Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(16)
“Alone?” she asked, and he could practically feel her willing him to say that, yes, he was just visiting, and behind him was a happy and homey family in desperate need of her services.
She was going to be disappointed.
“Yup. And you”—he tapped his watch—“are very punctual. I like that. Shows me you don’t always have to be the one in control.” He stepped back in invitation. “Now, would you like to do the interview in the kitchen, or maybe in the hot tub?”
“Unless you’re a fussy child, then this interview is over.” She paused to glare, and it was a good glare. One that would have had most men squirming. Dax was just amused, and it must have shown because she threw her hands up and said, “Scratch that, you are a child. An overgrown child in need of a time-out. Interview definitely over.”
And then, because she looked like she wanted to inflict bodily harm, he said, “I’m not opposed to spanking or a time-out, hot-tub style, as long as you play lifeguard. But we’d have to add the right verbiage in the contract.”
“Didn’t you hear a word I said?”
“Sorry. Still thinking about that verbiage.”
“Is this fun for you? Finding amusement at my expense?” she asked, and he could tell this was nowhere near amusing for her. There was something about the way her voice shook that told him he’d screwed up. That she wasn’t angry, but genuinely upset. “What part of my life being crazy did you miss?”
“I didn’t.” In fact, part of the reason this plan was so good was that it would help them both out. “I knew you wouldn’t come if you knew it was me, so I asked your friend to keep it quiet.”
Wrong thing to say, he realized, because her eyes went so frosty he felt his nuts shiver. “Do you have any idea what I had to do in order to make this appointment? How much money I am going to miss out on because I had to cut my prep work in half to get here on time?” She lifted her arms to the side and looked down at herself. “I’m in a freaking dress.”
“It’s a pretty dress,” he said, feeling like a grade-A jerk.
“That I bought. For an interview. With a potential new client.” There went that anger again, which was a hell of a lot better than the disappointment he’d seen. “Who doesn’t exist. God, you’re a jerk.”
This was not going as planned. Dax had expected her to see him, get a little pissy, then a whole lot bossy. Then they’d work out some kind of arrangement to stop the never-ending covered-dish parade through his house so he could finally get some peace and quiet, and Emerson would make some cash out of the deal. It was win-win all around. And if they happened to get a little hot in the kitchen, so what? They were grown adults with enough chemistry to launch a land-to-air rocket.
But there wasn’t going to be any cooking—in the kitchen or otherwise—if he didn’t fix this.
“I am a jerk and I’m sorry. There is a job offer and you didn’t waste your time.”
He pushed off the wall and stepped onto the porch. She didn’t budge. Nope, Emerson jabbed her hands onto her hips and strained her neck to look up at him. “Go on,” she said, and the fact that her bossy tone was back told him he hadn’t blown this completely. So he decided to go for honest.
“I suck in the kitchen. A decade and a half of eating in a mess hall means I suck in the kitchen.”
This made her happy. “You can’t cook anything?”
“I can grill,” he said a little defensively. “And I cook a mean almond-crusted salmon with fingerling potatoes.” He grinned. “I should make it for you sometime.”
“Your make-it-happen meal? I’ll pass, thanks,” she said and then laughed at his expression. “Whenever a guy wants to seal the deal with a lady, they invite her over, lower the lights, and cook that one dish that was on the cover of Maxim. Voilà, her panties hit the floor before the salad course is served.”
She was good. “Fine, no salmon. Bottom line is, I’m in town for another four weeks, and if I have to eat one more tuna casserole I’m going to weigh three hundred pounds.” He placed a hand on his stomach and she rolled her eyes. “Seriously, we don’t need one more fat security guy on the street.”
“Security?” she asked, confusion creasing her brow. “What about the army?”
He lifted the leg of his shorts to expose a raw scar going from his thigh to below the kneecap. “The doctor said this would make it a little hard to jump out of choppers.” Although he hadn’t needed some fancy stethoscope wearer with letters after his name to confirm what he’d known the second he heard the first mortar explode behind him. The shrapnel had torn through his knee and shattered what had been one hell of a career in the making.
Spending the rest of what had been a high-octane career sitting behind a desk was not an option. And training more kids to put their trust in some guy like him? Nah, he had enough nightmares as it was.
“Must have hurt like a bitch,” she said and he had to laugh. Emerson didn’t faint or fuss or ask him stupid questions like if it hurt or if he was pissed his career was over. Didn’t even ask him how it happened. Instead, she raised a brow, admired the scar for what it was, and said, “So a mall cop, huh? Do you get to ride one of those Segways?”
“Private security,” he clarified, because that sounded way more manly. Then he crossed his arms, sure to flex his biceps and send that Special Forces tattoo dancing. She seemed fond of that one. “I’ll be protecting politicians and Silicon Valley hotshots.”