by Unknown
Clovis stood too and knocked her cane over. It landed with a clank. A second later, Shay heard claws pounding on the cobblestone and Jabba came tearing out the door and onto the patio. He picked up Clovis’s cane in his mouth, made three laps around the yard, and then dropped it at the woman’s feet, tail wagging, eyes excited.
“Well, look at that.” Clovis gave a caring ruffle of the ears, then picked up her cane, and Shay wondered if Jabba had already found his family. “Now, if no one shows, I got Giles and his fellas on standby, ready to model my man-hammocks for a good cause.”
When Shay walked in she knew they would be spared the geriatric Chippendales, because the shop was packed full of people and pets. They were eating and smiling and admiring her work. It was a wall-to-wall party, with a line zigzagging all the way through the space and out the front door.
Gratitude filled Shay’s chest and she whispered, “Thank you.”
“Oh, this wasn’t us,” Clovis said, then looked at the man-hammock convention by the register. “Well, they’re here for me, but the rest of them are here because of him.”
Clovis pointed to a table at the front and Shay felt all of the air whoosh out of her lungs. Because sitting near the entrance, under a Cuties with Booties banner, was the one person who could take this day from amazing to perfect.
Jonah wasn’t just sitting under any sign. Nope, this Cuties with Booties sign had a huge picture of everyone’s favorite deputy, showing off that no-Kevlar-needed chest and posing in nothing but regulation pants, shooting glasses, and a pair of range-grade headphones. A silhouette target with a shot straight through the heart was the backdrop, and to his right, in matching glasses and muffs, sitting on his combat boots was Socks. The tagline read, ADOPT THIS CUTIE AND I’LL SHOW YOU MY BOOTY.
As though sensing her presence, Jonah looked up and immediately zeroed in on Shay. His gaze was so intense and direct, she felt her breath catch and her stomach go into a free fall until all she could do was stare back.
A hush settled over the room as Jonah stood and made his way around the table and through the parting crowd, his strides sure and purposeful, not slowing until he was in front of her.
No distance, no guard up, no games—he looked too tired for games.
“Why are you here?”
“Because I want Socks to go to a good home and to a family that loves her for all that she is.”
Shay looked at Socks sitting on the table in her little doggie bed, happy as a clam with her earmuffs, and Shay told herself not to cry. Jonah was being Jonah, a good guy supporting a good cause. “I do too.”
“So do we,” someone said from behind, who sounded a lot like Ida. “Because then we get to see his booty.”
Jonah shot a warning at Ida, who waved apologetically for him to continue, then he looked back to Shay. “I also came because, like you, I protect what I love.”
Shay shook her head, unable to get past the fear that instead of a door opening, this was yet another one closing. “You said I didn’t know what love was.”
“I was wrong.” He cupped her face. “About so many things. I was so busy trying to find all the reasons why this could never work that I overlooked the most important piece of evidence. I love you.” He stepped close, their bodies brushing, Shay’s heart melting at the three words she’d waited a lifetime to hear. “You are strong and passionate and so damn loveable.” He ran a finger over her cheek. “You are the color in my black-and-white world, and I love every shade that you are.”
“Even the ones that steal kittens and drive you crazy?”
“Especially those,” he said, and Shay’s heart stopped in her chest as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. It was a custom one with little kittens on it and hung from a house-shaped key chain. “You are the best part of my world, the best part of my day, and even though I don’t deserve you, I don’t want to wake up tomorrow morning without you.”
“How about the morning after that?” she asked, because she wasn’t looking for a temporary stopover. She wanted the real deal. And she wanted it with him.
“I heard that you specialize in forever families,” he said quietly. “And Kitty Fantastic and I were hoping you’d let us be a part of yours.”
“Kitty Fantastic?” she asked, because last she’d heard Mr. Gillis was petitioning to get him back—along with the gift card. She’d also learned that Goldilocks was his neighbor and had been stealing his “food supply,” as he’d called them, for months. Turns out the kittens weren’t her first rescues, they were just the first ones she couldn’t place herself.
“I filled out my application to adopt him this morning, right after I arrested Mr. Gillis for possession of an illegal python.”
“You arrested him?” she asked, shocked that he’d even taken her accusations that the kittens had been mistreated seriously. Then she realized that Jonah had always taken her seriously. And he’d never gone back on his word.
Not once.
Shay looked into his eyes and laid it on the line. “I don’t do returns, Jonah. And Kitty Fantastic, although adorable, can be difficult and temperamental and a whole lot of trouble. And he won’t change. Ever.”
“I like adorable, and I love trouble.” Jonah held up the key. “Take it, Shay. Take it and come home. With me.”
Shay closed her hand around the key and Jonah’s smile started in his eyes, and by the time he captured her lips she could feel the happiness radiating off of him, feel the want and the love.
Being there in his arms, she felt everything, all at once, then felt it fall into place. A place, she realized, that had been made specifically for her. After all of her tries and near misses, Shay had found her forever family.
“This is for keeps,” she said against him.
“Trouble, with you it has always been for keeps.” He lifted her fingers to his mouth and kissed them, then placed her hand on his heart, the beat sure and steady. “I need you, for keeps.”
And that sounded like the best kind of forever Shay could imagine.
acknowledgments
Thanks to my editors, Maria Gomez and Lindsay Guzzardo, and the rest of the Author Team at Montlake, for all of the amazing work and support throughout this series, and for making my dreams a reality. And to my agent, Jill Marsal, for everything you do, for me, my career, and my family—your dedication and unwavering belief changed our lives.
As always, a special thanks to my husband and daughter for their support and love. And to Awesome Bob, Suki, and all of the furry friends whom I have been blessed enough to have in my life, your unconditional love inspired this book and gave me hope when I needed it most.
Read on for a sneak peek of Marina Adair’s next heartwarming romance from her Heroes of St. Helena series
need you for mine
Available October 2015 on Amazon
You need to get laid,” Emerson Blake explained to the line of uniformed soldiers funneling off the party bus and into the St. Helena VFW dance hall.
She’d always had a thing for a man in uniform. It was something about the way they perpetually looked ready—for anything—that had her happy spots singing.
But there was no singing to be had, not today anyway, because these men and these uniforms smelled like mothballs. And the lei in question? That had more to do with the hundreds of flowered necklaces in her hand than belting out a hearty Oh My anthem. Not to mention, her body hadn’t so much as hummed in months and she had no idea why.
Okay, so she had a pretty good idea why, but that would be fodder for thought for another rainy day. This rainy day was to be spent catering to the few hundred seniors who had come out in support of the Veterans of Foreign Wars monthly Wartime Mixer.
With an open bar, live band, and Copacabana theme, the turnout was bigger than Emerson had anticipated, or prepped for. Heroes from every one of the past five wars were present, which meant that every single silver-haired lady over sixty was there, ready to be seen and heard. Including winter herself, wh
o sent Emerson a you-can-suck-it reminder from the universe in the form of an icy blast of wind that blew into the dance hall—and up Emerson’s grass skirt.
“Have you been laid?” she asked the first man to exit the bus.
“Not since I was stationed at Pearl Harbor,” retired Gunnery Sargeant Carl Dabney said, waggling a bushy brow. “So don’t try to give me one of them no-salt-allowed yellow leis. I want a pink one.”
“If I give you a pink one you’ll go home in an ambulance,” Emerson said, handing him a yellow one. The old man refused to take it.
“If I can’t have any salt, what kind of message is that sending to the ladies standing at the salsa bar?”
“That you have high blood pressure?”
“That I’m a pansy, hashtag real men wear pink!” Carl was in his early nineties, carried a cane and a gun at all times, and was a regular customer at Emerson’s food cart in town. He’d also, according to Emerson’s little medical printout, compliments of Valley Vintage Senior Community, survived three wars, two triple bypasses, and a stroke—which made him far from a pansy. It also meant he was stubborn enough to beat death.
Too bad for him, death didn’t have anything on Emerson.
“Yellow means low sodium,” she explained, and Carl snorted as though he could take on sodium and the entire periodic table without even dropping his cane. “I can always give you a white one.”
He looked the white lei over carefully. “What does that one get me?”
“Low sodium, low fat, and if I see you with alcohol anywhere near your person, silver star or not, I get to kick you out. No refund.”
He wasn’t sold. And wasn’t that just great. With three years of the finest culinary training and five generations of family recipes in her arsenal, Emerson should have been well on her way to cementing herself as a serious contender in the world of Greek cuisine. Yet there she was, still in her small hometown of St. Helena, California, the entire fate of her career—and her reputation—hinging on her ability to corral disgruntled seniors while wearing a pair of coconut shells.
Because when your mother’s ALS goes nuclear five months before graduation and you forgo finishing culinary school to take care of her, shells are bound to happen. Not that she regretted one second of it, but after her mother’s death, the rebound had been brutal—on everyone. Unable to ignore what her family needed, Emerson had given up her dream of finishing school to help with the aftermath, be there for her sister, Sadie, who had only been four at the time, and her father, who had lost his best friend.
Emerson became the family glue and she was okay with that—most days. But today she needed things to go her way.
Not that catering the VFW’s monthly mixer was the most glamorous job Emerson would have asked for. In fact, she hadn’t asked for it at all, but they’d been desperate for a caterer who wouldn’t mind getting into costume, and Emerson wanted to take her business to the next level.
Two years ago, after realizing the only positions open in wine country for a chef lacking the right pedigree was a line cook, Emerson had taken the money her mother had left her and bought a food cart. It gave her the chance to cook the kind of cuisine she was passionate about and gave her the illusion she was in control of her own life.
Which she so wasn’t.
Illusions could be dangerous, and Emerson knew that better than most. But even though she’d accepted that life doesn’t always play fair and dreams die, every day for everyone, she was determined to keep this one alive. Determined to make her mother proud—make their dream of a Greek restaurant a reality and in turn make her mark in the culinary world.
So the Pita Peddler was a cart and not quite the sit-down affair they had dreamed of. So what? It was a start. A small one, but a start nonetheless.
Food doesn’t have to be pretentious to be delectable, it just has to have heart. That had been her mom’s motto. One that Emerson tried to embrace. She had delectable down, but she wasn’t sure she had enough faith left in love to nail the last part. But she was trying.
So no one was more surprised when her “little pita cart,” as her culinary school friends had teased, turned out to make serious dough—and fast. Dough that had risen and doubled in size, and now this year Emerson had bigger plans. Plans that needed the extra two grand this VFW event would bring her. If catering the occasional kid’s birthday or wearing humiliating costumes meant upgrading her food cart to a twenty-seven-foot custom-designed gourmet food truck with Sub-Zero fridge and freezer, dual fryers, four burners, a Tornado speed-cook oven, and a twelve-thousand-watt diesel generator all wrapped in Pita Peddler Streatery vinyl—then she’d shell up.
Emerson handed out a few more leis, ignoring the goose bumps covering every inch of her bare skin—which was nearly all of her inches. Behind her, the wind picked up, scattering a thin sheet of water over the marble floor of the entry to the dance hall, her leis whipping her in the face. Outside, the freezing-cold rain continued to pound the sidewalk, bending the branches of the maples that lined Main Street and rushing down the already full gutters.
No wonder it was so packed inside. With the potted palm trees, pineapple party mugs, and bottomless mai tai bar, it was like a tropical paradise in the middle of an arctic typhoon.
Double-checking to make sure all essential body parts were securely tucked in, Emerson took a deep, humbling breath and held up the yellow lei. “At least with this you can do some body shots off Mrs. Rose.”
Carl peered through the door at Mrs. Rose, current head of the Hunting Club, who was already inside and standing by the bar. Dressed in a blue-and-white-striped sailor’s dress and red flats, she looked like a one-woman USO. She was also wearing a yellow lei. “You think she’s packing tonight?”
“I heard in the ladies’ room that she swapped out her holster for a garter belt and she’s looking to score.” Emerson wiggled the yellow flowers again. “Last chance.”
He looked at the lei and frowned. “Real men wear—”
“Pink, yeah, yeah,” Emerson cut in, then looked at the large group of seniors still waiting to be checked in and sighed. It was only a matter of time before a riot broke out, and if Carl kept yammering on, it would only get worse. She’d seen it happen too many times with her sister’s Lady Bug troop—one bad bug could lead to an angry swarm.
Time to get tough. “You can either take Mrs. Rose on a twirl around the dance floor or have me escort you out. Your choice.”
Carl studied the yellow lei thoroughly, then sized Emerson up, most likely to see if he could take her. She flexed her guns and narrowed her eyes. “Remember when your grandson Colt came home with a busted face senior year? That was me. And I was only a seventh grader.”
She might be small but she was scrappy.
With a resigned sigh, smart man, he gave the lei one last skeptical glare. “If I promise no salt, do I to have to wear that?”
“Rules are rules.” Emerson leaned in close—real close. Close enough that Carl could see the seriousness in her eyes, and if that didn’t work, she hoped he’d be too distracted by her coconut shells to argue.
And wasn’t that a man for you, one well-calculated breath and his eyes glazed over, his mouth snapped shut, and he stopped yammering. “You got to get laid before you can do a body shot, Carl.”
“Not much point in body shots if I can’t salt her up first,” Carl grumbled, but he took the lei anyway, dropping his twenty on the table before hobbling off.
One down, fifty to go, she thought, taking in the still-growing crowd.
“With rules like that, I’m glad I came.” A cocky but oh-so-sexy chuckle came from beside her and she froze, then closed her eyes. It didn’t help. She could still feel the weight of an intense, masculine, and very amused gaze, as her whole body instantly heated and—
Oh boy, hummed.
Because it wasn’t just any low, husky chuckle. It was the same panty-melting chuckle from her past that had spurred her every teen fantasy. In her more recent past, say,
oh, five months ago, it had whispered wicked promises in her ear.
Promises that took an entire night to fulfill and five months to forget. Not that she’d forgotten. Far from it. But she’d tried.
Never one to run from her past, or anything for that matter, Emerson opened her eyes and—sweet baby Jesus, the wry amusement and combustible heat in those dark blue pools made her knees go weak. And that pissed Emerson off—more than the wet grass skirt that was bleeding green dye down her legs.
Emerson didn’t do weak, not even for a guy who looked like Captain America, GI Joe, and an underwear model all wrapped up in a big, bad-assed army-of-one package.
Oh, Dax Baudouin wasn’t just insanely handsome. Handsome she could handle. He was also dark, inside and out, and dangerous in that mysterious way that tempted her even when she knew better. His body was massive—everywhere—and today it was soaked. All the way through.
Like he hadn’t bothered to get naked before showering.
His white button-up was wet around the collar and down his chest, the material translucent, clinging to his hard-cut upper body and hinting at the impressive collection of tattoos that were hidden beneath.
Great, now she was thinking about him naked. In her shower. His smirk said he knew it. Just what she needed, a little game of I’ve seen you naked to make her already humiliating day that much more humiliating.
Clearly, karma was bitch slapping her for her one transgression.
Then again, Dax Baudouin was one hell of a transgression to have, but she had known that the second she’d agreed to go back to his hotel room. He was her first and only one-night stand, a no-panties-allowed kind of affair that blew her mind. It blew some other parts too, but she didn’t want to think about that here. Not with her goal of her Greek restaurant just in arm’s reach.
“Dax,” she said, forcing what she hoped was a professional and unaffected smile. He smiled back. It started as an amused twinkle in his eyes then spread to his face and—
