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harrumphed in mock offense and linked her arm through Lucian’s, dragging him toward a tray of hors d’oeuvres and helping herself. “That’s better. Practically raise your butt, and you have the nerve to callme ‘missis’ anything. Honestly.”
“I assure you it won’t happen again,” Lucian said solemnly, an odd kind of contentment welling up inside him. Ginger Ollivander managed a thirty-thousand acre dairy farm, a horde ofkids, and a husband who thought bull riding was a relaxing pastime at sixty. Lucian and his reputation paled in comparison, even in his own mind.
“Then I’ll see you next week for barbeque.” Ginger sighed. “Maybe you could even find my wayward son and tellhimto come see me, too.”
“Shea’s not been home?” Lucian asked politely, though Clark had told him that Shea had avoided all familyand friends since quittingthe economics position.
“No, the dirty rat has not been home to see his mother. Not even for Thanksgiving. If I don’t see him this Christmas, I’mgoingto hogtie himmyself.”
“Now that I would love to see,” Lucian said, being thoroughlyhonest.
Ginger cackled. “I just bet you would. Haven’t managed to do it yourself for some unearthly reason. Remind me again why you aren’t married to my boy and raisinga gaggle ofgrandkids?”
“Childrengive me hives.”
“People give you hives. And Shea would take care of them. I remember how you are with children. Probably let them play with knives and somehow think it’s a lessoninsafety.”
Lucian violently cleared his throat in protest, but Ginger stared him down from the corner of her eye. “Right. You do make a point. I’ll see if I can talk Shea into the idea of settling down.” Lucian was proud when he managed to say the words without stammering. It was a near thing.
A honey-gold gaze just like Shea’s peered up at Lucian, the intelligence as keen and even more forthright. “Seeinghimsoonare you?”
Lucian started to answer and lost alltrain ofthought when he saw Shea shoving a path through the crowd. Lucian’s heart tripped a faster beat, his mouthwent dry, and Lucian took in every detail of the poorly-fitted tuxedo, the untamed brown curls, and the irked scowl marringShea’s handsome features.
“You look like someone just hit you in the mouth with a wet fish,” Ginger remarked, standing on tiptoes and scanning the ballroom. “Who are you meeting -- oh mysweet Lord!”
Ginger made it to Shea before Lucian could get there. The woman trotted like a pony in her two-inch pumps and flungherselfaround Shea’s neck.
“Oof.” Shea chuckled and hugged his mother tightly, picking her up off the floor and setting her back down. “Mom, what did we say about not making a scene the next time we see each other?” Shea asked, but the fond tenderness in his eyes was easy to see, and the crude cadence of his voice was gone in the face of family.
“You didn’t tell me it’d be years in between sightings, you rat!” Ginger retorted, making a fist and punchingShea inthe bicep.
“Ow!” Shea grinned without actually flinching. “Hey, I called, and it’s only been three years. Didn’t Cousin Vicky leave and move off to God knows for five before she evengot intouch?”
“Cousin Vicky isn’t my son.” Ginger tapped her foot at Shea, one hand onher ample waist.
“She makes a point,” Lucian interjected, grabbing champagne offa passingtrayand offeringit to Shea.
“This isn’t basketball, Lucian.” Shea accepted the glass and instead of sipping it properly, he swallowed it like soda. “I’d have a chance at basketball.”
“Easy on the booze, dear,” Ginger cautioned, and Lucian wanted to roll his eyes with Shea. “Now tell me why on earth you choose to show up here instead of at our Sundaydinner table?”
“Mom, I quit the big finance thing so I can’t face Dad, but Luke asked, so I’ve come to this function to be withhim.”
“Lucian always was good at knowing what was best for you,” Ginger said.