Chapter 24
[ 515 words ]
Chapter 24:
“Oh, Richard, come sit down,” Mrs. Thompson fluttered, her previous rage entirely replaced by a nervous, frantic energy. She practically shoved her husband toward the sofa. “I’ll go get the good coffee set. The one from Aunt Martha.”
She scurried into the kitchen.
Jarrod didn’t wait to be offered a seat. He walked over to the single leather armchair and sat down. He crossed his long legs, resting his injured right arm carefully on his lap. His posture was relaxed, but he exuded the natural, terrifying authority of a king holding court. His phone vibrated once in his pocket. He glanced down, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face, before dismissing it with a subtle tap. The world could wait.
Because he refused to let go of Caroline’s hand, she was forced to perch awkwardly on the wide armrest of his chair. She felt her face burning, acutely aware of her father staring at them.
𝖩оi𝘯 𝘁he 𝗰оmmu𝗻it𝘆 a𝗍 𝗴𝗮𝗅𝘯𝗈𝘃𝖾𝘭𝘴.со𝘮
K.C. Bell stepped into the room and took up a position just behind Jarrod’s right shoulder. He stood at parade rest, holding the gift boxes, looking every inch the lethal, highly-paid executive protection agent.
Mrs. Thompson hurried back in, carrying a silver tray with fragile porcelain cups. She set it on the coffee table, her hands shaking slightly. She sat down next to her husband, cleared her throat, and tried to summon the dignity of a matriarch.
“So,” Mrs. Thompson began, forcing a tight smile. “Mr… Romero, was it? Caroline tells us you two are married. May I ask what exactly you do for a living? And why you felt the need to elope with my daughter without consulting her family?”
Jarrod’s smile was disarming. He gestured to the gifts Bell was holding. “First, please allow me to apologize for the haste. The circumstances were… a matter of security.”
Bell placed the first, large box on the coffee table and opened it to reveal a stunning, hand-painted tea set.
“I hope you find it acceptable,” Jarrod added smoothly, his voice commanding the room. “It’s an authentic eighteenth-century French royal porcelain set from the Sèvres manufactory.”
Mrs. Thompson gasped loudly. Her hands flew to her mouth, her eyes practically bulging out of her head as she stared at the priceless antiques.
Bell didn’t pause. He placed the second, longer box on the table and opened it, presenting it to Mr. Thompson.
“And for you, Father,” Jarrod said, watching the older man’s reaction. “A custom-fitted set of Honma Beres golf clubs.”
Mr. Thompson’s jaw dropped. He reached out with trembling fingers to touch the gleaming titanium club heads.
Mrs. Thompson, recovering from the shock of the tea set, finally found her voice. “This is all very generous, but you haven’t answered my question. What do you do?”
Jarrod met her gaze, his smile fading slightly, replaced by an unnerving stillness. “I advise on certain national security matters at the Pentagon.”
The air froze. Mr. Thompson jerked his hand back from the golf clubs as if they had burned him. “National security?” he choked out. In Washington D.C., that phrase meant access to the President, control over billions in budget, and absolute, terrifying power.
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