Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(17)

Usually this got women going. Not Emerson—she just yawned. “So you’ll play with civilian-approved toys instead of federal toys. Isn’t that trading down?”

When put like that . . .

“Security was always my plan B.” One that he’d never imagined he’d have to implement. Dax had gone into the service expecting to be a lifer, but his one bad decision had changed everything. For a whole lot of people. “Better than plan C.”

“Which is?”

“Hiring myself out as a male model.”

She laughed, and what a great laugh she had. Bold and uninhibited and showing all of those white teeth. She cleared her throat, then her face softened. “I’m sorry. I know how much it sucks when plan A doesn’t work out. And I want to save you from your crazy family.” Something about the way she said it made him believe her. Made him wonder if her food cart was her plan A or if, like him, she was living her backup life.

“Look, I have four weeks to get myself ready if I’m going to secure the job.” After his meet and greet with Fallon, Dax was certain he was a front-runner. “Not easy when every person on my family tree has dropped by to check in on me, bring me cake and covered dishes, or invite me to dinner. My great-aunt Luce showed up yesterday morning with her cat and enough toaster waffles and bacon to feed my entire squad. The woman sat with me until I finished the entire plate.” It was as if his pores were seeping bacon grease and syrup. “I swear, one more cheese-covered casserole and I will bust out of my pants.”

She released a big sigh, her gaze going back to his knee, so he hobbled a bit for added effect. “So you’re looking for a personal chef?” And bingo, she was interested.

“More of a personal assistant. Someone to stock the fridge with good food, make healthy meals, pick up prescriptions.”

Her face went flat, her eyes were back to frostbite again. “Sorry, I don’t have time to run your errands, Ranger. Call someone else.”

She turned to leave, so he reached out and grabbed her arm, and the sparks that shot off had every inch of him standing at attention. She turned to look at him and, yeah, honey, that kind of heat was nuclear grade. “I don’t want anyone else.”

He didn’t want people in his space, asking him to retell the story, looking at him like he was a broken soldier every time someone found out the real reason behind his return. He wanted the sexy, sharp-mouthed chef in front of him. “I’m offering you four grand for four weeks of meals and a few errands.” Her gaze didn’t look as chilled as it had moments ago. Her eyes even dilated at the price, something he took as a good sign. “You want the job. I want you to take the job. So just say yes.”

He recalled liking the way she said yes. Loved when she screamed it.

Emerson waffled for a long moment, glanced at her POS car, then back to her dress, and finally looked him dead in the eye. No BS present, she said, “I can’t work for someone who knows what my tattoo looks like.” He dropped his gaze to her boots and the cute little daisy he remembered that sat above her right ankle. “Not that one and, hey!” She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Don’t look.”

He didn’t need to. Every branch and slope of that tattoo was also firmly cemented in his mind. All he had to do was close his eyes and he could picture the elegant vine of purple flowers that he had traced from her right shoulder, curving down her back and over the gentle slope of her ass to her other hip.

With his tongue.

“And stop picturing it,” she demanded, poking a finger in his chest. “This is why I can’t take you on as a client. Sex makes things weird.”

“Then we did it wrong. Which means, for the sake of my ego and pride, we need to give it another try.”

“Sorry, you’re not my type.”

Too bad she was looking at his chest when she said it.

“Emi,” he whispered and she slowly met his gaze. “I was your type when you were screaming out my name.”

She ignored this. “I’m done with that type. All mysterious and intense.”

“What you see is what you get.”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “Dax, you are a human puzzle. One of those superhard round puzzles. Of Darth Vader’s cloak. All dark, and complicated, and brooding. I have enough complication in my life. I want someone who is nice—”

“Check.”

“Sensitive—”

“You’d eat sensitive for breakfast.”

“Rock solid.” He flexed a little, even though he knew she meant stable. “And makes me laugh.”

“Knock knock,” he said.

“Good-bye,” she said, turning toward her car, those hips of hers swishing right down the walkway and toward the street.

“So is that a no on the job or the sex? Or both?”

His only answer was the slamming of a car door.





Asshole,” Emerson said as she pushed through the front door of the Fashion Flower. A warm blast of cinnamon-and-crayon-scented air greeted her, along with the sunny jingling of a bell and a collective gasp so loud it was as if all the oxygen were sucked out of the room.

It was Watercolor Wednesday at the kids’ boutique, so the room was filled to capacity with kid-sized easels and three-foot-tall Picassos vibrating with titillation over the masterful use of the naughty word. The moms looked neither impressed nor titillated.