He didn’t ask.” Ginger spun around. The sheepish grin on her father’s face tossed her back ten years, to when she’d been the apple of his eye and had him wrapped around her finger. “And I told him a man’s integrity will make him my son-in-law long before the size of his pocketbook.” “Brock’s as honest as the day is long,” she said proudly. “I know that.” Her father chuckled. “You two remind me of the time I met your mother. I didn’t have two coins to rub together, but that didn’t stop us.” “You always said I was just like Momma.” “You are.” Her father kissed her forehead and then shook his head. “If old George hadn’t spouted off to that radio station about how good Brock is, we’d all be home celebrating your wedding instead of here. George owes me for that.” Ginger laughed, and then right there on the street, in front of her father, threw her arms around Brock and kissed the daylights out of him. Less than an hour later, in Palooka George’s office, by a judge the mobster had summoned—complete with an antedated marriage license—Ginger became Mrs.
