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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.”

H ow 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