Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(52)

Dax stood right behind her, towering over her, actually, pulling in air as if he’d just run a marathon. It didn’t seem to matter that there was frost on the ground, he stood confidently in a pair of low-slung shorts that fell midway down his impressive thighs, a black shirt that clung to his biceps and abs, and a pair of mirrored wraparound sunglasses that said Make my day.

He looked sweaty, sexy, and like the kind of man who could make her day. Only that day—and night—had come and gone and they were back to being client and chef.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, irritated that her heart was still racing and it had nothing to do with the scare.

“Out for a run.” And as if planned, a single bead of sweat rolled down his temple, which he wiped on his shoulder. He took in her ponytail, winter coat, and flannel pajama bottoms peeking out beneath, and grinned. “You?”

“Mailing a letter,” she said.

He lowered his glasses to look at her. Or maybe it was so he could see just how amusing she was. “You know you actually have to put the envelope in the mailbox for the magic of the postal service to work.”

“I am.” But she was still clutching it to her chest.

“Is that why you’ve been doing recon and collecting intel in your pajamas for the past fifteen minutes?”

“‘Recon,’” she said, mimicking his voice. “Oooh. Is that official army jargon?” He actually smiled. “And why are you stalking me?”

“I’m a Ranger,” he said, lowering his voice and stepping closer—if that was possible. “If I was stalking you, you’d never know it until you felt my hot breath on your neck. And even then you’d wonder if I’d been there.”

“Your hot breath is everywhere now.” She waved a hand in his face and the envelope slipped out of her fingers.

She bent to pick it up, but he was quicker. He was also a snoop.

“Street Eats,” he read, then those steel-blue eyes met hers and she felt a whole lot more than her palms sweat. “Is that what you need the money for?”

She snatched it back. “Why is it any of my client’s business what I need the money for?”

“A question with a question. Why am I not surprised?”

“Says Mr. Open Book.” She tucked the envelope in her coat pocket with a pat. “You’re always sneaking around and snooping in my business, yet you’ve never once told me, well, anything. I drive you to PT and I don’t even know what happened to your knee.”

He looked at her for a long moment and Emerson considered taking it back. Telling him she didn’t want to know, because knowing meant sharing, and sharing, as Violet would tell her, meant caring. She had too many people in her life to care about. She didn’t need to add another.

“My knee . . . I got distracted,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “Long enough to give up my location and put my teammates in a shitstorm that ended in two casualties. The knee is nothing compared to what could have happened, though.”

Emerson stilled in horror over what he must have gone through. What he’d seen and what he’d lost. A tough, stoic soldier who’d probably visited every corner of the earth but carried few, if any, happy memories from his travels. “Did you lose someone important there?”

“Everyone there lost a lot of someones,” he said, the guilt and pain still clear in his voice. “But that day?” He shook his head. “Thankfully, we all made it out.”

Emerson wondered if he really had. Or if, like her, he was going through the motions so fast there was no time for a real life. No time to reflect and take stock. If he was moving forward, he’d never have to go back.

“Not because of me and my elite training,” he said bitterly. “We got lucky. And since Lady Luck can be temperamental at best, I don’t want anyone standing near me when she decides to go hormonal again.”

Emerson could have said something encouraging, some little tidbit on life to tie up what must have been an incredibly difficult and gut-wrenching time with a pretty bow. But shit happened, she knew this, and quoting motivational posters didn’t take away the stench of guilt. Or the pain. It just diminished the importance of the loss.

“To Lady Luck,” Emerson said, holding up a double birdie, and Dax laughed. “And now for the show-you-mine moment I owe you, I was waffling because once I mail this envelope I have three weeks to find a truck, get it ready, come up with a winning menu, and find a crew to man it.”

He shrugged as if that was no biggie. When in fact it was the biggest biggie of her entire career. “Then why not just drop it in the box?”

“Because I haven’t decided if a bellyache is worse than crumbs,” she said and felt an irritating burn start behind her eyes. Blaming the early hour and lack of sleep, she blinked, but it only got worse.

Allergies. It had to be some allergic reaction to all the weirdness in the air. It was throwing her off, because surely they couldn’t be tears.

She cleared her throat. “My mom and I were supposed to do this together. I would do the cooking and she would help with the prep and work the window, since we were afraid my intensity would scare off customers.”

He chuckled. “And now you are short a team member?”

She was short so much more than that. She was short her mom’s laughs, and hugs, and endless love and support. Such a deficit was created when her mom passed that Emerson wasn’t sure if her dream held any real value anymore.