our labors.”
He pulled out the flask again, winking at Jed as he poured whiskey into the silver top. He handed the makeshift cup to Jed.
Since he couldn’t think of any reason not to, Jed tossed back the whiskey. He managed to choke back a gasp. The stuff was atomic.
“By God!” Quentin slapped Jed’s back again. “I like seeing a man drink like a man. Have another. Here’s to full white breasts that give a man’s head sweet rest.”
Jed drank again and let the whiskey work up a nice buffer against the cold. “Are you sure Santa should be drinking?”
“Dear boy, how do you think we get through those long, cold nights at the North Pole?
“We’ll be doing South Pacific next. Nice change, all those palm trees. We try to fit a couple of musicals into our schedule each year. Crowd pleasers. Have to have Izzy bring you by.”
He tipped more into Jed’s cup and began a rousing rendition of “There Is Nothin’ Like a Dame.”
It must be the whiskey, Jed decided. That would explain why he was sitting outside in the cold at dusk, finding nothing particularly odd about watching Santa belt out a show tune.
As he downed another capful, he heard the door open behind him and looked around lazily to see Dora standing at the top of the steps, her hands fisted on her hips.
Christ, she had great legs, he thought.
She spared Jed one withering glance. “I should have known you’d encourage him.”
“I was minding my own business.”
“Sitting on the back steps drinking whiskey with a man in a Santa suit? Some business.”
Because his tongue had thickened considerably, Jed enunciated with care. “I fixed the banister.”
“Bully for you.” Dora strode down the steps and caught her father’s arm just as Quentin was executing a fancy spin. “Show’s over.”
“Izzy!” Delighted, Quentin kissed her lustily and gave her a bear hug. “Your young man and I were seeing to carpentry repairs.”
“I can see that. You both look very busy at the moment. Let’s go inside, Dad.” She took the flask and shoved it into Jed’s hand. “I’ll come back for you,” she said under her breath, and dragged her father upstairs.
“I was minding my own business,” Jed said again, and meticulously capped the flask before slipping it into his back pocket. By the time Dora returned, he was loading up Brent’s tools with the care of a man packing fine china.
“So.” He slammed the trunk, leaned heavily against it. “Where’s Santa?”
“Sleeping. We have one rule around here, Skimmerhorn. No drinking on the job.”
Jed straightened, then wisely braced himself against the car again. “I was finished.” Blearily, he gestured toward the banister. “See?”
“Yeah.” She sighed, shook her head. “I shouldn’t blame you. He’s irresistible. Come on, I’ll take you upstairs.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“You’re plowed, Skimmerhorn. Your body knows it, it just hasn’t gotten through to your brain yet.”
“I’m not drunk,” he said again, but didn’t object when she slipped an arm around his waist to lead him up the steps. “I made fifteen bucks and two dozen cookies on the deliveries.”
“That’s nice.”
“Pretty good cookies.” He bumped into her as they passed through the doorway. “Christ, you smell good.”
“I bet you say that to all your landlords. Got your keys?”
“Yeah.” He fumbled for them, gave up and leaned against the wall. Served him right, he thought, for drinking that hard with only a few Snickerdoodles in his system.
Sighing, Dora slid her hand into his front pocket. She encountered a hard thigh and loose change.
“Try the other one,” he suggested.
She looked up, caught the easy and surprisingly charming smile. “Nope. If you enjoyed that, you’re not as drunk as I thought. Fish them out yourself.”
“I told you I wasn’t drunk.” He found them, then wondered how he was supposed to fit the key into the lock when the floor was weaving. Dora guided his
He pulled out the flask again, winking at Jed as he poured whiskey into the silver top. He handed the makeshift cup to Jed.
Since he couldn’t think of any reason not to, Jed tossed back the whiskey. He managed to choke back a gasp. The stuff was atomic.
“By God!” Quentin slapped Jed’s back again. “I like seeing a man drink like a man. Have another. Here’s to full white breasts that give a man’s head sweet rest.”
Jed drank again and let the whiskey work up a nice buffer against the cold. “Are you sure Santa should be drinking?”
“Dear boy, how do you think we get through those long, cold nights at the North Pole?
“We’ll be doing South Pacific next. Nice change, all those palm trees. We try to fit a couple of musicals into our schedule each year. Crowd pleasers. Have to have Izzy bring you by.”
He tipped more into Jed’s cup and began a rousing rendition of “There Is Nothin’ Like a Dame.”
It must be the whiskey, Jed decided. That would explain why he was sitting outside in the cold at dusk, finding nothing particularly odd about watching Santa belt out a show tune.
As he downed another capful, he heard the door open behind him and looked around lazily to see Dora standing at the top of the steps, her hands fisted on her hips.
Christ, she had great legs, he thought.
She spared Jed one withering glance. “I should have known you’d encourage him.”
“I was minding my own business.”
“Sitting on the back steps drinking whiskey with a man in a Santa suit? Some business.”
Because his tongue had thickened considerably, Jed enunciated with care. “I fixed the banister.”
“Bully for you.” Dora strode down the steps and caught her father’s arm just as Quentin was executing a fancy spin. “Show’s over.”
“Izzy!” Delighted, Quentin kissed her lustily and gave her a bear hug. “Your young man and I were seeing to carpentry repairs.”
“I can see that. You both look very busy at the moment. Let’s go inside, Dad.” She took the flask and shoved it into Jed’s hand. “I’ll come back for you,” she said under her breath, and dragged her father upstairs.
“I was minding my own business,” Jed said again, and meticulously capped the flask before slipping it into his back pocket. By the time Dora returned, he was loading up Brent’s tools with the care of a man packing fine china.
“So.” He slammed the trunk, leaned heavily against it. “Where’s Santa?”
“Sleeping. We have one rule around here, Skimmerhorn. No drinking on the job.”
Jed straightened, then wisely braced himself against the car again. “I was finished.” Blearily, he gestured toward the banister. “See?”
“Yeah.” She sighed, shook her head. “I shouldn’t blame you. He’s irresistible. Come on, I’ll take you upstairs.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“You’re plowed, Skimmerhorn. Your body knows it, it just hasn’t gotten through to your brain yet.”
“I’m not drunk,” he said again, but didn’t object when she slipped an arm around his waist to lead him up the steps. “I made fifteen bucks and two dozen cookies on the deliveries.”
“That’s nice.”
“Pretty good cookies.” He bumped into her as they passed through the doorway. “Christ, you smell good.”
“I bet you say that to all your landlords. Got your keys?”
“Yeah.” He fumbled for them, gave up and leaned against the wall. Served him right, he thought, for drinking that hard with only a few Snickerdoodles in his system.
Sighing, Dora slid her hand into his front pocket. She encountered a hard thigh and loose change.
“Try the other one,” he suggested.
She looked up, caught the easy and surprisingly charming smile. “Nope. If you enjoyed that, you’re not as drunk as I thought. Fish them out yourself.”
“I told you I wasn’t drunk.” He found them, then wondered how he was supposed to fit the key into the lock when the floor was weaving. Dora guided his
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