Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(10)

Emerson reached under the cart counter into her secret-stash cabinet and pulled out a bag with “Larson” written on it. “I know how much Walt loves his baklava, so I set aside a few pieces for you.”

“Aren’t you a sweetheart?” Mrs. Larson took the bag and clutched it to her chest, her silvered bob bouncing as she wiggled with excitement. “I know the second Walt sees how lovely the pipes will look in the ceiling-to-floor headboard, he’ll fall in love with it. He just doesn’t have the same vision I was blessed with.”

Emerson wasn’t as confident in Walt’s ability to call what sounded like a bizarre twist of taking it to church “lovely,” but she was certain his love for his wife would overcome his need to toss the organ out.

Walt had made it clear to the entire town that even though his wife had turned half of his hardware shop into a scene from a Dr. Seuss story with her eclectic rehabbed furniture, he was still her biggest fan.

To Emerson, that kind of unwavering support ranked a solid fifteen on her swoon-worthy scale.

“Anything else?” Emerson asked.

“Well, yes.” Mrs. Larson looked around first before lowering her voice. “Walt’s sixty-fifth birthday is next month and I’m throwing him a small family party. I was hoping to surprise him with that cake your mom used to sell at the farmers’ market. The orange one with the liqueur frosting?”

“Orange sponge cake with Metaxa frosting?” she asked, her throat suddenly going tight.

Mrs. Larson snapped her fingers. “Yes, that one. It’s Walt’s favorite.”

It was Emerson’s favorite too. Her mom had made it for her on every birthday.

Emerson held her smile firm, but her insides sank at the idea of replicating her mom’s special-occasion cake. “I can try, but I can’t promise it will taste exactly like my mom’s,” she admitted. It was one of the few recipes Emerson didn’t know by heart, and it had sadly gone missing, along with the journal her mother had made for her.

Its disappearance was one of life’s mysteries Emerson couldn’t seem to get past. She’d racked her brain, torn up the house, interrogated Violet. Then sadly realized that just like her mom, the journal—her journal—had been reduced to a collection of memories.

Last year, when it seemed that the memories were starting to fade, Emerson had tried to re-create it—without luck. The result was a delicious cake. Just not Lillianna’s-orange-Metaxa-cake delicious.

“I’m sure you’ll make it magic, just like your mom.” Mrs. Larson reached over the cart to pat Emerson’s hand. She had complete faith in Emerson’s ability, but Emerson wasn’t so sure. She continued smiling anyway.

Mrs. Larson smiled back, turned, then did a double take as she realized something. “My, don’t you look pretty today, wearing lipstick and serving your mom’s man-bait lamb wraps.” Hand to her chest, her eyes twinkled with intrigue. “Why, Emerson Blake, who are you trying to trap?”

“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.”