Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(50)

“I thought the point to this morning was to ease into things,” Adam said, shifting back and forth on his feet. “So that you don’t blow all the hard work the surgeon did in San Diego.”

“Are we talking easing in army terms or fire department? Because I’m not doing any of that prissy shit.” Dax waved a hand in Adam’s direction.

“You mean like handing out dildos with built-in laser pointers?”

Point taken. “I’m just saying you run with empty hoses, we run with telephone poles. Just want to make sure you can keep up.”

“I would have thought you’d be nicer after Saturday. You were actually making headway with the cute cart girl.” Adam turned his ball cap backward and studied him. “Unless you didn’t get any.”

Dax ignored this and took off in a hard jog, because that wasn’t the problem. He’d gotten plenty. It was a steaming, mouthwatering, three-course affair. Only just like the first time, come daybreak it wasn’t enough.

Adam easily caught up, which meant Dax was in worse shape than he’d thought. They jogged in silence, following the same route they’d done when they were kids and he was training for the day he could enlist. Only the farther they went, the more he thought about the other night.

“You’re pouting,” Adam said, then stopped and laughed, resting his hands on his knees. And just when Dax thought he was laughing at him, Adam laughed some more. “No way, you like Cute Cart Girl.”

He did. He liked the crazy cart cutie. She was funny, quirky, sexy, and tough. Her entire world had been buried with her mother, yet she kept pushing forward, even carrying the added weight of her family without complaint. Never once allowing the extra baggage or unfairness of it all to take her under.

Then the other night, she’d dropped the tough-girl act and showed him her soft edges, and man, soft looked good on her. Almost as good as Emerson looked on him.

“I’m not pouting,” Dax said.

He was strategizing.



Dax was doing his daily PT in the gym off the kitchen when he heard a knock at the door. It was prickly and impatient, which meant Emerson was early. He glanced out the window but didn’t see her car.

The knock sounded again, followed by a text on his phone. He grabbed his phone, read the screen, and laughed.

I know you’re home.

He texted back.

Are you stalking me?

His phone buzzed immediately.

That would be weird. And we promised no weirdness. Remember?

Oh, he remembered. And nothing about it felt weird to him. He texted back.

Knock knock . . . You say “who’s there?”

To which she replied:

Seriously? Just open the door.

Dax found himself smiling.

It’s unlocked.

He gave a few rapid curls to make the tats stand out, then set down the weights and, ignoring his shirt, grabbed a rag off the bench to at least clean the sweat off his face when he saw the front door burst open.

Emerson stormed inside, her flame-covered Converse squeaking on the wood floors as she stalked the length of the house and right up to him. She was sporting another one of those fantasy-inspiring leather skirts, a black tank that did nothing to hide her curves, and enough anger to singe his nuts off. She also had a canvas grocery bag in hand.

“My dad just called me,” she said, her eyes sparking with fury. “Do you know why?”

He had an idea. Not that she gave him time to answer.

“It seems someone”—she set down the bag to throw up jabby air quotes—“from Baudouin Vineyard called him and asked him to come in for an interview tomorrow.”

“Good for him.” Dax crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the door frame, waiting for the bad part of her story. Because he knew if Roger was interested, the job would be his. He knew this because he’d called his grandpa that morning and asked him for a favor.

“It’s for a tasting room manager position,” she said dramatically. “My dad has never even gone wine tasting!”

Dax still didn’t see the problem. Most women would be thanking him, and even though he knew Emerson wasn’t most women—hell, she was unlike any woman he’d ever met—he still hadn’t anticipated this kind of response. “Well, he lucked out then, Baudouin wines are the best in the valley.”

Her eyes narrowed into two pissed-off slits. “Cut the shit, Dax. You’re that someone.” Then the strangest thing happened: her anger turned to agitation. She was nervous. “I thought there wasn’t going to be any weirdness.”

He pushed off the wall, approached her, and rested his hands on her hips. “There isn’t.”

She batted at his hands but didn’t back away. “The guy who I just saw naked is finding my dad a job. That’s weird.”

When put like that, yeah, it was. Even weirder than his asking his grandpa for a favor—something he never did.

“For the record, I saw you naked too,” he said, and she didn’t laugh as he’d hoped. “And even though it sounds weird, it’s not. You said he needed a job, I knew that my grandpa was hiring. I might have mentioned your dad’s name.”

There. Simple. Very normal. Nothing to be upset about.

But she was still upset.

“That wasn’t your place.” She poked him in the chest. Hard. “It was supposed to be one night, no strings, and now you’ve just gone and . . . well, you’ve . . .” she sputtered, made a few exasperated huffs, then poked him again. Right in the pec. “You tied us together.”