Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(59)

“Oh,” Emerson said, stacking the menus. “I’m sure Dax is busy. I mean, he’s working.”

“Well, he can take a short break, right?” Roger asked.

Dax looked at Emerson as though deferring to her, then said, “As long as it isn’t weird.”

A stab of guilt hit her so hard she had to force herself to swallow. He had done nothing but help her family and she’d accused him of being a stalker. Of being weird.

“No, of course. It’s on me,” she said and a wicked twinkle filled his eyes. “I meant I’ll buy you a drink.” She remembered that first night at the VFW hall, when he’d offered to buy her a drink and she’d shot him down. The irony wasn’t lost on her—or him, since he was grinning.

“I’ll accept.”

“Great,” Roger said, smacking the countertop with his palm. “Because we are celebrating. Big news.”

Oh boy, last time Roger had “big news” it was a multilevel marketing scheme that one of the guys at the local sports bar swindled him into. It involved fish hooks and bobbers and Roger had lost a bunch of money. Something that never would have happened before he lost Lillianna.

When her mom had been alive, Roger had been funny and focused and driven and so incredibly meticulous he could juggle several projects at once. It was what had made him such a great vineyard manager. Then he’d lost his true love and it was as if he couldn’t concentrate through the loss.

“What’s the news, Dad?”

“I officially got the job at the tasting room,” Roger said, and it took everything Emerson had not to cry. She felt her eyes burn and her throat close up, but she held strong. If she started crying now, she might not stop. And wouldn’t that be embarrassing. “I start Saturday. I know it’s your crazy day, but they want to train me and—”

“We’ll work it out.” Emerson leaned in and kissed his jaw. “Whatever the schedule is, we’ll work it out. I am so proud of you.”

“It’s just a job,” Roger said but everyone there knew it was more than that. It was his first real attempt to move on. To put the loss behind him and find a new start—just like Dax had promised.

“Congrats, Mr. Blake,” Dax said as though he had nothing to do with making this moment possible. “I’ll go make those floats now.”

He sent Emerson a wink, and before she could thank him properly, he disappeared behind the swinging doors and into the kitchen. Emerson pulled out her phone and swiped a text.

Thank you for everything.

It was just four little words, but they seemed to mean so much more. Simple, and from the heart. Her cell immediately buzzed back. She looked at the screen and laughed.

Stop being weird.

Emerson had promised herself nothing would change after their night, but that had been before today. Before Dax made her sister feel special and helped her dad find his way. Before the hug by the mailbox and before Emerson realized that, in fact, everything had changed.

And it wasn’t weird at all.





Were you aiming for my nuts or was it a lucky shot?” Dax said after the initial body-jolting impact and feeling of WTF? passed. Grimacing through the shooting pain in his inner thigh, and knowing it was going to last days, he looked at the casing on the floor. Had it been an inch higher Dax would be singing soprano instead of chewing off Fucking New Guy’s head.

Assuming, of course, that each deputy was carrying real ammo instead of Simunition, a nonlethal training ammunition that all of the guns had been loaded with for today’s CQB training.

“No, sir, I saw the shot and took it,” FNG’s voice came through the headset seconds after his team had gotten in position and were awaiting their superior’s command.

“And shot the hostage in the dick?”

“I didn’t know you were the hostage, sir,” he said, breaking what was supposed to be radio silence.

Dax wasn’t the hostage. In this training scenario he was the kidnapper, but in real life, it wasn’t always clear who was who, which was why waiting for orders was imperative. Instead, the kid had taken an unsanctioned shot, ignored a direct order, and was too busy playing hero to play by the rules.

Dax looked out the window of the one-story, nondescript house that sat in the middle of the Napa Valley Public Safety Training Center and pinpointed the little shit’s location on a rooftop a few buildings away. “Why, because I wasn’t tied up and was holding a gun?”

“At the sheriff’s head, sir. You were holding a gun at the sheriff’s head.”

“He isn’t the sheriff today, now is he? This is a drill.” Dax looked over his shoulder at Jonah, who was tied to the chair and wearing a bright-ass hostage shirt. He gave a Who is this guy? look, to which Jonah responded, FNG. What do you expect?

Uh, not to be shot.

Jonah gave a Sorry, bro shrug. That was it. His nuts were nearly shot off and all he got was a Sorry, bro? And yeah, the kid was an FNG, so it was expected that he’d be a little jumpy and a lot hyped on his first training—everyone was. But to shoot the possible hostage ten minutes into the exercise?

“That’s a pretty big misshot, Gomer,” Dax said into his headset. His name wasn’t Gomer, but it would do until the kid learned how to control his premature trigger problem. “Your hostage is dead.”