Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(28)
He would have asked Emerson, except he didn’t have her number either. The one she’d given him always went to voice mail—as though he was sent there. So he’d woken before the sun, set up camp on his porch, and waited so he could ask her. Hoping to catch her dropping off his food and sneaking away, a direct violation of their agreement—which she’d been directly violating since Monday.
Mission failed. The five-foot-nothing piece of work had outsmarted him. Again.
Oh, she’d been to his house, day three of her little color-coded containers in the freezer bag on his porch were proof, but she must have waited for him to hop in the shower before ringing the bell. Rookie mistake. And one he wasn’t going to make again.
So he was headed off to hunt her down.
He ran up Main Street in a hard sprint on his second pass, and when he still didn’t spot the Pita Peddler, he continued on past the sheriff’s station, not slowing down until he reached the wine and chocolate bar on the far side of downtown. According to his investigation, a sneaky little Greek goddess subleased the kitchen space behind the bar.
He pushed through the front door and entered what could either be a bar or a high-priced brothel. The past-midnight lighting and deep red velvet accents had him thinking it was the latter, until a warm wave of nutty chocolate and fruity goodness wafted past, and if he closed his eyes, he could even detect a hint of fresh-baked pita. He was in the right place.
“Good afternoon?” He phrased it as a question, because the place looked empty.
A frosted bun poked up from under the counter, followed by a set of assessing eyes. They ran the length of him, taking in his mirrored wraparound sunglasses, lack of shirt, and excess of tattoos. “It sure is now. You here about my melons?”
Dax wasn’t sure if the woman was senile, hitting on him, or just plain crazy, but he stared her in the eye, avoiding the melons at all costs, which were sagging on display. “I thought this was a wine bar.”
“We dip too, anything that goes with chocolate. Only the last batch of melons were overripe and the supplier said he’d send his guy out.” She looked at him, hopeful.
“Sorry, wrong guy.”
“Huh.” She smoothed down her LET’S GET CORKED AND SCREW tee, tugging it to make sure the letters were readable. “Well, it ain’t my birthday,” she said, sounding genuinely perplexed when she looked at the calendar to find that, no, it was not. Then she caught sight of his running pants, stared at the seams for a good, long time, and grinned the kind of grin that had Dax squirming in his shoes. “You’re the new entertainment for the panty raid next week. Clovis said she’d let me test out the top picks.” She reached under the counter and came up with a smartphone. “Can I film it for my website? Business purposes, you understand.”
Dax took in his attire and understood that he resembled a cast member from Magic Mike. “Not that guy either,” he said, pulling his tee from the waistband and sliding it over his head, but he heard a few clicks of the camera. “I was just out for a run and forgot to put my shirt on.”
“Well, if you aren’t here to squeeze my melons or strip, then what can I do for you?” she asked, but he noticed she still had her phone out, still aimed and still ready to roll, as though this was part of the skit and he was about to rip off his pants.
“I’m here to see the resident cook.” He took out the business card Emerson had given him the other day.
The woman’s eyes narrowed, her smile fell, and she mumbled something about “even in a cork costume” and shoved her phone back under the counter. “Of course you are.”
“Is she around?”
“Nope,” she said, her face carefully neutral, but her tone told him that even if she were, her answer would be the same.
“Do you have a number I can reach her?”
She crossed her arms and her eyes went on stranger-danger alert. “Cute as you are, Sexpot, I’m not in the habit of playing matchmaker or giving out private info to tourists.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Dax said sweetly, pouring on the charm. “And I’m not a tourist.” Not really. “The name’s Dax.”
He reached out his hand. When she just looked at his outstretched offering as though it were a grenade with the pin pulled, he leaned forward and to the side slightly, to engage her while coming off as a nonthreat. “I hired Miss Blake to do some cooking for me while I’m in town.”
Nothing changed in her stance, then suddenly her face went bright, like the light had been flipped on, and she snapped her fingers. “Oh my word, I didn’t recognize you with all those clothes on.”
That was the last thing Dax expected to hear.
“Why, you’re Marie Baudouin’s youngest,” she said, and Dax felt that familiar unease that always accompanied talking about his mother. He never knew what to say or how to feel. His mother had been beloved by everyone in St. Helena.
Except Dax. He’d only been two when she died. Outside of pictures and stories, he didn’t really know anything about her, which made reminiscing difficult. And awkward since people expected him to carry that same torch of fondness for the woman they knew and loved.
“She’d be happy knowing the last one of her boys has come home, God rest her soul.”
And there it was, the look that always followed the mention of his mom. It was one of respect and warmth, as if all he had to say was that he was Marie’s and people accepted him immediately as family. Which was why he avoided bringing attention to that fact when he was home. But today he needed to talk to Emerson, convince her to take him to PT so he wouldn’t be stuck listening to Frankie talk about the most effective pregnancy positions. And if knowing he was Marie’s helped convince the gatekeeper he was harmless, a legit customer and not some pervy stalker, then he’d go with it.