Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(15)
“No. But . . .” Harper reached under the couch and pulled out Emerson’s laptop. “I happen to know of someone who can help.”
“Oh, please God, no,” Emerson moaned, but it was too late. The screen flickered to life and a spreadsheet complete with a running balance, remaining deficit, and an animated trench coat dancing next to the target amount filled the screen. It was the same fund-raising mascot and propaganda presentation Harper used to persuade her preschoolers to sell cookies for art classes or collect coats for charity. She had convinced her students, some of their parents included, that if they all reached into their pockets to help, the Coat Crusader could turn pocket change into social change.
Anytime someone needed cash for a cause, Harper and her you can do it coat friend came to the rescue. “He prefers Coat Crusader,” Harper clarified. “But he is a miracle worker, so I can see how you’d make that mistake.” Back to the spreadsheet. “I had you at ten grand shy, but you only need six.” Her fingers clicked away, then she looked up and smiled. “Two seconds at work and already the Coat Crusader found you four grand.”
“When did you do all of this?”
“The second I saw the letter this morning, I knew you’d get in,” Harper said so sincerely Emerson felt herself shift on the couch cushion. “Which is why when I spoke with Grandma Clovis, we decided you need to go see this potential client.” Harper pulled out a candy bar wrapper with an address scribbled on the inside.
“What’s this?”
“Your missing money,” Harper said. “Last week Giles’ grandnephew came home from the hospital.”
Giles was four thousand years old and a Rousseau, which meant he was related to half of the town. He’d dated the other half until he’d snagged himself Clovis Owens and gave up his ladies’-man lifestyle for the only lady he’d ever loved. “She said that his grandnephew is supermoody and a total handful, running his family ragged. So they were talking about hiring someone to cook a few meals each day.”
Emerson felt for the boy’s parents. Although Violet had been a miracle child, she’d been a turd until she turned two. Fussy, colicky, refusing to sleep or eat on any normal schedule. She also had a wail that could be heard from Mars. “Did Clovis say if they are looking for food delivery or more of a personal chef?”
Because, holy hell, this could work. Sure, the first option would be easier to manage, cooking up their meals for the day and delivering them each morning. She’d worked her way through culinary school doing just that. Made good money too. But the latter option had her heart thumping, because even though it would be more time-consuming, if their schedules matched, being a private chef could bring in some serious cash.
“I think they need someone to make fresh meals on-site. Nothing says home like a fresh-made meal.”
Emerson couldn’t agree more. And not just because she wanted the business. She’d seen the power that a home-cooked meal made with love could have on a family. Some of her happiest memories had been around her family table. Her mom had made mealtime the most important event of the day, a time of exchanging stories and love, and Emerson tried to pass that along to her customers. “Do you know how long they’d want a chef?”
“At least a few weeks. Maybe four.”
“Four weeks?” Emerson tried to play it cool. No sense in getting excited until the job was secure. “Do you know their budget? Because three meals a day, seven days a week, would cost about three thousand dollars.” Which would be huge for Emerson but a bargain in a town where the average personal chef charged upwards of three grand—per week.
“I don’t think that would be a problem,” Harper said, and Emerson wondered if maybe she’d gotten lucky after all.
Dax had spent the last fifteen years wading, waist deep, through the bowels of humanity in some of the most dangerous hellholes on the planet. He knew when to fight, when to regroup, and when to get out of Dodge.
Most importantly, he knew when shit was about to get real.
This was one of those times. Yet instead of lying low, getting in and out unscathed, he’d abandoned every hard-won instinct and fired the first shot. Maybe it was suburbia fever, or maybe they’d missed a chunk of shrapnel in his head, but damn if he wasn’t excited to see the ticking bomb on the other side of the door.
Granted, this bomb was more of a bombshell, equally as lethal but certainly more fun to look at. Her dark auburn hair was loose and curly, her dress surprisingly feminine, and she had on a pair of black leather boots that were sleek, above the knee, and ended a scant inch before her dress began. Little Miss Bite Me was dressed to impress. She looked sophisticated, sexy as hell, and as if she were about to kick him in the nuts.
Nothing new, he thought, keeping a close watch on those pointed boots since he was within kicking distance. Emerson had been four years behind him in school, a scrappy little thing with a lethal glare who never failed to give him a hard time when he deserved it. Which was saying something since Dax had been voted Best Wingman in a Bathroom Brawl.
“Morning,” he said, resting a shoulder against the door frame, sure to plaster on a big smile.
“You,” Emerson accused, taking in his bare feet, workout shorts, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, his tattoos. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here.” He pointed to the bullet-shell doormat his stepsister, Frankie, had given him for a housewarming present.