Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(23)

“Oh, are we talking now? I figured blasting the radio was female for ‘let’s ignore each other.’”

“I wasn’t ignoring you.” Her plan was to slow down to an easy ejection speed and kick him to the curb. The man had parachuted into hostile territory from a few thousand feet up—surely he could handle a two-foot drop at five miles per hour. “Just not a chatty person.”

There was no point in talking, period. Talking would lead to a proposition, a proposition to arguing, and arguing to sex. And sex with a guy who was leaving was a bad move.

“Really, because I recall the only thing I could do to get you to stop talking was to put my—”

“And . . . we’re here.” Emerson pulled alongside the curb, careful to keep her eyes straight ahead out the windshield and not on his hand, which had been gently rubbing his knee since he got in the car. She knew he was hurting. He’d made too big of a deal about walking normal, even opening her door in the parking lot. But she knew better. Knew all of the ways people deflected from their pain—covered it up.

“Want to come inside so I can thank you properly?” He went to move his leg and winced. Emerson glanced over and wanted to kick herself. He wasn’t in pain, he was in agony—the sweat beading on his forehead was a dead giveaway.

“How bad is it?”

He looked down at his crotch and grinned. “Pretty bad. Want to see?”

She leveled him with a look that did nothing to deter that teasing grin. “Your knee? One to ten, how bad is it?”

“One,” he scoffed, reaching for the door handle. But when he didn’t make a move to climb out, playing the stupid stoic soldier, she felt her resolve crumble.

She leaned over, and as he was about to make some smart-ass crack about how close her mouth was to his stupid stick, she gripped his knee with her fingers. And squeezed hard.

“Jesus, woman!” He tried to jerk away, his whole body jumping off the seat, but she held tight and knew just how bad off he was when he didn’t fight harder.

“One, my ass,” she mumbled. Then she slowly moved her fingers around the knee and down his calf, following the muscles and manipulating the knots she felt. She also felt just how muscular he was, which said a lot since she was pretty sure, based on the scar, that he’d spent a good amount of time in a hospital bed.

Her heart pinched as her fingers followed the long, jagged scar that started midthigh and dipped well below his kneecap. It was angry and raw and slowly but courageously healing—a lot like its owner.

Emerson made the same pass, and this time his body relaxed, sinking back into the seat.

“God,” he breathed, his head falling against the headrest. “That feels good. Don’t stop.”

Even though she knew that she should, that seeing him like this melted parts of her that had no business melting, Emerson couldn’t stop. The caretaker in her wouldn’t let her, wanted to help him feel better, take his pain away.

The at-ease look on his face said she was making progress. Then he turned his head and she saw gratitude in the intense blue pools, and a strange fluttering happened in her chest.

Not wanting to go there with him, Emerson loosened her grip, but Dax’s hand came down on hers, gently holding it to his thigh, the hairs rough against her palm.

“Just a little more.” His graveled voice was thick, his eyes begging her to go on forever, so she ran her hand down his scar, because if the slightest touch meant he was out of pain for a second, she’d do it.

Also because Emerson Blake was a sucker when it came to being needed. Especially by someone she cared about. And no matter how many times she tried to ignore it, she was beginning to care about Dax.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked a few minutes later.

The honest answer would have been that she’d spent most of her life learning how to help manage her mother’s pain, and the last two years since her passing, managing her family’s. But talking about her mom wasn’t something she did lightly, and somehow the thought of talking about her mom with Dax scared her. So she gave a nonchalant shrug and said, “Something I just picked up.”

Dax didn’t pry, just gave a small nod and said, “All the BS aside, I need you to reconsider my offer.”

“For the job or the sex?” she joked, hoping he’d laugh and stop looking at her as though she was special. He didn’t laugh, and the flutters got worse.

“I’m being serious. You’re in the business of making food for a price, and I am a legit customer who’s in need of some good food. And a ride now and then, and maybe some more of that.” He took her hand and placed it over his scar again. “Don’t overthink this, Emi, I need you.”

And wasn’t that just the thing to say to a serial caregiver? Because even though the last time she didn’t overthink things she wound up doing the walk of shame, she found herself asking, “For how long?”

“Just until I finish PT.” And when said like that, so honest and genuine with no underlying innuendo, how could she say no?

Emerson thought of her hectic schedule, then of the golden ticket, which was still in her purse as opposed to being in the mail, and finally of the journal her mom had left for her. There were a million reasons to take Dax up on his offer and only one resounding reason to say no.

She had too many skillets on the burner to add a dish as complex as Dax to the menu. Too many people to take care of and too many dreams on the line to mess with a man who had trouble tattooed across his chest. And his biceps, lower back, and the sexy tribal emblem that started right above the indent of his lower rib.