let’s work smart. We’ll use that downed tree behind you as the main support and then find more wood to fill it in. So let’s break up into two teams.” He put an arm through the middle of the girls. “Shirley Temple. Glasses. You two go collect as many branches as you can,” he said to the blonde one and Kenzie. “They don’t have to be thick, but they need to be tall. At least as tall as you are. And you two,” Dax said, then smiled because he was addressing Freckles. “I need you and Violet to gather as much fern and moss and as many pine needles as you can carry. The greener the pine needles the better because the smell will ward off bugs.”

“But we are bugs,” Violet said, concern lacing her face.

“Bugs that bite.” He eyed Kenzie, who he was pretty certain had sharp teeth, and clarified, “Mosquitoes.” The girls nodded so he pushed himself to a stand—which took more energy and maneuvering than he’d have liked. “Dismissed.” No one moved. “First team done gets to pick the popsicle flavor.”

They took off running, their little pigtails bouncing.

“Ice shelters are stupid?” Emerson said, coming up behind him, her official red-and-black polka-dotted binder pressed to her chest. “That’s the best you can come up with?”

“I was ambushed,” he said. “For a minute there I thought there was a fifth, missing member named Elsa.”

“I would have helped,” she said, her eyes sparkling with humor. “But you assured me you had it. In fact, I believe your exact words were ‘My legs weigh more than all of them put together, Emi. I’ve got this.’ Then you gave that constipated look you’ve got going on now.”

“Admit it,” he said, stepping closer. “You just wanted to watch a group of six-year-olds hand me my ass.”

“I was going to intervene, but then I started reading this list of dangerous and edible plants found in nature. Which I was supposed to go over
before
you sent them off into the wild alone.” She held up photocopied pages from a book he’d lent her about surviving off the
land. “Funny thing, Ranger, did you know that nearly everything survivalists eat in the wilderness, outside of catching small prey, is green?”

She smacked a stapled packet to his chest, so he trapped her hand th
ere and stepped even closer. He couldn’t help it. When she was all bossy and sassy, he was like a moth to her flame. “I’ve eaten a lot of things I don’t like. Even had crickets on occasion when I was desperate, but that doesn’t mean I want to stir-fry some up tonight.”

Rangers were experts at making something out of nothing—the way to survive was to adapt and overcome—but even when he’d been forced to eat nature’s salad, he’d gagged. Not that he’d let his men see, but it had happened.

“If we are going to get the girls to try clover and dandelion salad, then you have to eat clover and dandelion salad. The X-tremely Edible category is our best shot at winning a trophy.”

According to the handbook he’d breezed through last night, the X-tremely Edible division of the campout challenged each team to find nutrients in nature and creative ways to trap or locate food sources.

“And you have to pretend to like it.” She didn’t move her hand but extended her pointer finger to poke his pec. “One gag and the whole class is over. Got it?”

Another poke.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So put on your Ranger face and man up. Clover is your new best friend.”

He wanted to point out that he was already one step ahead of her. Manning up wouldn’t be a problem. She wasn’t touching him anywhere sensual, just her hand poking into his pec with purpose, but it was as if he could feel her everywhere. She could feel him too, because her eyes went heavy and she looked a little lost, a little dazed, and a whole lot like she wanted him.

“What’s up with Pixie and the no wings?” he asked quietly.

Her face lit with excitement. “We’re trying something new, so don’t make a big deal out of it. But her teacher thought it would be best if the wings stayed home, and she started answering to Violet.” He could tell that she agreed with the teacher, but reinforcing the rules fell completely to Emerson. “So I promised Violet that I would do the twilight walk with her before dinner, like my mom used to, but only if she left the wings in her closet during the week.” She leaned in. “And it’s working!”

“You’re a good sister.” He moved his arms so that their knuckles lightly brushed. “The way you take care of your family is . . .” He searched for the right word. “Sweet.”

She dropped her gaze to his chest and shrugged. “Most people would argue about me being sweet.”

A few weeks ago he would have been one of those people. But he knew better now, knew that her hands-off thing was all for show. It was her armor. What kept her safe from all of the disappointments life had thrown her way.

Dax slipped his finger under her chin and lifted it until she met his gaze. “Most people would be wrong then, Emi, because everything about you is sweet.”

Their gazes held, hers so uncertain and lost he wanted to pull her to him like he had the other day. “It’s getting weird again,” she said quietly, and he could see the pulse beat in the base of her neck.

“I think you meant to say, it’s getting good.” He stepped closer and her breath caught. If this was weird, then he was officially a fan.

“You should probably go find that wood,” she said but he noticed she didn’t move.

“The wood—”

Her eyes went wide and she pressed her hand over his mouth, shaking her head. “No, please don’t say it’s in your pants.”

“Okay.” He kissed the palm of her hand and she jerked it back. And yeah, he might have given her a gentle nip. And then, because he didn’t want to be another one of life’s disappointments, he gave her what she needed right then. Laughter. “I also won’t tell you where the party is then.”

She threw her head back and laughed, then stuck the papers in the neck of his shirt. “Read up, Ranger. I want you prepared for lunch.”

Dax watched her go, her hips swaying as she walked to the picnic table. That sway was the kind of sexy sway a woman gave when she knew a man was watching—and wanted him to watch.

Yup. She was feeling it. Fighting it, but feeling it all the same.

He didn’t bother to tell her he wasn’t eating her lunch, that he’d stopped by Stan’s earlier and enjoyed two bowls of chili and some corn bread—and an hour of chopping. He pulled out the papers and went to hand them back when he noticed red markings in the margins. Phone numbers, notes, big red
X
s through parts.

He looked closer. It wasn’t pages from his book—she’d accidently handed him her list of trucks for sale. Commercial food trucks, to be exact. There must have been ten pages, containing the details on over thirty food trucks for sale in the area. The first several trucks were either untouched or marked out. In fact, there were only three that he could find in the packet that were circled as though possibilities.