Read Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena) for Free Online Page B

dicing.
    “I can’t cook worth shit,” Dax admitted, rolling up his sleeves and washing his hands.
    “I remember. Assumed that’s why you’re here. Hungry for some hearty food.”
    He couldn’t dice worth shit either, but slicing vegetables was better than the alternative—sitting at home and crawling up the walls.
    Hanging with Stan was also smarter than his new favorite hobby, an afternoon game of Where’s Emi?, which consisted of tracking down Emi’s food cart at one of her fifteen locations around town and checking out how short her skirt of the day was.
    Yesterday she had been parked across from the community park wearing a tight black number that, when paired with her knee-high boots, blew his mind. But today the sun had been out, the autumn air surprisingly warm, and she had opted for a spot by the fire station and a summery little orange number that flirted with the breeze—sans those usual leggings.
    He’d considered dropping by for lunch, which smelled amazing, but the line for food was worse than the other day. Today it went down Main Street, wrapping around Pope Street and into the senior center parking lot. Not to mention that every time he ran by, she pretended to ignore him, and he pretended not to stare at her ass. Or check out her baklava.
    “Just chop them in big chunks.” Stan handed him an apron and Dax went to work cutting. “The seeds go in that bowl. And when you’re done, I’ll send you home with some for later.”
    “That’s okay,” Dax said, thinking of the dozen or so casseroles shoved in his freezer. “Between the friendly pop-ins and endless casseroles, I’ve had enough small-town hospitality to last me through the winter.”
    Stan laughed, going into a gravelly cough at the end, and Dax realized how old his friend appeared. The man had always looked older than time, but to a lost teen kid, Stan had seemed like an immortal warrior—battle scarred and range tough.
    Today, though, he seemed shorter, a little fragile even. And Dax didn’t know what to do with that information. So he filed it in his to-process pile, which was already backlogged until 2057.
    “When I was overseas, all I could think about was comfort food,” Stan said. “Then I got back stateside and the smell of those tuna salad casseroles the church ladies would bring by made my insides itch.” Stan patted Dax on the shoulder and held his hand there for a moment. The air went thick with understanding and a genuine empathy that, for once, Dax didn’t mind accepting. “People just showing they care, not understanding that sometimes the care is suffocating. It’s why I started making soup. Stopped the covered-dish parade.” Stan paused. “And a whole lot more.”
    With a final pat to the back, Stan said, “Now get chopping. I’ve got a food critic coming by for dinner and I got to get that squash marinated and roasted.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Oh,” Stan called over his shoulder before disappearing into the garage. “Make sure you return those casserole dishes.”
    “Return them?” That would mean having to go to each and every house, being invited in for more neighborly visits and gut-churning chats. “I don’t even know who brought me what.”
    Stan chuckled. “Might want to figure that out soon, son, or else you’ll have a whole other kind of parade marching on your doorstep. And they’ll be carrying condemnation and sharpened knitting needles.”
    Later, as Dax was finishing up with the last of the pumpkins, a tall figure appeared in the doorway wearing a big hat, a sidearm, and a smug look that was all big brother and respected sheriff rolled into one.
    “You should have Mickey add kitchen helper to your résumé,” Jonah said, taking off his sheriff’s hat and setting it on the counter. “I bet it would be great for undercover work.”
    “Stan needed help, so I’m pitching in,” Dax defended, tightening the bow on his apron, grimacing when he tried to move his stiff knee. Everything