Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena) (8 page)

“Nice bike,” Emerson said as she pulled onto Dax’s street. “I especially love the orange boot, really adds that badass alpha flare you seem to be going for.”

“Oh, are we talking now? I figured blasting the radio was female for ‘let’s ignore each other.
’
”

“I wasn’t ignoring you.” Her plan was to slow down to an easy ejection speed and kick him to the curb. The man had parachuted into hostile territory from a few thousand feet up—surely he could handle a two-foot drop at five miles per hour. “Just not a chatty person.”

There was no point in talking, period. Talking would lead to a proposition, a proposition to arguing, and arguing to sex. And sex with a guy who was leaving was a bad move.

“Really, because I recall the only thing I could do to get you to stop talking was to put my—”

“And . . . we’re here.” Emerson pulled alongside the curb, careful to keep her eyes straight ahead out the windshield and not on his hand, which had been gently rubbing his knee since he got in the car. She knew he was hurting. He’d made too big of a deal about walking normal, even opening her door in the parking lot. But she knew better. Knew all of the ways people deflected from their pain—covered it up.

“Want to come inside so I can thank you properly?” He went to move his leg and winced. Emerson glanced over and wanted to kick herself. He wasn’t in pain, he was in agony—the sweat beading on his forehead was a dead giveaway.

“How bad is it?”

He looked down at his crotch and grinned. “Pretty bad. Want to see?”

She leveled him with a look that did nothing to deter that teasing grin. “Your knee? One to ten, how bad is it?”

“One,” he scoffed, reaching for the door handle. But when he didn’t make a move to climb out, playing the stupid stoic soldier, she felt her resolve crumble.

She leaned over, and as he was about to make some smart-ass crack about how close her mouth was to his stupid stick, she gripped his knee with her fingers. And squeezed hard.

“Jesus, woman!” He tried to jerk away, his whole body jumping off the seat, but she held tight and knew just how bad off he was when he didn’t fight harder.

“One, my ass,” she mumbled. Then she slowly moved her fingers around the knee and down his calf, following the muscles and manipulating the knots she felt. She also felt just how muscular he was, which said a lot since she was pretty sure, based on the scar, that he’d spent a good amount of time in a hospital bed.

Her heart pinched as her fingers followed the long, jagged scar
that started midthigh and dipped well below his kneecap. It was angry
and raw and slowly but courageously healing—a lot like its owner.

Emerson made the same pass, and this time his body relaxed, sinking back into the seat.

“God,” he breathed, his head falling against the headrest. “That feels good. Don’t stop.”

Even though she knew that she should, that seeing him like this melted parts of her that had no business melting, Emerson couldn’t stop. The caretaker in her wouldn’t let her, wanted to help him feel better, take his pain away.

The at-ease look on his face said she was making progress. Then he turned his head and she saw gratitude in the intense blue pools, and a strange fluttering happened in her chest.

Not wanting to go there with him, Emerson loosened her grip, but Dax’s hand came down on hers, gently holding it to his thigh, the hairs rough against her palm.

“Just a little more.” His graveled voice was thick, his eyes begging her to go on forever, so she ran her hand down his scar, because if the slightest touch meant he was out of pain for a second, she’d do it.

Also because Emerson Blake was a sucker when it came to being needed. Especially by someone she cared about. And no matter how
many times she tried to ignore it, she was beginning to care about Dax.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked a few minutes later.

The honest answer would have been that she’d spent most of her life learning how to help manage her mother’s pain, and the last two years since her passing, managing her family’s. But talking about her mom wasn’t something she did lightly, and somehow the thought of talking about her mom with Dax scared her. So she gave a nonchalant shrug and said, “Something I just picked up.”

Dax didn’t pry, just gave a small nod and said, “All the BS aside, I need you to reconsider my offer.”

“For the job or the sex?” she joked, hoping he’d laugh and stop looking at her as though she was special. He didn’t laugh, and the flutters got worse.

“I’m being serious. You’re in the business of making food for a price, and I am a legit customer who’s in need of some good food. And a ride now and then, and maybe some more of that.” He took her hand and placed it over his scar again. “Don’t overthink this, Emi, I need you.”

And wasn’t that just the thing to say to a serial caregiver? Because even though the last time she didn’t overthink things she wound up doing the walk of shame, she found herself asking, “For how long?”

“Just until I finish PT.” And when said like that, so honest and genuine with no underlying innuendo, how could she say no?

Emerson thought of her hectic schedule, then of the golden ticket, which was still in her purse as opposed to being in the mail, and finally of the journal her mom had left for her. There were a million reasons to take Dax up on his offer and only one resounding reason to say no.

She had too many skillets on the burner to add a dish as complex as Dax to the menu. Too many people to take care of and too many dreams on the line to mess with a man who had
trouble
tattooed across his chest. And his biceps, lower back, and the sexy tribal emblem that started right above the indent of his lower rib.

Emerson looked at their hands, which had somehow become tangled in his lap, noticed how she was leaning over the center console into him and he was leaning back, and became acutely aware of how close their mouths were—how much closer she wanted them to be.

She snatched her hand back and cleared her throat. “I’ll do it, but there will be rules.”

He grinned, and it was a high-octane grin that had her hormones vibrating and her body humming. “I love it when you get all bossy.”

“I’m not bossy, just helpful,” she corrected, and his dimples got in on the action. “Here are my terms. They are nonnegotiable.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he deadpanned.

“I’ll cook your meals daily, drop them off in the morning, you heat them up as needed. No flirting or ‘heating up the kitchen’ comments, and no, I will absolutely not perform any other errands or chores or . . .” She held up a hand when his face twitched and he looked ready to speak. “Don’t do it. I know you want to, but one wrong word and I quit.”

With an amused nod he sat back, but the big jerk was still grinning.

“Although I am your chef,
not
your assistant, I will make an exception and take you to appointments on days when your family isn’t available, but it has to work around
my
schedule, and sometimes I will have Violet with me. I get each week’s pay in advance, and if you blow it by saying something stupid, then I quit and I get to keep that week’s money.”

Satisfied that she had addressed all of her concerns, she rested her elbow on the center console and waited for the rebuttal, which she knew was coming. Dax was as alpha as they came. He liked to be in control of his world and set the rules of engagement. But if he wanted her help, then he’d have to learn how to take orders, because the only way Emerson’s world kept spinning was when she was the commander in chief. “Deal or what?”

“I don’t want to say something stupid, so can you clarify? Was that you being bossy or just being helpful and letting me know that I can speak now?”

Emerson felt her eye twitch.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he rushed before she could say anything, “and to your first point”—he ticked it off with a coordinating finger, in case she didn’t know how to count to one—“if I wanted to reheat my food, I’d hire a delivery service, not a thousand-bucks-a-week chef. Second”—there went another finger—“I would never use a ‘heating up the kitchen’ line. That’s too amateur. As for performances?”

Emerson noticed that this particular finger could be taken as an offer. Or more of a visual cue. She chose to take it as a cue and kept quiet.

“Chores and errands wouldn’t even make my top one thousand list. And finally, Violet along for the ride is fine as long as she doesn’t get glitter on me, because when it comes to my family’s chauffeur services, they’re fired. Indefinitely. Their kind of help will kill me.”

Emerson carefully considered his terms, which was ridiculous since she knew she was going to say yes. Not only was Dax giving her everything she needed, he was being reasonable about his demands. Well, most of them, anyway. And when he spoke, everything seemed so simple. He needed a chef and she needed money.

“I can agree to fresh breakfasts and dinners, but lunch will be tricky because of my cart hours. If a PT session conflicts with my prior commitments, then you reschedule it or find your own way there.” She thought about the farmers’ market and her most recent catering commitment with Ida and decided she was crazy to take him on. Then again, he wasn’t asking her to dress up like a cork. “I need weekends off and I can’t start until Tuesday.”

Dax studied her for a long moment, as though trying to see if she was hosing him. She’d purposefully chosen the vague “prior commitments” route in case things got complicated and she needed an out. Not that she was going to let them get complicated—she was smarter than that now. But with Dax anything was possible.

“Do we have a deal?” she asked, and then to make sure it came off as an actual question and not a command, she stuck out her hand.

“I can work with that.” Dax slipped his fingers around hers and pulled her close so swiftly that her free hand shot out to steady her—landing on his right pec. Which flexed under her palm.

She looked up at him in shock, wanting to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, but she was afraid she wanted him to do everything she saw written in his eyes.

Before she got to voice her opinion in any way whatsoever, his mouth was on hers and he was kissing her.

To be fair, it didn’t take long for her to kiss him back. An embarrassing zero point three seconds was all she needed to go from thinking it wasn’t a good idea to not thinking at all. In fact, they reached critical mass with almost zero acceleration. Her hands were in his hair, his on the curve of her ass, and she was considering leaping over the console to straddle him.

In the front seat of her car.

There was nothing more in that moment that she wanted than to lose herself right there, with him, and forget about everything. Dax wanted her, had made it clear that he was open to fun with no future ties. And didn’t that sound amazing.

Emerson had been tied down her whole life, first by her mother’s disease, then by her death. She’d learned early on that she was powerless when it came to changing the inevitable, yet the hard parts she could have changed—the hospital visits, holding her mom’s hand when things became bad, then when things became unbearable—she wouldn’t. Not for anything.

Those last few months with her mom had meant everything to Emerson.

But she had a choice now, and didn’t that give her the power? Something she hadn’t had with her mother or her family or even with Liam.

It was apparent now that if she pulled back and ended it, he’d let her. If she threw her leg over the console, he’d meet her more than halfway. And the thought was thrilling—fun without the stress of forever was a complete turn-on.

That was something she could handle. If—and this was a ginormous
if
—she hadn’t just accepted the job. But she had. And this situation was a disaster in the making. Dax could be her client or her escape—sadly, in her world he couldn’t be both. And needing all four weeks of income to make a go at Street Eats, she pulled back.

They were both breathing heavy when she asked, “What was that?”

His gaze zeroed in on her lips. “If you have to ask, then maybe I need to show you again.”

“No.” Her voice wasn’t nearly as strong as she’d hoped. “No more visuals. I get it. But there is also a no-flirting clause.”

“I’m not big on flirting. I’m more of a take-action kind of person.”

“Well, the only action that will happen between us will be professional,” she clarified. “So that means that this—”

“Chemistry? Heat? Lust?”

“
Compatibility
needs to be ignored. My life is too crazy.”

“I like crazy.” He leaned in and teased the seam of her lips. “I also like fun. Let me be your fun.”

God, she wanted everything he was offering, but the fun would fade the second they stepped back into reality. The texts, the calls, the babysitting, the sixteen-hour days. It was a lot for
her
to manage. “You wouldn’t last two seconds in my world.”

“I turned snot-nosed brats into killing machines for the armed forces. I can handle anything.”

He sounded so confident and lethal she had to laugh. “You pissed yourself when you thought Violet was mine.”

“Did not.” She raised a brow. “Okay, maybe I freaked for a second. But she isn’t yours, so we’re good.”

Emerson felt her chest pinch slightly at his comment. Old wounds, she told herself. It had nothing to do with the man saying it. “But she is mine, which means no blurring the lines.”

T
he parking lot of St. Helena Hospital looked like a scene from one of those natural disaster films Harper loved so much. People cluttered the street and the sidewalk, talking in high, frantic voices—and all Emerson could think was,
please, God, no
. Because behind the three flashing fire engines, five squad cars, and endless queue of white-robed patients, each barefoot, and each dripping with water, sat Violet.

All by her six-year-old self. No one looking out for her, making sure she was okay. Nope, she sat on the bench with droopy curls and what had to be the sorriest face on the planet.

“Violet,” Emerson called out as she exited her car, but the ear-splitting alarm drowned out her voice.

Heart in her throat, she ran across the lot, scanning the area for the rest of her sister’s Lovelies. Fear mixed with intense fury when she found them and their soggy sashes a good fifteen feet away, standing on the opposite side of the exit, huddled around their leader. Who was paying zero attention to the lonely Lady Bug.

“Violet,” she called again.

Her sister looked up, and Emerson felt her stomach bottom out because Violet’s face went wide with relief that the cavalry was there, then crumpled as she leaped to her feet. “Sissy!”

Emerson had barely made it up onto the curb when Violet locked her little arms around her big sister’s waist. Emerson pulled her in tight, breathed in the scent of glitter glue, bubblegum, and wet polyester—and that’s when she noticed her hands were shaking.

“Are you okay?” she asked.
God, let her be okay.

Violet’s head moved up and down, but she didn’t release her grip. Which was fine with Emerson, because she could use a moment to gather herself. To process the fact that the little soul her mother entrusted her with wasn’t hurt. Wasn’t crying.

Wasn’t dead.

She needed to get a grip. A-SAP. Because it didn’t matter if she felt like throwing up or that her heart was beating so hard she was certain it was going to blast right through her chest, Violet needed Emerson’s strength right then, not her worry. The poor kid had dealt with more worry than any person should ever have to.

“What happened?” she finally asked, kneeling in front of Violet.

“Someone pulled the fire alarm,” Violet said quietly. “And all the sprinklers went off. Then everyone started screaming, and I tried to tell them it was only water and to stay calm like you always say, but nobody would listen. Then Lovely Leader Liza told us to exit the building in a single file.”

Emerson felt her pulse beat a little slower because Violet was safe, the alarm had been silenced, and the firemen were now milling around. It was just a false alarm. But it seemed no matter how many false alarms Emerson had lived through, they never got any easier.

“Then why did you separate from the group?” Emerson schooled her features because they’d had this talk before, and she was certain if she lost it right now they’d have it again the second she turned her back. Violet was a wanderer—just like their father. The biggest ice cream sundae in the world would be wasted on her since she wouldn’t be able to sit still long enough to get through the first scoop. “Rule number seven is—”

“Always stay with the group,” Violet said diligently, giving a pretty good impression of Emerson, making her wonder if she really sounded that uptight. But when it came to her family, rules were the only thing keeping Emerson sane.

“You.” Emerson pointed to the other bugs. “The group. See the problem here?”

“Rule number two is to respect my elders,” Violet said. “And Lovely Leader Liza told me to sit on the bench.”

“Why would she tell you to sit by yourself if she thought there was a fire?”

Violet toed at the ground for a good long minute, her fairy wings trailing water on the concrete as she swished. In the tinniest and tiniest of voices, she said, “Cuz someone pulled the alarm,” then closed her eyes tight and threw a handful of glitter in the air and whispered, “Wings, take me to Lilly Lane Willows.”

Well, hell.
Emerson had to close her eyes too, because she was pretty sure that
someone
was silently wishing her way home.

“You’re still here, kiddo,” Emerson said and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. Violet opened one cautious eye, then the other, only to realize she hadn’t magically transported herself to her backyard, and let out a despairing sigh. “Now, you want to tell me why you pulled the fire alarm?”

Violet shook her head. Emerson, not having any of it, flashed the
Don’t mess with me, I control your bedtime
face. Just like Emerson had when her mom issued that warning, Violet caved like a cheap suitcase.

“I got thirsty and drank all the water in Mister’s bottle. Then I had to go potty, real bad, and my bug buddy was Brooklyn and she said that we’d have to go by the morgue to go to the potty and I didn’t have no water for the zombies so I pulled the fire alarm to be safe,” Violet said in one giant rush of words with no pauses, her voice elevating with each syllable.

“Zombies?” Emerson asked, and it was a sad state of affairs that she was neither surprised nor confused by her sister’s statement. Living with Violet was like living in a choose-your-own-adventure story. Only Violet did all the choosing.

“Brooklyn said zombies eat fairies.” Violet’s voice was heartbreakingly low. “And if they ate me, then I wouldn’t ever get my wings to grow big. So I made it wet so the zombies couldn’t follow. I’m sorry, Sissy, I didn’t mean to make everyone mad, but I want big wings.”

Emerson felt her heart soften a little, because rule number six was to go to a teacher or trusted adult when being teased. But how could Violet be expected to rat out the bully to the bully’s mom?

“I get why you did what you did, and how it would have been hard to go to Mrs. Miner when Brooklyn was teasing you.” Emerson took a big, painful breath, and then leveled her sister with a look. “But zombies aren’t real, Violet.”

She shrugged a slim shoulder, her droopy wing sagging farther under the movement. “I know.”

“Then why did you pull the alarm?”

“Just in case,” Violet said and now she was looking Emerson in the eye. She was the one getting serious. “You said Bigfoot wasn’t real, but then I saw a show on Discovery that has these guys who’ve seen him. They have video and everything. So what if you’re wrong about zombies too?”

Being wrong about fairies went unsaid, but Emerson saw the challenge in her sister’s eyes. She might be six, but she was a Blake through and through. Most days Emerson admired that kind of tenacity, but today she was too tired. And too sad.

Making a mental note to address her sister’s television habits with their father, then deciding it would be easier to just cancel cable altogether, Emerson stood and took Violet by the hand. “Let’s go talk to Lovely Leader Liza and explain the situation.”

Emerson tried really hard to keep her cool, even repeated several times on her way over that punching Lovely Leader Liza, who wasn’t so lovely and was a shitty leader, in the face wouldn’t be a good example for Violet. Not to mention the cops were out in force, so she took a calming breath and said, “Liza, we’ve got a problem.”

Liza turned toward Emerson and flashed that Hollywood smile. Even in her Lovely leader uniform and drowned-kitty hair, she still managed to look the epitome of a Napa Valley momtrepreneur. Her heels were designer and her boobs fake and she had her camera out, probably snapping pics for her mommy blog. “I agree.”

Emerson looked down at Violet, who was looking back as though her entire world hinged on what was about to go down, then to Brooklyn, who was grinning. And Emerson knew that grin—she’d used it a time or two when outsmarting kids in her class. Brooklyn had dealt Violet a losing hand, and poor Violet didn’t even know she had cards to play. Good thing for the Blake girls, Emerson did.

“I think we might need to clarify exactly which problem you’re agreeing to,” Emerson said.

“Sometimes it’s hard to see past our loved ones’ failings.” The moral voice of perfect mommies everywhere leaned in, patting Emerson on the shoulder. “Perhaps we should talk about this in private.”

Emerson looked at the five sets of eyes on her, then shrugged. “I’m good. Because I know my sister. She wears wings to school, hides her vegetables in the bottom of her milk”—Violet gasped as if Emerson was all knowing—“and pulled a fire alarm because someone told her that there were zombies in the morgue, but she isn’t a troublemaker.”

“Some would disagree.” Liza gave Emerson a long, thorough examination, her brows furrowing, which looked bizarre since her forehead didn’t move. “Regardless, your sister has a history of creating problems and with the Loveliest Survivalist Campout coming up in just a few weeks, I’m sure the other parents are concerned.”

“Are you implying that my sister’s not welcome at the campout?”

“Heavens no,” Liza said, waving a manicured hand. “I’m implying that perhaps it would be easier if you removed her from the group altogether.”

Violet sucked in a terrified breath and her hand tightened around Emerson’s. “Are they kicking me out? Like for always? Cuz I need to get my survivor badge.”

“Don’t worry, Vi, that isn’t happening,” Emerson said, ruffling her sister’s hair while getting eye to eye with Liza. “She made a mistake, but she wasn’t the only one at fault.”

Brooklyn glared viciously at Emerson. The kid obviously had no protective instincts, because if she had, then she’d put those beady eyes back in her head before someone knocked them out completely.

“I won the Mommy Choice Award for a wonderful post on my
Whining, Dining, and Diapers
blog titled ‘The Scoop on Acknowledging Shortcomings.’ It addresses the shortcomings of children as well as the parents.” Liza lowered her voice. “I could e-mail you the link.”

“Why don’t you do that,” Emerson said. “And while you’re at it, can you send me the link to that article you did on bullying? Because I’d love to post it on the bulletin board at the Fashion Flower next to the surveillance footage of Violet’s bug buddy bullying her into pulling the alarm.”

Liza made a horrified gasp while clutching at her surgically enhanced chest. “What are you implying?”

Violet tugged on Liza’s pant leg, and when the woman looked
down, Violet whispered, “I think she means that Brooklyn’s a little shit.”

Every pint-sized face went round in awe, and Emerson worked really hard not to high-five her. Violet frowned. “What? I was just telling it like it is.”

“The Lady Bugs are about manners and building young role models,” Liza informed the entire surrounding area. “I refuse to allow my daughter to be exposed to this kind of behavior! And I will not be responsible for a Lovely who doesn’t abide by my rules.”

“Your rules suck,” Emerson pointed out, to the glee of the other four girls. “Lady Bugs should be about making friends and ice cream socials and fun.”

Not that Emerson had all that much experience with any of those—she’d been too busy helping out at home. But she wanted different memories for Violet. It was she who’d signed her up for Lady Bugs to begin with. She wanted her sister to experience being
a kid, have some fun, and find a space that she fit.

“Not taking field trips to a hospital. I mean, is ‘Whoopee, I’m going to see sick and dying people today!’ something any of you ever say?”

Not a single kid raised her hand. Not even Brooklyn. Then a little girl with a surgical mask scooted closer to Violet and said, “They didn’t even give us suckers.”

“Or let us play with the dolls,” another one with glasses said. “And the dolls were naked.”

“They were first-aid dolls,” Liza defended, but the girls weren’t listening. In fact, it appeared that every one of them was excited to be heard, which told Emerson that Violet wasn’t the only one who was unhappy.

“Last year’s Lovely Leader Carol took us to a doll factory, then got us ice cream,” Glasses was explaining, and for the first time since Emerson had arrived, the girls were actually smiling.

“Ice cream rocks,” Emerson agreed.

“Ice cream and doll factories won’t help win the Loveliest Survivalist,” Liza said, taking Brooklyn by the hand. “Calistoga Lovelies Nine-Eight-Three knows that. It’s why they are seven-time Loveliest Survivalist champions. And they have been begging Brooklyn to join their group since pre-K.”

“Well, then what are you standing here for?” Emerson asked.

Liza looked at the group of misfits who had moved closer to Violet and took Brooklyn by the hand. “I have no idea.”

Emerson watched Liza blast through the parking lot, completely oblivious to the chaos around her, and she wondered how a woman like that had been put in charge of a bunch of impressionable kids, then wondered why all of the remaining bugs were looking expectantly at her. As if she were the queen bug. And suddenly a bad feeling started in her gut.

Glasses stepped from the group and asked, “Are you going to take us to ice cream, Lovely Leader Emerson?”