Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(13)
“Other than you being the exact kind of badass the team was looking for?” Jonah shook his head, and Dax could see the pride behind his brother’s eyes. “Nope. I just know that the difference between the guys who make it and the ones who blow out is their ability to adapt. I also know that teaching these classes would be a good way to blow off some steam while you’re waiting to get back in the game.” Jonah stood and put his hat back on. “And maybe some options in case the game you’re looking for has changed. Oh, and here.”
Jonah handed Dax one more piece of paper. This one was pink and way too official looking to be anything other than his big brother’s way of sticking it to him.
“A ticket, man? What the hell?”
“Driving the bike out front on an expired license and registration is against the law.” Jonah tipped his head. “Now you have a good day.”
Exhausted from another day as the local food-cart girl, Emerson walked the narrow flight of steps leading into her apartment, engaging in her nightly ritual of wondering if today was the day the mail was finally going to deliver good news or bad news. She’d definitely prefer no news to bad news.
Her apartment wasn’t much, but it was cozy and quiet—and hers. Located above the Boulder Holder, a lingerie shop for the curvier set, Emerson had one bedroom, one bathroom, and a one-car garage big enough for her food cart. She also had exactly one neighbor—her best friend, Harper Owens.
Who was curled up on Emerson’s couch, watching the latest made-for-television killer-sharks film.
“Remind me to file a complaint with management. The security around here sucks,” Emerson said, dropping her keys into the bowl by the front door and hanging her backpack on the hook.
“You bet,” management said, holding a container of what Emerson was fairly certain were lamb empanadas to her chest.
Harper’s grandmother owned the century-old Victorian. A few months after Emerson’s mom had passed, the older woman had spontaneously decided to rent out the second studio, which she’d been using as an overflow storage space, for, wouldn’t you know it, the exact amount Emerson could afford.
It was a handout and everyone involved knew it—but numb and desperate for a quiet space to grieve, a place where she didn’t have to be the strong one, where she could process and make a life plan, she’d signed the lease and wound up with Harper as her property manager.
Harper pulled out a flaky pocket of heaven and took a huge bite, then closed her eyes. “God, this is so good. What is it?”
“My dinner,” Emerson accused in her scariest tone. Unconcerned, Harper took a bigger bite, moaned a little louder, then offered up the container as if she was willing to share.
Unsure of how karma would react to harming a person who wore a knitted kitty sweater, pink leggings, and smelled like unicorns and Play-Doh, Emerson snatched one of the empanadas and plopped on the couch. The first bite was heaven. Flaky crust, hearty filling, and a taste that reminded her of crisp fall days with her mom.
Eyes on the screen, Harper said, “I heard Mr. Dark and Mysterious is in town.”
Emerson choked on her bite. She wasn’t a big talker, didn’t need girl time or ice cream binges to chat it out. In fact, she was content to take everything she felt, did, or witnessed to the grave. Too bad Harper was a ninja master of ferreting out secrets. Those big blue eyes, swishing ponytail, and sunny smile were too powerful a force for even a cynic like Emerson to resist. If Harper got wind of a secret, she was on it like white on rice.
Which was why Emerson schooled her features and shrugged as though Mr. Dark and Mysterious hadn’t asked her for a replay of their night together. “Huh.”
“Don’t ‘huh’ me. The guy you had wall-banging sex with, followed by wild shower sex with, and then—”
“I get it.” And reliving it all over again wasn’t going to help her keep her distance, which was imperative.
“Yeah, you got it all right.” Harper snorted. “Which is why I find it odd that he’s back, a few minutes away, and he was at the VFW dance that you were working, and you said not a word about it.”
“Because there wasn’t anything worth mentioning.” Emerson snatched the last empanada and shoved it into her mouth. “I need to focus on my truck, not get distracted in the final mile by some guy—”
“Last time you called him a sex ninja.”
She’d called him worse in her mind. “I was drunk.”
“Which is how I know you were telling the truth,” Harper said with a knowing smile. “When you get tipsy you get all mushy, and girly, and chatty. You even let me do your nails and makeup.”
Which was why she didn’t drink often. First, she was, surprisingly, a lightweight. Second, she went from a fighter to lover in two shots of whiskey—just ask Dax. And most importantly, growing up with a sick mother meant weekly trips to the ER, where she’d go from sound asleep to ready to go in seconds, which had taught Emerson the risk wasn’t worth it. Being in control and ready for anything had been the key to surviving her childhood.
“Winter is right around the corner,” Emerson said. “If the rain gets here before my truck, then I am back to dressing like a clown and catering kids’ parties full-time until spring.” And that would feel like taking a huge step back. Something Emerson wasn’t willing to do.