Need You for Keeps (Heroes of St. Helena, #1)(83)
“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?”