Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(37)

Being a fool was better than going crazy, he thought, and that was exactly where Dax was headed if this injury put him out longer than he’d been told. Between the surgery and recovery, he’d planned for twelve weeks total. Twelve weeks of sitting on his ass and thinking about things he’d rather forget. His twelve weeks were almost up, and if he wasn’t ready at the end of them, the job would go to someone else and he’d be stuck riding a desk just like Kyle said. It was an unacceptable scenario.

Dax took a step and felt the weight of ten countries press down on his knee. By the time he dragged himself off the mat, a sharp gnawing had taken up residence in his left leg and lower back. Sweat beaded on his forehead and—Jesus—the only thing he could think about as he ran toward the garbage can was that the prick was right.

Dax was going to embarrass himself.



Confused and, quite honestly, concerned, Emerson tried to keep her eyes on the road, but they continued to stray to the silent passenger next to her. The sun had set, casting a tangerine hue over the valley floor, setting fire to the changing grape leaves and making for an amazing autumn sunset.

It could have been snowing for all Dax seemed to notice. He hadn’t said a single word since she’d picked him up other than to tell her that PT was fine, his knee was fine. Everything was fine.

He looked fine, didn’t limp when he walked to the car, even smiled. In fact, outside of the dullness behind his eyes, there was nothing outwardly pointing to the fact that he wasn’t being honest. Nope, Dax was the captain of calm.

But Emerson had a gut instinct that something was off. And her instincts were rarely wrong.

“Glad your knee’s fine,” she said, pulling into his drive and putting a little more oomph behind hitting the brakes than necessary.

Dax didn’t flinch, didn’t even react other than to flash her a knowing smile. How did he remain so controlled when she knew his knee was killing him?

Emerson threw the car in park and reached across the console. She placed her hand on his knee and pressed her fingertips under the kneecap.

“Jesus,” he gasped, partly out of pain and partly out of relief.

“I thought you were almost done with PT?” The way he had made it sound the other day, he was on his last few visits, but this felt like more-than-a-few-visits kind of recovery. She released her grip only to tighten again, and this time his leg jerked, but she held on. “How bad is it?”

He didn’t answer, just closed his eyes as she manipulated the tissue around the knee. It was hot to the touch and, the way his breathing went shallower with every pressure point she touched, angry.

“Did you learn how to do this for your mom?” he asked quietly.

Her hand paused at the unexpected question, and so did her heart. She considered giving him her it’s-no-biggie stock answer about taking a few massage therapy classes at the local JC to avoid a real conversation about what that really meant. But something about this moment, about the way he was asking, made blowing it off impossible.

“When I left for culinary school she was struggling with small things, opening jars, standing for long periods of time, but she was good at hiding it. By the time I came home her disease had progressed to the point that hiding wasn’t an option. It was awful. Just walking in the yard with Violet was like hiking up the side of a mountain with hundred-pound weights tied to her ankles.” Emerson took a deep breath. “She didn’t want Violet to miss out and she was determined to live a lifetime in a few years. So I learned how to ease the pain afterward.”

“Is that why you’re the head bug?” Dax asked and she nodded.

“Lovely leader, and yeah, I had an amazing mom for twenty-seven years. Violet will never have that.” Emerson’s hands kept gently working his knee. It was strange, her mom had been gone almost two years and yet her fingers remembered exactly what to do. “But I am head bug, as you put it, because my sister thought it was smart to take on an army of zombies with fire sprinklers.”

Dax chuckled, but it seemed strained. Then a large hand came to rest on hers. “Can I get a rain check on dinner?”

“That bad?” she asked and a swift flood of concern filled her chest.

His head rolled to the side to meet her gaze, and what she saw there floored her. It wasn’t that stoic soldier she’d become so familiar with looking back. Nope, he was stripped down. Maybe he hurt too much to fake it, or maybe he felt safe enough to be open with her.

Dax without any armor was like catnip.

“It’s a lot of things, so I think it would be smart for me to go inside and you to go home.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, wondering when this had become so important. Yesterday she had been dreading dinner, but today, after their time at the store, she was actually looking forward to it. Looking forward to a fun night of flirting and laughing and the freedom to be a single woman. Not a nearly thirty-year-old guardian and business owner who had more responsibilities than a single mom.

Oh, who was she kidding? Emerson was looking for a fun night of flirting with Dax. Because flirting with Dax was more than fun, it was exhilarating.

“No,” he said, his voice rough and his eyes—those were on her lips. So intense Emerson felt them tingle. “I’m not.”

She wasn’t either anymore, which was why she needed to leave. Needed to pack up and clock out, because something had shifted. The teasing banter and sexy sparring had turned deeper, and that warm hum of connection they were sharing had turned electric. Suddenly, being trapped in her little car with a man as big as life made it hard to breathe. The last time she’d felt this intoxicated had been that night in San Francisco.