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Chapter Twenty-Three
The party was a lot. A lot of people, a lot of noise, a lot of questions, a lot of sympathy.
Sable was tired, and even though she’d been trying to take it easy and Jethro had been watching her like a hawk, her shoulder throbbed. She wanted ice and some pain killers. And a drink.
Jethro had finished up his Santa duties and was standing behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist. He was warm and solid and he felt like shelter from the storm of her parents. They hadn’t stopped talking since they’d cornered her and Jethro twenty minutes ago.
Her father was grilling Jethro about his business and her mother was going on and on about the latest gossip from all the charity boards she served on. At last, her father broke into her mother’s busybody monologue.
“Deirdre, would you like a drink? They’ve got mulled wine and hot toddies at the bar. I can’t recommend anything they have in their wine selection, though.”
Her father gave a theatric shudder as though any wine that didn’t come from his own personal cellar was nothing but vinegar.
“I’m wearing white, darling. Get me a vodka tonic if the vodka is halfway decent. Otherwise, nothing for me.”
“You want something, baby?”
The tickle of Jethro’s Santa beard by her ear made her squirm and laugh. She lowered her voice so her parents wouldn’t hear her murmur. “May I have a hot apple toddy, Daddy?”
She could feel rather than hear the rumble in his chest. “That’s a big girl drink. But since you’ve been on your best behavior, you may have one. Then I want to get you home. You’ve had enough.”
Sable nodded her agreement. She sure as hell had, and was practically falling asleep on her feet.
Jethro kissed her cheek before he let her go. “We’ll be right back with your drinks, ladies.”
Then she was alone with her mother, feeling surrounded by the chill of her judgment even though she hadn’t said anything yet. It was just a matter of time.
“Honestly, Sable. Jethro Del Bosque?”
And there it was. She didn’t bother responding, certain there would be more to follow because not once in her twenty-eight years had her mother missed a chance to issue a ruling on something or someone. She wasn’t wrong.
“He’s not bad looking, I’ll give you that. And those earthy types are often good in bed. But that’s what they’re good for. Affairs, one night stands, vacation flings. You don’t date a man like that. And don’t tell me you’re thinking about marrying him because I’ll have to call my cardiologist.”
Sable sighed and waited for the onslaught to continue. At least her mother had waited until Jethro wasn’t here before letting loose.
“Not to mention he’s too old for you. I’m certain he’s closer to our age than yours. That’s…unseemly.”
She wanted to argue, but her mother wasn’t wrong about the age gap. Jethro was forty-five, her mother was fifty-eight and her father was sixty.
“But I’d be able to overlook that if he did something respectable for a living. But, really, dear? A farmer?”
Was she done yet? Sable really hoped she was done now.
She waited a beat just in case her mother had more to say, but apparently the woman was done. For now.
“Jethro is not a farmer.” If he were, that would also be fine with Sable. He was handsome and kind, sexy as fuck, and kinky as all hell in ways that slid into her own locked up perversions like a perfectly cut key. Feeding people was a damn honorable profession. But honor and goodness didn’t matter to her parents, so she’d argue on their plane. “He owns an incredibly successful and well-respected business.”
Her mother shook her head, her platinum hair not moving at all. “Please. He’s not destitute but he’s not wealthy. You know he’s after you for your money, right?”
Yeah, because why else would a man want to be with her? What other worth could she possibly have besides her bank account? Sable swallowed and looked down at the floor, wishing she could leave. Her mother made a put-upon, martyred sound.
“If you’re dead set on pursuing this farce, perhaps he’d come work for your father. Or if he’s so very attached to his little plant operation, I suppose your father and I could help him scale up. Open more shops or start a bigger wholesale operation. Just…something. Because you can’t tell me that man doesn’t dig in the dirt. How can you stand the smell of him at the end of the day?”
What, did her father smell like roses when he came off the golf course or the racquetball court? For fuck’s sake. Actually, her parents were so cold they probably wouldn’t sweat in hell.
And while Sable was sure Jethro spent a lot of time poring over spreadsheets and on the phone with customers and doing all sorts of white collar things her mother would probably find at least vaguely acceptable, she knew from the calluses on his hands that had been on her most sensitive skin that he absolutely performed some manual labor. Probably enjoyed it.
She knew she’d enjoy watching him carry heavy things—the flex and swell of his muscles, the way sweat would bead along his hairline and he’d wipe it away leaving a smudge of soil… Yeah, that’d be fine.
She wasn’t about to say any of that to her mother, though, so she went with a grumbled, “It’s called a shower, Mother.”
