Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena) (17 page)

“Why is the truck on page two crossed out?” he asked because he didn’t know a lot about food trucks, even less about cooking in one, but he knew cars. He’d also seen Emerson work in his kitchen enough to understand that the few trucks she had circled weren’t big enough. “Or these circled ones smaller than twenty-nine feet?”

She looked up and he knew the second recognition hit. Her eyes went wide and she was on him in seconds, reaching for the paper. He wasn’t sure what came over him, maybe it was the expression she wore, the same one she’d worn when doing the mailbox shuffle the other day, but instead of giving it back, he flipped the page and pointed to the twenty-nine-foot semicustom truck that would be perfect. “I like this one.”

“Then you should buy it,” she said, successfully snatching the papers back and sticking them in her binder. “It’s only thirty grand more than the others.”

He followed her over to the table and leaned a hip against the corner. “That much of a difference?”

She sat down and pretended to reshuffle the handouts, not saying a word. Fine with him, he was used to waiting people out—it was what made him such a good sniper. He could wait for hours, days if he had to. Most people lived to fill the silence. Emerson held on longer than he expected, but after about three minutes of the birds chirping and leaves rustling, she broke.

“It’s frustrating,” she said. “The difference between a renovated roach coach and a renovated food truck is like twenty grand, then with upgrades and equipment it goes up from there.”

“Is this the only commercial truck warehouse in the area?”

“For financing reasons and my timeline, this place seems to be my best option.” She shrugged, then reached under the table and pulled out two bowls filled with weeds and flowers that the girls had collected at the beginning of the day. She picked up a clover and nibbled it. Dax’s throat constricted a little. “I was thinking I could get a bigger truck that needs a little TLC and clean it up. But with Street Eats not that far off, I don’t think that’s a smart option.”

Dax considered pointing out that he was great with TLC, both with cars and women, but since both would break her weirdness rule, he offered, “I know a guy who runs car auctions for Sonoma County. Repos and stuff for the police department. If you’d like, I can give him a call and see if he has any better options.” Her eyes went cautious, so he raised a hand. “No pressure. No weirdness. No marker. I want to barter for the intel.”

She crossed her arms, which did amazing things for those two undone buttons. “I’m listening.”

“After I’m done teaching the girls to make a shelter, I will go call my buddy. And you explain to the girls that I couldn’t stay for the forest feast.”

“You’re that scared of a little clover salad?”

“Yup.”

“Fine, deal.”

Dax was about to lean in and kiss on it when what sounded like a small herd of antelope frolicked up behind him. “We got the needles and leaves, Lovely Co-leader Mister,” Violet said.

All four girls stood there panting, muddy, and with needles stuck in their hair. They were smiling proudly, their cheeks and noses red from the cold, as they held out their bounty for appraisal.

It wasn’t enough to make a complete shelter, but it was enough to get them started. “Good job, troops. Drop it over by the big log.”

“All Elsa did was wave her hands and dance and her ice castle was done,” Kenzie pointed out. “This is way harder.”

Another chuckle from Miss Helpful.

He silenced Emerson with a look, then addressed Kenzie. “Well, it will be warmer and maybe we’ll even win the Resourcefulness Under Pressure Award.” So there.

“Lovely Co-leader Mister,” Violet said, holding up a familiar-looking three-leaved plant. It was waxy and red and—ah, shit. “What’s this?”

“That’s poison oak,” Kenzie pointed out. “It is a climbing shrub that is native to North America and related to the cashew plant.”

Shirley Temple’s eyes went wide as she dropped her bundle and jumped back. “Isn’t a cashew a nut?” Her words were frantic, but her voice came out a strangle of tears. “If I have nuts I need to use my EpiPen, which is a needle and it hurts. And I don’t like to hurt.”

Freckles looked as though she was about to burst into tears at the idea of seeing a needle, and Violet started picking up dirt and throwing it in the air like it was magic dust.

“It doesn’t have nuts on it,” Kenzie explained, her tone heavy on the know-it-all. “It just has a poisonous oil that causes an itchy rash wherever it comes into contact with your skin.” She looked at Dax. “Did you know that poison oak can’t grow in freezing temperatures?”

Friday afternoon, E
merson closed up her cart early and rushed down Main Street. The sun shone bright overhead, painting the orange and red maple leaves with a golden glow. She was meeting her dad and Violet at Stan’s Soup and Service Station. Violet had made it through a whole week without wearing her wings to school—something to celebrate.

Her sister was finally moving past this confusing stage, finding her footing in the world, and Emerson wanted to make sure Violet understood how proud she was of her. Which explained the Tupperware box filled with baklava she’d stayed up late last night making.

Emerson stepped into the service station and was greeted by the seasonal scents of roasting pumpkin and nutmeg. Roger and Violet were already sitting at the counter, smiling and sucking down a root beer float.

“Sorry I’m late,” Emerson said, kissing her dad on the cheek, then Violet. “Wow, root beer float before dinner? Must be a special occasion.”

“No,” Violet said, confused. “Dad and I have a float every morning before scho—”

“Drink up, honey.” Roger put the straw to Violet’s lips, then smiled at Emerson. Sheepishly, she noticed. “Have a seat. We’re about to order.”

Emerson let it go and pulled out the stool next to Violet. Hooking her coat on the hanger under the countertop, she sat, springing back up immediately when something poked her butt.

“Ow!” she said, rubbing her backside. “What is that?”

“My trap,” Violet cried, leaping to her feet to come and rescue the sticks held together by twine. “Did it break?”

“I don’t think so.” Emerson took a closer look at the work. It was circular, smaller on one end and bigger on the other, like a megaphone. It was also more Dad-work than student inspired. “Is that a cornucopia for school?”

“No, it’s a fairy trap. Dad and I made it,” Violet said, using her napkin to brush it off. “It’s not done yet, though. I need to make a door so once a fairy goes in she has to wait for me to let her out. I caught one last night but she got out and only left behind some fairy dust.”

“Fairy dust?” Emerson said, her heart sinking as she met Roger’s eyes over Violet’s head and gave him a long, steady look. He held up his palm as if saying
It isn’t wings
.

“I wanted to show it to you.” Violet looked up, her eyes big and proud.

“It’s, uh . . . wow! I don’t know what to say.” Only that it negated everything she’d worked so hard on all week. The walks, the long talks, the special dessert she’d made. This entire celebration dinner.

“It’s a perfect survival trap,” the waiter said, and Emerson’s heart did that funny flutter. Scratch that. It was more of a roundhouse kick to the ribs because it wasn’t a waiter at all.

It was Dax.

He towered behind the counter in a pair of battered jeans, his signature soft-looking T-shirt, and a ball cap pulled low, but today he had on an apron that stretched across his chiseled chest. A white line cook’s apron with soup splattered down the front, and he had a half-cut squash in his hand. His lips curled up at the edges as he pinned her with his gaze.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, but her eyes clearly pointed out that he was being a stalker.

He pulled out a notebook and in his most professional voice, informed her, “Letting you know that our soup of the day is roasted pumpkin with basil.”

“Roasted pumpkin.” Roger tapped a contemplative finger to his chin. “You like pumpkin, Violet?”

“You work here?” she asked quietly.

“Today I do. Tomorrow I’m at the county public training center. A few weeks from now, I’m sous cheffing at Street Eats.” He smiled. “I am a man of many, many talents.”

She had the memories to prove it.

“You’re running the training class?”

A hum of something dangerous coursed through her veins. Not only had he followed through on his part, he’d told Jonah yes. She told herself not to read too much into it. Just because he was teaching a class didn’t mean he’d sign on to stay.

She wanted to tell him he’d done the right thing, helping Jonah. And that it would help him too, but he was already taking the trap from Violet to examine. “Good work.”

Violet beamed. “It’s to catch fairies.”

Emerson placed a hand to her head—it was the only thing to do other than banging it against the counter.

“Or you can use it for something useful, like catching fish at the Loveliest Survivalist Campout.” Emerson looked up and Dax’s gaze was on her, warm and unwavering. “Isn’t there some kind of competition for that, Lovely Co-leader Emi?”

Her face heated at the use of her nickname in front of her family. “The, uh, X-tremely Edible competition?”

“The X-tremely Edible competition?” His lips curled up and she knew he was thinking about their night together. She was too.

“The Calistoga Lovelies Nine-Eight-Three win that one every year,” Violet explained.

“Maybe this is St. Helena Lady Bug Lovelies Six-Six-Two’s year,” he said, grabbing a paper placemat. He tore it into several strips, then laid them out and began weaving them together. “Imagine this is wet manzanita bark that’s been cut into strips. You can weave it together like this and then place it in the middle of your trap.” His hands worked at lightning speed to demonstrate a way for Violet to make something non-fairy-centric out of her trap. When he was done, he put the funnel-shaped cone into the center of the cornucopia. “Like this. Then when the fish swim in, they can’t easily swim out.”

“Cool.” Violet took the trap and studied it intently. Dax just smiled at his handiwork. And Emerson smiled at Dax.

“She likes those pumpkin cookies from the store,” Roger mumbled, completely oblivious to the goings-on around him. “The ones with the candy black kitties on top. Will it taste like those?”

“Not sure,” Dax said. “Never tried it. Not a big basil fan.”

“Basil, huh?” Roger said. “That doesn’t sound very celebratory, does it?”

Before Dax could answer, Violet was back in the game. “Do you think fairies could get out?”

“I’m not sure when fairy season is,” he said, following like a champ the tennis-match pace that her family was notorious for keeping. “I do know that bass are everywhere. And that trap there is a perfect shape for a winning bass trap.”

“Winning trap, huh?” Violet clapped her hands at the excitement of winning something. “Would you help me?”

Emerson felt her stomach bottom out as Dax considered the question. She could see the word
no
forming on his lips, knew how it would crush Violet, but couldn’t blame him. In her family, offering to help was the equivalent of devoting your life to the cause. And the Blake family was a never-ending cause.

Not that Emerson was complaining, but it was her cause. Not his to deal with.

“Violet, Dax has a lot—”

“Of experience with these kinds of traps,” he interrupted, shocking the hell out of her. She’d given him the out and he’d stuck around. “In fact, I’ve used ones similar to these in survival situations. Maybe you can teach your troop how to build the trap, and I can teach them how to make the funnel.”

“Like partners?” Violet asked, all eyes. “Dad, did you hear that?”

“I sure did,” Roger said, putting the menu down and smiling. There was a twinkle in his expression that Emerson hadn’t seen in a long time. He was happy. “I think this calls for a round of floats.”

“But you haven’t finished the float you ordered,” Emerson pointed out. Violet grabbed the straw and sucked it down, licking her lips in a
problem solved
way.

“Three floats,” Roger said to Dax, then smiled as if the lights, after a long two years, had finally flicked back on. “Bring one for yourself, too.”

“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.