Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena) (10 page)

“Thank you for your concern,” he said, leaning against a nearby picnic table. “We could have talked about this, say, a few hours ago when I was sitting alone at my table, reading the instructions for how to microwave my made-fresh meal.”

She hit the rock again and a spark the size of a flea ignited, then fizzled in the wind. She swore, then commanded the wet twigs she was calling kindling to combust. When that didn’t work, she narrowed her gaze—at him. “What did you expect me to do? Feed you?”

“Depends.” He smiled, and man, she was cute when she was flustered. And she was flustered all right—he could almost see her feathers ruffling when he gifted her with a wink. “Would you be wearing that skirt?”

“Yup.” She waved her blade in the general direction of his boys. “And my knife.”

She was crazy. Crazy and bossy and so damn adorable he found himself shrugging. “I’m pretty good with knives, better with lace, and a ninja at stoking up fire.” He pushed off the table and walked closer to the pit, studying her piss-poor excuse for a tinder ball. “Need help?”

The look on her face said she’d rather singe off her dominant hand than admit she needed help from him. With anything. Which was really a shame because Dax was having fun. And that restless feeling that had been suffocating him all week was gone, replaced with a lightness that he could only attribute to excitement.

“You just admitted you can’t work a microwave,” she pointed out.

“And you just waved your knife in my face, which in my world is a call to arms.”

She didn’t move a muscle, didn’t even meet his gaze, but still managed to project that
screw off
vibe that had him grinning.

He leaned in, getting close enough that he could smell her shampoo, close enough that he could feel her heat seep through his clothes, and whispered, “Don’t worry, Emi, you’re safe. I don’t want to shock you with the size and heft of my combat-ready blade.”

She swatted him away like a pesky bug and went back to striking her flint—and ignoring him. Three more failed attempts and she glanced to her right, so Dax leaned over her shoulder too, grinning when he saw a wilderness survival book. It was opened to a picture of a mother and child making a fire. Below the diagram was a list of what one should have on hand in their pack. Dax wanted to point out that matches and a lighter should be at the top of the list, but refrained.

“We had a deal,” he said, taking the top sticks off of her pile and restacking them to make a proper pyramid. “I didn’t order takeout. And what’s up with not returning my calls?”

Emerson looked up at him and worried her lower lip—she had amazing lips. “I’m not avoiding you,” she said and he lifted a single brow on that lie. “Okay. I am avoiding you. But not for the reasons you probably think.”

“Then you’re not avoiding me because of that kiss?”

“Okay, so it is just what you think. But it’s also because my week went from crazy to insane,” she admitted begrudgingly, smacking his hand away when he tried to discard some of the wetter wood shavings. “I was going to return your
calls
today.”

He could have called her on that lie too, except the way she emphasized the plural made him feel like he needed to get a life. One that didn’t include playing cloak-and-dagger with the crazy cute girl. “What if I was calling you to say I was lactose intolerant?”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “You’re a man, you’d never admit that.”

“I would if it were a deathly allergy.”

She paused, giving him all of her attention, and even though he knew she was messing with him, he still felt himself falling into those emerald-green pools. “Is that why you were calling? To tell me milk hurts your belly?”

He scoffed. “No, I was calling to ask you for a ride to PT today.”

Her expression went soft, then flooded with guilt, and suddenly Dax felt like a jerk. “I know I said I’d give you a ride, but I can’t today. I have to learn how to make fire, then help my sister with a diorama on the three-toed sloth, and I still have to prep for tomorrow, all before I turn into a pumpkin.”

The strain in her shoulders and the exhaustion beneath her eyes said she was telling the truth. His little army of one needed a break. Yet instead of offering her some creative recreational ideas for how to blow off steam, the go-to for him in these situations, Dax found himself reaching for the bright blue rucksack at her feet.

He looked at the zipper, knew that opening it would be willingly following her down her rabbit hole of crazy, and hesitated. Dax could make fire with a candy wrapper and a ray of sun while cuffed and held at gunpoint—in a blizzard.

That wasn’t the problem.

Making fire would be stepping into the role of hero, and he’d long ago given up that title. But something about the determined set of her jaw, the way her tired hands continued to strike the knife even though he knew she’d never get that wet tinder lit, had him unzipping the bag.

It wasn’t like he was saving an orphanage of children from armed rebels. He was lighting a barbecue, for Christ’s sake. Nothing that would require gratitude past a hot little kiss.

“I can reschedule for tomorrow,” he said, digging past the flashy camping gear to locate the useful tools in about two seconds flat. He grabbed the flashlight, its battery, and a piece of steel wool, and tossed the rest of the useless weight to the ground. “Maybe after dinner.”

“I’m not having dinner with you.”

“Is that a yes to PT then?” Because he could deal with the dinner part later.

“I’ll have to check my calendar,” she said noncommittally.

Played that game. “Go ahead and check,” he said, pulling off a thin strip of the steel wool and tugging it until there was ample flow for oxygen to pass through. “I’ve got time.”

And that was the heart of the problem, he thought. Dax had spent the past decade going full force, running headfirst into hostile territory. There wasn’t time in his line of work to stand idle, at least not without increasing his visibility, not to mention the chance of getting himself, or his men, killed.

Small-town living was all about the slow pace, being neighborly, and smelling the roses. Dax was pretty sure that smelling any more roses would send him into anaphylactic shock. So he picked up a few pieces of drier wood lying under an oak tree, placed them on the other side of the pit, and went to work.

“So about PT?” He scraped a stick on the side of the barbecue until he got to the dry center, collected the fibers into a little ball, stacked some of the smaller twigs, then finally the branches. Satisfied with his pyramid, he unscrewed the top of the flashlight and took out the batteries.

“Fine,” she said. “I can take you tomorrow after I close down the cart. Now stop messing with my things. I have work to do and you’re taking up all my working space.”

She reached for the flashlight and he gave it to her, keeping the batteries and turning his back on her and the wind. He stacked the batteries on top of each other, then laid the steel wool on the contacts of the batteries, and poof.

Dax was in business.

“Oh my God,” Emerson said, trying to look over his shoulder. “It’s glowing.”

He quickly moved the flame to his tinder ball, and with a few strategic, controlled blows it started smoking.

“Fire,” she said, shoving him aside. “You made fire. In like two seconds. Is that even possible?” Since she seemed to be asking herself, he remained silent, then she lifted those big eyes his way, and Dax felt his throat cave in, because Emerson was looking at him as if this was more than a hot-little-kiss kind of moment. More than using a Basic Survival Training 101 skill.

She was looking at him as if he’d just stepped in and saved her day. And worse, he felt that addictive rush that came with playing hero. The one that gave even the most grounded soldier enough of a complex to make life-altering mistakes. And it was working. Dax felt himself surrender to the moment. “Want me to show you?”

She nodded, her smile so animated he felt himself being pulled into her sexy vortex. “I want you to show me
and
my friends how to survive in the wild.”

Not the cozy little rendezvous he was imagining, but still, something he could work with. “It will cost you.”

Emerson looked at his expression as if trying to read his thoughts, and since they centered around him and her, in the wild, under the stars, naked and making heat, he was glad for all of the interrogation training he’d received. And when he was certain she was going to tell him to screw off, she glanced at her watch and let out a long sigh. “Fine, I’ll drive you to PT and cook you dinner.”

“Breakfast and dinner,” he countered, then added, “at my house as agreed upon,” when she seemed like she was sifting her way through the loopholes. Her clenched jaw said she was doing just that. “And no more stealthy aid drops on my porch step.”

She didn’t counter as he’d expected, just zeroed in on something over his shoulder and said, “Deal. I take you to PT and cook you two meals a day. In your house. As agreed upon. And you promise to help me and my girls survive in the wilderness.”

“Babe, I survived four tours in the middle of the desert with only my sense of humor and sand fleas to keep me company.” He’d also had his squad with him, but he didn’t like to talk about them with people who couldn’t understand. “I think I can handle teaching a few ladies how to make fire and set up a designer tent.”

Something about the way she smiled, then eagerly stuck out
her hand, as if she didn’t want to give him the chance to change his mind, should have had his internal warning system nearing DEFCON 1. But he was playing hero. And heroes didn’t hesitate,
because they naively thought themselves invincible. So he took
her hand, pulled it to his lips, and kissed it. “I take that as we
have
a deal?”

“Oh yeah,” she said a little too smoothly for his liking. Then she reached into her bag, pulled out another ball cap, and placed it on his head. This one was red and said
LOVELY
. “Sealed with a kiss even. On the hand, but binding enough.”

She went on her toes and looked over his shoulder. “Hey, girls, let’s get this meeting started by meeting your new Lovely leader.”

“Oh, goodie! Do we call him Lovely Leader Mister?” a familiar and whimsical voice asked.

Dax slowly turned around, and DEFCON 1 didn’t even begin to describe the situation. He’d faced down a mob of terrorists with only one clip, broken into a terrorist camp to rescue a captured squadmate, even watched a piece of shrapnel blow through his knee with enough force to take him out. Yet he’d never been as terrified as right then—staring down a small mob of pint-sized troops in red bows, pleated skirts, and glittery sneakers.

“I don’t see why not,” Emerson said, sending him a cocky grin. “He is a part of the Lovely now.”

“Excuse us.” He took Emerson by the elbow and led her behind the barbecue pit. “No way. I said I’d help your girlfriends, not a bunch of little girls who all happen to be friends.”

She shrugged, not giving a shit that he was about to hyperventilate. “Semantics. Plus, if someone hadn’t told my sister to pull the fire alarm when she saw a zombie, neither of us would be here.”

“I told her to squirt potential threats with water, not pull the . . .” He paused, looked at the girl with c
orkscrew curls and fairy wings, and found himself smiling. And damn if she didn’t smile back. “Pixie pulled the fire alarm?”

“Violet, and don’t encourage her,” Emerson said, turning them so the girls couldn’t overhear. “They evacuated the entire hospital, and their Lovely leader quit, so unless I want to be another person who disappoints my sister, then I am their new Lovely leader. Which in all my spare time should be a snap, so unless you want to find a new chef, then you are my co-Lovely.”

Dax knew jack shit about kids, even less about little girls. No sane person would put him in charge of any squad in his condition, let alone one made up of a bunch of freckle-faced Lady Bugs. Then again, he’d already decided Emerson was crazy, and it must have been rubbing off on him, because he said, “The conditions have changed. Time to reassess. I want two fresh-cooked meals a day, free cuts on your food cart line for lunch, you take me to PT,
and
. . .” He dragged out the word dramatically, making sure she understood that this
and
was as nonnegotiable as his stance on John Wayne being the best Green Beret on film. “I want to share one meal a day with you. At my kitchen table. No microwaves, casseroles, or weapons allowed.”

Emerson opened her mouth to say no, hell no if her constipated expression was accurate, but then a little girl with Kool-Aid-stained lips and blonde curls tapped Emerson’s thigh.

“Lovely Leader Emerson,” she said, her voice so high it would send military dogs running. “Do we have to be near the smoke to make fire? Cuz I have asthma and my mom said the smoke will make me sick and I don’t want to get sick cuz then you’d have to take me to the hospital and I don’t like hospitals.”

Dax smiled. “What’s it going to be, Lovely Leader Emerson?”

Knowing she needed his help, she skewered him with a glare and said, “Fine, one meal a
week
with you and before you go smiling, all smug and irritating, note that even though I won’t have my knife, it’s still not a date.”

N
o way. It’s green.”

Normally Emerson wouldn’t even address the childish comment, just explain how greens were good for a growing body. But today she wasn’t shopping with her picky kid sister. Today she was shopping with a 250-pound superfancy soldier who went squeamish at the sight of anything that grew in nature.

“It’s kale,” Emerson said, taking a head off the shelf and stuffing it into a produce bag. “It’s supposed to be green.”

“Yeah, well, the only thing that’s green in the army is MREs, and I bet they taste better than that.” Dax picked up some kale, then set it back on the display.

Emerson stared him down. This “quick” trip to the market to restock his fridge with healthy choices had already gone over her allotted time. He was due at PT in less than thirty minutes
and
they only had five things in the cart: a case of Bud, a couple of T-bones, coffee, and two containers of Muscle Milk. “You can’t shoot down kale. You already nixed squash—”

“Too mushy.”

“Broccoli—”

“Green,” he pointed out as if she were the slow one.

“Asparagus—”

He lifted a finger. “Green.” Up went another. “It comes from outer space. And it makes my pee smell funky.”

She lifted her own finger to indicate the
GROWN IN THE NAPA VALLEY
sign. “They’re locally grown and good for you.”

“Negative,” he said, not believing a word. “Anything that smells that funky can’t be good for you.”

“I gave you asparagus in last night’s dinner,” she said, thinking back to the meals she’d dropped off over the past few days. Meals that she’d woken up at four a.m. to prepare. “And the spinach in the chicken breast.”

“I picked that out,” he informed her sternly as though he didn’t sound like a finicky eight-year-old. “Had you been there, cooking for me as promised, you would have known that.”

He had her there. She always went to her clients’ houses, did a full preference and allergy chart to ensure what she cooked was high quality, high flavor, and highly enjoyable—based on the client’s palate. She’d skipped that step with Dax, which was completely unprofessional, and now she needed to make it right. Hence the shopping trip.

“Well, I am eating with you tonight—”

“Part of the deal,” he reminded her. “And after sticking me with a bunch of squealing girls for an hour, I think I deserve some dessert too.”

The way he said it, all smooth and full of innuendo, had her stomach fluttering—and her warning bells blaring. “Just think of how good the community service will look on your résumé. Lovely Leader Mister.”

He glanced around at the other customers, then lowered his voice. “Co-leader. And if word gets out about me and my Lovelies, the guys will replace my bullets with tampons.”

She leaned in too, even grinned. “I’ll be sure to e-mail them a photo then.”

Yesterday, Dax had looked like a real hero working with her troop. Ten minutes in and she knew that even though working side by side with him and watching him patiently mentor her sister was going to pull a few heartstrings—and create some pretty steamy fantasies of being stranded in the woods with a highly trained, highly attractive Special Forces guy with the most talented hands she’d ever seen—Dax was going to be the difference between her girls coming home from the campout proud and coming home disappointed. Which was why, no matter how talented he was, this was now, more than ever, a hands-off operation.

“And no dessert.”

Undeterred, he followed her around the produce section. “How about a movie then?
The Green Berets
with John Wayne. A classic.”

“Movie equates to a date, so no.”

“You sure? Those Green Berets are a bunch of badasses.” He grinned. “Want to know the difference between a Ranger and a Beret?”

“The Berets eat their vegetables?” That stopped him short. “Which we need to balance out the ten pounds of meat you picked out.” She picked up a bunch of carrots. She could make some wonderful glazed carrots with cardamom and ginger. “How about these?”

Even Violet ate carrots without complaint. Sure, they were either cooked in butter and brown sugar or dipped in a sauce, but she cleared her plate.

Dax, however, was not of the same school of thought, because he crossed his arms over that massive chest. “A guy with perfect vision eating carrots would only come off as bragging.”

“Are you shitting me? Is this another one of your lactose tummy ache BS statements?” His expression said that this was, in fact, not BS at all.

How was she supposed to make him complete meals if he only consumed red meat, beer, and caffeine? It wasn’t as if she could hide things in his food like she did with Violet, or tell him that the onions were little bits of cheese that didn’t melt. He’d see right through that.

Or would he?

Emerson picked up a bunch of fresh-picked broccoli and paused to study her latest food critic, who was leaning over the berry display, poking through the strawberry containers. He was built like a Humvee, had the arms of a piano mover, a killer backside, and the confidence of a guy who could handle anything that came his way.

As long as it wasn’t green.

Dax rested his hands on the display case to find the perfect box of berries, and would you look at that. The fabric of his shirt pulled taut across his arms, and up his back. The sheer amount of exposed muscle and ink was enough to make her thighs quiver. Then his right biceps danced, flexing up and down in a seductive rhythm that could charm women from the far corners of the earth.

Women like me
, she thought, unable to look away.

“Impressed?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder to watch her watch him and proving that exactly nothing got past Mr. I Can Track a Single Target in Four Thousand Square Miles of Desert with Perfect Accuracy.

“I can paralyze you with a stalk of celery,” she pointed out.

“How about I just ram him with my cart?” Nora Kincaid, St. Helena’s own Perez Hilton and the self-appointed director of the town’s social media presence, asked. “Maybe my pie dish will fall out.”

The older woman placed herself directly in Dax’s path. She was five feet on a good day, wore a church dress and flowered hat, and she bared her teeth before poking Dax in the stomach with a cucumber. No pie dish fell out and not a single thing jiggled. He was solid under there. So Nora upped her game and poked him in the front pocket of his pants.

This time he did move, fast and with purpose, dropping his hands to cover his goods. “What the hell?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Nora said, her beady eyes going beadier.
“You might have perfect vision, but your manners could use a smack to
the forehead.” She looked at Emerson. “They got a vegetable for that?”

Emerson wanted to tell Dax that it was called humble pie, because he looked so thoroughly confused. Then again, seeing him sweat it out would be entertaining, but they were on a tight timeline.

“Hey, Ms. Kincaid,” Emerson said, stepping forward. “We were just talking about your carrot parsnip pie.” Dax looked at her with the most adorable
huh
expression ever, so she smiled encouragingly. “He liked it so much he ate it all in one sitting.”

This made Nora’s lips retract back down into something some might consider a smile. “Did you now?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, so absolute Emerson thought he was about to salute. “It’s why I didn’t want any of Emi’s carrots.” He slid her a sideways glance. “Wouldn’t want to mess with perfection.”

“Well, bring me my dish back and I’ll bake you another one,” Nora said loud enough for the three silvered ladies picking through the brussels sprouts to overhear—not that she had to say it loud since the trio was practically leaning over the wooden case to listen in.

Something Nora noticed, because before Dax could utter another “Yes, ma’am,” she had her phone out and Dax posed under the carrot display holding a bundle by, yes, the green stems. A click of the camera and a few frantic swipes to her screen later, she said, “Perfection, huh?”

Dax hesitated, and Nora’s lips went up again and the cucumber came out.

“Uh, yes, ma’am,” Dax said and Nora lifted a painted-on brow, then cupped a hand to her ear. “Perfection?” When Nora gestured for him to say it louder, he did, and thankfully dropped the question mark at the end.

With a satisfied nod, Nora placed the cucumber in her cart and toddled off, but not before grabbing a few pounds of carrots.

“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.