Page 5 of Festive Faking
“Tripp. He’s two years younger than me. Helps run the ranch and does a lot of the traveling with the horses during rodeo season, carting them all over the state.” She paused before pinning me with her bright blue stare. “Meemaw’s the one you wanna watch out for.”
My brows rose. “Who’s Meemaw?”
“My grandma. Dad’s mom.”
I couldn’t help my arrogant snort. “Pretty sure I can handle a sweet old lady.”
A corner of Aspen’s lips twitched, and she patted my shoulder with a condescending, “Sure you can, buddy.”
Her dad might be a tough nut to crack, but I was confident I could win over the matriarch of the family with my signature charm. Women went nuts for it.
Yeah, all of them except Aspen.
Okay, maybe I’d do well to heed her warning if Aspen had inherited her spirit from her grandmother.
Either way, it was full steam ahead on what appeared to be an ultra-rustic country Christmas.
“Hey, where are you going?” I called out to Aspen’s back as she hustled through the terminal of Will Rogers Airport in Oklahoma City. “Sign said the rental car counter is that way.” I hitched a thumb over my shoulder to indicate a turn we’d passed.
She didn’t slow her strides but peeked over her shoulder at me. “Who told you to rent a car?”
I paused so suddenly that the person walking behind me rammed right into me, knocking me off balance.
“Hey! You can’t stop in the middle of the walkway!” That’s all I got as the woman hustled past me without a backward glance. No apology, not even an “excuse me.”
Aspen’s snickers reached my ears, and I shot her a death glare.
“Come on. Our ride’s waiting down at baggage claim.”
My chest rumbled in annoyance, but I hastened my steps to catch up with her.
“Didn’t you say it was a two-hour drive to your parents’ place? Who would want to drive four hours round-trip just to pick—”
Before I could finish that sentence, Aspen took off running, squealing, “Daddy!” as she flung herself into the arms of a man leaning against a support beam.
He wrapped her up in a bear hug, the two of them embracing long enough for me to reach where they stood.
Sharp, blue eyes landed on me as they broke apart, and he did a visual sweep from head to toe. “Headed to a funeral later, son?”
My gaze shifted to Aspen, who didn’t bother to conceal her giggles and a gloating look that said,I told you so.
Her father extended his hand. “Jett Sullivan.”
Meeting him halfway, I gave him a hearty handshake while scanning his appearance and what he deemed acceptable clothing.
Jett couldn’t have been much over fifty but had lines on his face suggesting he spent a fair amount of time outdoors, which made sense considering Aspen had explained he worked the land, along with his animals. A dusty, black cowboy hat rested atop his head, hiding whether he’d begun to go gray or not.
He seemed fit, trim for a middle-aged man—something you didn’t often see in the corporate world, where indulgence took precedence over exercise. He wore a flannel, partially hidden beneath a thick, wool-lined camel jacket and tucked into well-worn jeans. On his feet were scuffed-up cowboy boots.
“Mac Blaze,” I offered my name in greeting as our hands broke apart.
Jett’s dark eyebrows drew down. “Thought it was Mike?” He peeked at his daughter, who looked like a deer caught in headlights, but must not have noticed because he shrugged. “Guess I must’ve heard it wrong. My mistake. So, Mack like the truck?”
I shook my head. “Actually, it’s short for Macallan, like the scotch.”
“Huh. You know, I’ve heard of that. Not that I’ve ever tried it. Our bar doesn’t carry anything that high-end.”
Mental note: Make sure to have a bottle sent out before Christmas.
