Jett (Arizona Vengeance 10)

“I did exactly what you said,” he repeats, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He flips through a few screens and then turns it for me to see. It’s a post I recognize. “You said to take bright pictures, close up if possible, to catch the browser’s eye.”

I grit my teeth, because yes, I said that.

And yes, the picture of a bouquet of pink tulips is perfectly eye-catching. I can’t see what he wrote from this distance, but I’ve already read it. It said something like, These are my favorite flowers to give.

“That’s not real,” I scold him. “It’s totally staged and made up.”

“Not true. I’d very much like to give tulips to someone.”

I grit my teeth again, and close my eyes for a moment, calling on myself to remain calm. He is absolutely infuriating.

When I open my eyes, I notch up my British accent, which has become Americanized over the almost fifteen years I’ve lived in the States. “Mr. Olsson… during our last meeting, you relentlessly asked me personal questions, attempting to get me to agree to a date with you. As you’ll remember, I firmly shot you down. And one of those questions you managed to get me to answer was that tulips are my favorite flower.”

He was so sly about it too. Posing the question as if he was merely asking for clarification on how to take good photos.

“So, for example,” he’d queried. “If you were to take a photo of your favorite flowers to post, how and where would you position them?”

I fell for it hook, line and sinker. “I’d tie up a bouquet of tulips with a ribbon that matched their petals and lay them on some worn wooden boards rather than a vase.”

And just like that, he learned my favorite flower.

His very first IG post was a picture of tulips with a message meant for me, not his fans.

It didn’t stop there. He continued to finagle personal information out of me under the guise of wanting to learn the mechanics of engaging social media, and I fed him a ton of information.

His account turned into a not-so-subtle attempt to charm me into a date.

I take in another breath as Jett lowers his phone, resting it against his thigh.

Encased in a pair of amazingly well-fit jeans.

Shaking my head, I clear my throat and lift my chin to show my authority over him. “Mr. Olsson—”

“Jett—”

“Mr. Olsson,” I repeat. “Your IG account should reflect who you are as a person. It has to be genuine and it has to be true to yourself.”

“I am being true to myself,” he says, and I understand his message. He’s being relentless in his pursuit and that is who he is. He doesn’t take “no” for an answer very easily.

“I am never going to go on a date with you,” I say firmly, deciding to just cut to the chase. “So if you will just accept that and start tailoring your account to reflect—”

“I’ll make a deal with you,” he interrupts me with a roguish grin, and I’m so caught off guard by the dimple I can see poking out through the scruff on his face, I don’t shut him down.

He takes my momentary silence as permission to proceed. “Let me take you out to dinner. You spend some more time helping me understand how to be genuine in my posts, where I promise to follow your instructions, and I will never ask you out on a date again.”

My eyes narrow. “You’re saying if we go out for a meal—really a business dinner—you’ll legitimately let me teach you how to use your social media and you’ll follow my instructions, then you won’t ever ask me out again?”

Jett nods with a resounding expression of determination. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“You promise you’ll leave me alone,” I press.

“On a personal basis, yes. On a professional basis, I imagine we still have to work together.”

I settle back in my chair a minute, letting my brain search for some sort of loophole.

Some means by which he’s tricking me.

I also remind myself I won’t let myself get charmed by him at this dinner, and that I am going to stick to my absolute policy of not only not dating co-workers, but not dating anyone for that matter.

I’m not interested at this point in my life.

It’s still a little too personal, so I make a counteroffer. “I’ll agree to dinner with you, solely in a business capacity to help you learn more about how to do your social media in an authentic way. But I’m paying for dinner.”

“Deal,” he says quickly.

Too quickly.

Did I miss a loophole?

“Tonight?” he queries hopefully. The Vengeance doesn’t have a game.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I already have plans.”

Jett isn’t dissuaded. “Saturday night.”

I don’t have any reason to say no. My Saturday nights are relatively boring, and I’d just as soon get this over with.