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He nods. “And he missed his chance. And if you think I’m going to cancel a date with you in public in front of the whole town, you are astonishingly wrong. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
I swallow hard. “Everyone is shocked. The age difference, I think.”
Jesse nods, and his face is full of so much compassion I want to cry. “It’s just a date, and it doesn’t even have to be that. I can come to work at the bakery for a day.”
That’s so kind of him. But that’s not what I want. Dammit, why can’t I be satisfied with that?
“Oh…okay,” I say.
Jesse grabbed my hand at some point, and now he’s squeezing it. I can’t feel my feet. Am I levitating? “Tell you what, I’ll come to the bakery tomorrow, and we can discuss what you want. How’s that?”
I nod and beam at him, feeling slightly more relaxed now that I’m aware he’s touching me. I’m like a feral cat who calms at the touch of a firm hand. Good lord, what’s wrong with me?
He grins down at me. “Ah, there you are, Dimples.” The Stetson goes back on his head.
And I’m melting. Levitating and melting at the same time.
With shaking hands, I pin the boutonniere on Jesse’s chest, and it feels like prom night eight years ago. My heart sinks, wondering how long ago Jesse had his own prom night. Twenty, thirty years ago? God, what am I doing?
Guess I’ll find out because, as it turns out, there’s nothing illegal about dating your would-be date’s much more responsible father.
ChapterThree
Jesse
“You’re not going out with her.”
This is the funniest shit I’ve heard today, and it’s only seven a.m. on a Saturday.
As I’m overseeing the restocking of the fishing pond at the Jesse J Ranch, my son Nate has decided to make an appearance since stumbling home at god knows what hour.
Nate rolls up next to me on the reedy shore of the pond, in his golf cart, despite knowing the rules.
“You miss the signs about motorized vehicles on the grass, son?”
He ignores this.
“What the hell are you doing, going out with Miriam?”
“Her name’s Mariam. And that’s none of your business.”
Nate splutters, paces around, and flaps his arms like a frickin’ blue heron. If the boy had the grace of a blue heron.
“Oh, okay, big man. You’re going to stand there and not look at me?”
“I’m supervising. Doing what should have been your job.”
“I have a job.”
“Ditching your dates to go to the city and bet on the dogs is not a job.”
“I’m a consultant!”
If that sounds fishy, that’s because it is.
“Sounds legit,” I say, my eyes on the pond.
“Well, maybe if you hadn’t cut me off, I wouldn’t have to have second jobs that pay more.”
