Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(51)

“I made a call.”

She turned and paced, and he could see her mind processing the information. Emerson was independent, liked to stand on her own two feet. He got that. He wasn’t called Wolf for nothing. But Dax knew when he needed backup. And Emerson needed some in a bad way.

“What if my dad gets the job?” She spun around. “Or what if he gets the job and they fire him because he isn’t qualified? Then he’ll be unemployed and a failure.”

“It’s talking about wine,” he said. “I doubt that a guy who’s worked with grapes for thirty-five years can’t talk about wine to some customers.”

She blew out a breath. “Why did you recommend him?”

This time he paced the room, until he was standing back in front of her. “Because your dad needed a job, my grandpa had one, and that’s what friends do. You’re helping me out with rehab. What’s the difference?”

“I’m cooking for you because you’re paying me, and because you’re helping out with my sister’s Lovelies.” Yeah, it was still a * title. “We were even. This makes it . . .” She took another breath, and when she looked up at him, all he saw was exhaustion. Bone-deep exhaustion that rubbed him the wrong way. “It’s just easier to manage expectations when I handle everything myself.”

He wanted to argue that she couldn’t balance the load she’d been carrying forever. At some point she was going to break, and he didn’t want to see that happen. Then again, he wouldn’t be around when it finally did.

“You, Emerson Blake”—he poked her shoulder—“have a God complex.”

And he meant that in the best possible way. Not in the same way as his, staring down the scope, deciding who lived and who died. Emerson was a nurturer, feeding and caring for everyone in her life, doing whatever it took to make their lives better.

Fuller.

“Takes one to know one,” she finally said, gifting him a small smile. She was still frustrated, that much was clear, but most of her defensiveness had faded. “No more weirdness. You are my client, I am your Lovely co-leader. That’s it. Got it?”

He gave her a slow, thorough study until her face was as red as the flames on her shoes. “Something we can talk about tonight, over dinner.”

“Oh no.” Hands out, she took a big step back. “I will cook you dinner, then leave.”

“That’s not the deal.”

“The deal was a meal a week. Over three weeks would equal three meals. We had three meals Saturday.” She held up three fingers to demonstrate.

“I had three.” And because he loved to see her squirm, he took her other hand, which was jabbed into her hip, and pushed up four more fingers. “You had seven.”

She snatched her hands back and picked up the grocery bag. “No one likes a bragger, Dax. No one.”



A few days later, Emerson stood in front of the post office on Main Street, her jacket pulled around her ears. The office was clearly closed, and according to the sign, it wouldn’t open for another two hours. Two hours was a long time to wait.

She could go for a run, eat an entire pan of bread pudding, pick the lint off her couch.

“I should come back,” she said to no one in particular.

Or you could drop it in the mailbox. Because she knew if she walked away, come tomorrow that envelope would still be in her backpack, and then it would be too late.

She pulled out the envelope and looked at it in her hand, then at the mailbox, even touching the little handle to see how easy it was. Open, insert, and snap, it would be mailed.

Then she would be one of the fifty official contestants in Street Eats, and all she’d need was a truck. Which, if everything went perfectly between now and next week, she’d have. It wouldn’t be the fancy one she’d imagined, but it would be enough to get started.

If everything went perfectly. She wanted to laugh because lately her luck had been fairly crappy. Perfect had become such a foreign concept, wishing for it made her palms sweat.

Last night she’d made up her mind: she was going to go for it. She even set her alarm for the crack of dawn and came down in her Converse and yesterday’s makeup. But now, standing here in her pj’s hidden under her coat, knowing that if she mailed this letter and something went wrong and she didn’t get the food truck . . .

Wouldn’t that be a mess?

She would miss out on her only chance. By nature, golden opportunities came around once in a lifetime, and the rule was you had to take them. She knew the committee would be unlikely to choose her again if she never responded or wasted their time by applying, then saying no thanks. But if she sent it in and then was a no-show?

Emerson closed her eyes and took a slow breath, trying to get a handle on every possibility. When that didn’t work, she changed tactics and tried to think of what her mom would want her to do.

If ever in doubt, eat the whole tray.

Lillianna Petridis-Blake would rather risk a tummy ache than settle for a nibble of crumbs any day. Kissing the envelope, Emerson reached for the handle, and her phone buzzed. She dug it out of her coat pocket and read the screen.

If you need help putting it in the box, just ask.

Emerson paused, then slowly turned around to see if Dax was behind her and, “Holy hell,” her throat closed in on itself, making her battle cry more of a squeak. She clutched the envelope protectively to her, as if the act alone would stop her heart from exploding out of her chest.