“It’s called Chapstick. People wear it in the cold months to avoid chapped lips,” she deadpanned, wondering just how bad she normally looked, while ignoring the fact that she had made her mom’s notorious man-bait lamb wraps. The same recipe that had snagged Roger’s heart.
“Uh-huh,” Mrs. Larson said, clearly not buying a word of it. And wasn’t that the epitome of food cart culture? A good cart with voicey food brought the customers back day in and day out, making it feel like serving family. And family, as Emerson knew, never missed a thing—especially if it led to gossip. “What do you think?” Mrs. Larson asked, looking over Emerson’s shoulder.
“Tempting enough to bring me over,” a sexy voice said from behind.
Emerson didn’t have to turn to see who it was, because her chest fluttered—and when she did turn, those flutters became annoying pings whose reach was a little too south for her liking. Dax towered behind her, his wide shoulders blocking out the sun and his superpowered testosterone blocking her ability to think clearly.
He wore a pair of longer running shorts and one of those tight, clingy shirts that runners wore during marathons. And it was clinging to him, all right. He was sweaty and sun kissed and looked ready for anything.
“Well, look who it is,” Mrs. Larson said, tilting her frosted head way back to look up into Dax’s face. “You are home. Figured the rumor mill had it wrong since you haven’t returned a single one of my calls.”
“Something must be wrong with my phone, since I haven’t received other calls as well,” he said, his eyes firmly on Emerson, who busied herself with making up and bagging Mrs. Larson’s order. “But it’s good to see you, Aunt Connie.” Dax pulled his aunt in for a hug. “I have been busy, but I’ll try to stop by next week.”
“I’ll have to bring over one of my spaghetti casseroles in the meantime.” Mrs. Larson released Dax, but not before patting his rock-hard stomach. Emerson could have sworn she heard Dax groan. “Look at you, wasting away. I bet you haven’t had a real meal since you’ve been home.”
Emerson smothered a laugh. Wasting away her butt. The man was built like a fine-tuned machine—with enough muscles and charm to have a woman drooling.
“Hey, Emi.” His eyes dropped to her tank top and he smiled. “No coconut shells? Too bad. Although today’s special looks . . . appetizing. I’ll take two, since I’d hate to waste away.”
And because his eyes were glued to her KISS MY BAKLAVA offer, she said, “Sorry. I’m all out.”
“You have to compliment her, dear,” Mrs. Larson whispered, patting his arm. “Then she pulls out the good stuff.” With a kiss to her nephew’s cheek, she waddled away with her order in hand.
Dax turned back to Emerson and offered up an amused grin. “The good stuff, huh?” His eyes roamed over her, from her high-tops to her Chapstick and everything in between. “What kind of compliment lets me taste your baklava?”
“My baklava is in pretty high demand, as you can see. Nearly sold out. And the line starts back there.”
Dax took in the long line of customers, which wound and disappeared around the corner. “But you’ll be all out before I get here,” he said.
Emerson smiled. “I know.”
How much do I owe you?” Dax called out, setting his napkin down on the worn steel counter made from the tailgate of a ’48 Ford pickup.
Stan O’Malley, owner of Stan’s Soup and Service Station, came in from the garage floor wearing a blue mechanic’s jumper, holding a carburetor in one hand and a rag in the other. Both mechanic and jumper were covered with a day’s worth of grease. “It’s on the house.”
Dax looked down at the two empty bowls of blue-ribbon chili, three sides of corn bread, and empty bottle of soda and reached for his wallet.
Stan waved his rag at the offering. “How I see it, I still owe you and Kyle for all those years you’d come help me work on my bikes. Probably clocked over a few hundred hours here.”
Dax laughed. “That was senior year alone.”
Kyle was Dax’s best friend, and Kyle’s grandpa’s shop had been Dax’s escape in high school, the only thing that kept Dax out of finding real trouble after his dad’s heart attack. In fact, witnessing the kind of man Stan was, hearing his war stories and the talk of his brotherhood, had piqued Dax’s interest in joining the army.
“Just think of lunch as a welcome-home gift,” the older man said, rubbing the rag over his bald head, spreading more grease than he eliminated.
Arguing with a man who was stubborn enough to make it through the jungles of Vietnam with a shattered vertebra was a waste of energy, so he slipped his wallet back in his pocket. “Thanks, Stan.”
“Just glad you made it home safe and in one piece.”
Dax tapped his knee. “That could be argued.” There were a lot of other places he could tap too, but since they weren’t external scars, he kept that to himself.
“Broke but still ticking and my grandson says it should heal up just right. I’d say you did good, son.”
That was up for debate, which was one of the reasons Dax had come to Stan’s for lunch. “You got any bikes back there that need a second opinion?”
“I got a pumpkin-basil soup that needs some help, and that’s it. I stopped doing bikes a few years back. All those dot-commers moved up with their fancy weekend warrior hogs, hovering over my shoulder while I changed their oil like I was birthing Jesus.” He flapped a hand. “Not worth the trouble.”
Stan lifted the lid on a large pot, and a warm blast of nutmeg and basil scented the air. He wasn’t just one of the best mechanics Dax knew, the old-timer was a master with the spoon. His soups had been written up in just about every foodie magazine on the planet. “You still good with a knife?”
Dax lifted a challenging brow, and the old man handed him a butcher knife and pointed to a stack of pumpkin needing dicing.
“I can’t cook worth shit,” Dax admitted, rolling up his sleeves and washing his hands.
“I remember. Assumed that’s why you’re here. Hungry for some hearty food.”
He couldn’t dice worth shit either, but slicing vegetables was better than the alternative—sitting at home and crawling up the walls.
Hanging with Stan was also smarter than his new favorite hobby, an afternoon game of Where’s Emi?, which consisted of tracking down Emi’s food cart at one of her fifteen locations around town and checking out how short her skirt of the day was.
Yesterday she had been parked across from the community park wearing a tight black number that, when paired with her knee-high boots, blew his mind. But today the sun had been out, the autumn air surprisingly warm, and she had opted for a spot by the fire station and a summery little orange number that flirted with the breeze—sans those usual leggings.
He’d considered dropping by for lunch, which smelled amazing, but the line for food was worse than the other day. Today it went down Main Street, wrapping around Pope Street and into the senior center parking lot. Not to mention that every time he ran by, she pretended to ignore him, and he pretended not to stare at her ass. Or check out her baklava.
“Just chop them in big chunks.” Stan handed him an apron and Dax went to work cutting. “The seeds go in that bowl. And when you’re done, I’ll send you home with some for later.”
“That’s okay,” Dax said, thinking of the dozen or so casseroles shoved in his freezer. “Between the friendly pop-ins and endless casseroles, I’ve had enough small-town hospitality to last me through the winter.”
Stan laughed, going into a gravelly cough at the end, and Dax realized how old his friend appeared. The man had always looked older than time, but to a lost teen kid, Stan had seemed like an immortal warrior—battle scarred and range tough.
Today, though, he seemed shorter, a little fragile even. And Dax didn’t know what to do with that information. So he filed it in his to-process pile, which was already backlogged until 2057.
“When I was overseas, all I could think about was comfort food,”
Stan said. “Then I got back stateside and the smell of those tuna salad casseroles the church ladies would bring by made my insides itch.” Stan patted Dax on the shoulder and held his hand there for a moment. The air went thick with understanding and a genuine empathy that, for once, Dax didn’t mind accepting. “People just showing they care, not understanding that sometimes the care is suffocating. It’s why I started making soup. Stopped the covered-dish parade.” Stan paused. “And a whole lot more.”
With a final pat to the back, Stan said, “Now get chopping. I’ve got a food critic coming by for dinner and I got to get that squash marinated and roasted.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh,” Stan called over his shoulder before disappearing into the garage. “Make sure you return those casserole dishes.”
“Return them?” That would mean having to go to each and every house, being invited in for more neighborly visits and gut-churning chats. “I don’t even know who brought me what.”
Stan chuckled. “Might want to figure that out soon, son, or else you’ll have a whole other kind of parade marching on your doorstep. And they’ll be carrying condemnation and sharpened knitting needles.”
Later, as Dax was finishing up with the last of the pumpkins, a tall figure appeared in the doorway wearing a big hat, a sidearm, and a smug look that was all big brother and respected sheriff rolled into one.
“You should have Mickey add kitchen helper to your résumé,” Jonah said, taking off his sheriff’s hat and setting it on the counter. “I bet it would be great for undercover work.”
“Stan needed help, so I’m pitching in,” Dax defended, tightening the bow on his apron, grimacing when he tried to move his stiff knee. Everything below his knee ached and everything above it was sore. He needed a solid night’s sleep but knew going home to his empty rental would only make him antsier.
“You sure he’s the one who needed the help?”
Dax set down the knife to argue, then picked it back up, because according to the gas-pump clock over the door, he’d been in that coffin-sized work space for over two hours, chopping pumpkins, onions, celery—not a single slice was the same size, and Stan would probably have to toss it all out—but Dax hadn’t itched once.
“Can I get a bowl of the chili?” Jonah asked. “Heavy on the cheese but light on the onions. Shay and I are driving out to Sonoma to get a schnoodle when I get home.”
Dax wasn’t sure if schnoodle was married code for sex or another furry friend Shay was taking in. But since either option gave him a rash, he silently filled the order and slid the bowl across the counter.
Jonah took a spoonful. “The other night seemed to go well with Mickey. You hear anything back yet?”
“There are a few other guys in the running, applying from other teams, but he said as long as my doctor gives me the all clear, I shouldn’t have anything to worry about.” Dax opened up two sodas and slid one to Jonah. “Thanks for the other night. The intro really helped.”
Jonah lifted his bottle before taking a swig, and instead of lecturing Dax about not coming to him in the first place, he just said, “Glad it worked out.”
“Fallon said they’ll make their final decision by the time I finish PT.”
“What are you going to do between now and then?” Jonah took another bite of chili. “Since you’ve been home a little over two weeks and already you’re going nuts.”
“Who says I’m going nuts?” Jonah merely eyed the apron and piles of vegetables. “Okay, maybe I have a little cabin fever.”
Bullshit and they both knew it. Dax needed that job. Needed it to start sooner than later. More than anything Dax needed to feel useful again, and sitting on his ass watching the rain fall was slowly killing him—no matter how many pumpkins he chopped.
“That’s why I brought over this.” Jonah handed him an unaddressed envelope from the Napa County Sheriff’s Department. Wiping his hands on the apron, Dax opened it to find a flier for a department-hosted event. “What’s this?”
“Close-quarters battle training for the department. The deputy in charge relocated to Reno and we have a few new guys who are applying for the two open positions in my department, and I want to see how they work under pressure. As the new sheriff, it falls to me to secure some guest instructors until we can fill the position. I think with your background in weapons and CQB, you’d be great.”
Dax studied the flier, thought about what it would be like to teach a bunch of deputies about the latest and greatest in guns, then remembered that the job would mean working directly with his brother in the middle of Mayberry.
“Not interested.”
Jonah leveled him with a look that was all business. “If you want to work with civilians, then you need to get involved in the community. Prove to Fallon that you can acclimate to civilian life, make connections, and that you’re willing to be an active participant in the neighborhood.”
Dax wasn’t looking to make connections—he was looking to do a job that had the least chance of connecting. Which was why he was applying for corporate security. The only people he’d have to connect with would be his team and high-value suits. “Did Fallon say something?”
“Other than you being the exact kind of badass the team was looking for?” Jonah shook his head, and Dax could see the pride behind his brother’s eyes. “Nope. I just know that the difference between the guys who make it and the ones who blow out is their ability to adapt. I also know that teaching these classes would be a good way to blow off some steam while you’re waiting to get back in the game.” Jonah stood and put his hat back on. “And maybe some options in case the game you’re looking for has changed. Oh, and here.”
Jonah handed Dax one more piece of paper. This one was pink and way too official looking to be anything other than his big brother’s way of sticking it to him.
“A ticket, man? What the hell?”
“Driving the bike out front on an expired license and registration is against the law.” Jonah tipped his head. “Now you have a good day.”
Exhausted from another day as the local food-cart girl, Emerson walked the narrow flight of steps leading into her apartment, engaging in her nightly ritual of wondering if today was the day the mail was finally going to deliver good news or bad news. She’d definitely prefer no news to bad news.
Her apartment wasn’t much, but it was cozy and quiet—and hers. Located above the Boulder Holder, a lingerie shop for the curvier set, Emerson had one bedroom, one bathroom, and a one-car garage big enough for her food cart. She also had exactly one neighbor—her best friend, Harper Owens.
Who was curled up on Emerson’s couch, watching the latest made-for-television killer-sharks film.
“Remind me to file a complaint with management. The security around here sucks,” Emerson said, dropping her keys into the bowl by the front door and hanging her backpack on the hook.
“You bet,” management said, holding a container of what Emerson was fairly certain were lamb empanadas to her chest.
Harper’s grandmother owned the century-old Victorian. A few months after Emerson’s mom had passed, the older woman had spontaneously decided to rent out the second studio, which she’d been using as an overflow storage space, for, wouldn’t you know it, the exact amount Emerson could afford.
It was a handout and everyone involved knew it—but numb and desperate for a quiet space to grieve, a place where she didn’t have to be the strong one, where she could process and make a life plan, she’d signed the lease and wound up with Harper as her property manager.
Harper pulled out a flaky pocket of heaven and took a huge bite, then closed her eyes. “God, this is so good. What is it?”
“My dinner,” Emerson accused in her scariest tone. Unconcerned, Harper took a bigger bite, moaned a little louder, then offered up the container as if she was willing to share.
Unsure of how karma would react to harming a person who wore a knitted kitty sweater, pink leggings, and smelled like unicorns and Pla
y-Doh, Emerson snatched one of the empanadas and plopped on the couch. The first bite was heaven. Flaky crust, hearty filling, and a taste that reminded her of crisp fall days with her mom.
Eyes on the screen, Harper said, “I heard Mr. Dark and Mysterious is in town.”
Emerson choked on her bite. She wasn’t a big talker, didn’t need girl time or ice cream binges to chat it out. In fact, she was content to take everything she felt, did, or witnessed to the grave. Too bad Harper was a ninja master of ferreting out secrets. Those big blue eyes, swishing ponytail, and sunny smile were too powerful a force for even a cynic like Emerson to resist. If Harper got wind of a secret, she was on it like white on rice.
Which was why Emerson schooled her features and shrugged as though Mr. Dark and Mysterious hadn’t asked her for a replay of their night together. “Huh.”
“Don’t ‘huh’ me. The guy you had wall-banging sex with, followed by wild shower sex with, and then—”
“I get it.” And reliving it all over again wasn’t going to help her keep her distance, which was imperative.
“Yeah, you got it all right.” Harper snorted. “Which is why I find it odd that he’s back, a few minutes away, and he was at the VFW dance that you were working, and you said not a word about it.”
“Because there wasn’t anything worth mentioning.” Emerson snatched the last empanada and shoved it into her mouth. “I need to focus on my truck, not get distracted in the final mile by some guy—”
“Last time you called him a sex ninja.”
She’d called him worse in her mind. “I was drunk.”
“Which is how I know you were telling the truth,” Harper said with a knowing smile. “When you get tipsy you get all mushy, and girly, and chatty. You even let me do your nails and makeup.”
Which was why she didn’t drink often. First, she was, surprisingly, a lightweight. Second, she went from a fighter to lover in two shots of whiskey—just ask Dax. And most importantly, growing up with a sick mother meant weekly trips to the ER, where she’d go from sound asleep to ready to go in seconds, which had taught Emerson the risk wasn’t worth it. Being in control and ready for anything had been the key to surviving her childhood.
Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena) Page 4
