Jett (Arizona Vengeance 10)

Not sure I ever will be.

Definitely not until my hockey career is over.

“You ready to go?” Emory asks and I blink away my thoughts to find her staring at me expectantly.

And for some unknown reason, I’m a bit miffed she hasn’t introduced me. I mean… I don’t want anything to do with the kid, and the other woman is a mystery but not one overly intriguing.

Still, I can’t help but step one foot past Emory and hold my hand out to the blonde. “Hi. I’m Jett Olsson.”

She looks startled for a moment but then shakes my hand silently. Emory is prompted to make introductions. “I’m sorry,” she says softly, but I can tell she’s not sorry at all. She had no intention of me meeting these two who greeted me at the door.

“This is Jenna, my sister,” Emory clips brusquely. I smile at the woman and she finally meets my gaze head-on but it’s only for a moment. She returns my smile and ducks her head. “And this is my daughter, Felicity.”

Even though I suspected this was her kid, I still wince internally to learn she’s not just a hot, single woman like I assumed. Regardless, I put on the goofy, playful smile I use on my littlest fans and bend over to hold my fist out. “Hi, Felicity. Give me some knuckle.”

The child frowns in confusion, her eyes going briefly to her mom for some elucidation. I don’t wait for Emory to explain.

With my other hand, I take hers and help close it into a fist. “Like this,” I say, and then I pull hers to mine so we bump them together. “It’s how most hockey players greet other people.”

“Mummy said you play for the Vengeance,” she replies timidly, and fuck me… I realize she’s got an English accent too, just like Emory, and it’s cute as hell.

“That’s right,” I reply, straightening. “And your Mummy and I are heading out to discuss business so she can do her job and I can do mine better.”

That sails right over Felicity’s head but it’s my way of saying out loud that this evening is absolutely only going to be about business, because I have no intention of getting involved with a woman who has a kid.

?

I chose to take Emory to a steak restaurant that I really like. It’s not what I’d consider an overly romantic venue, but the tables are spaced apart further than in normal restaurants and the inside is dimly lit, lending an air of privacy to each seating arrangement. They have the best steaks in Phoenix as far as I’m concerned, but also provide vegetarian dishes as well as seafood to accommodate any diner.

We’ve just placed our orders and I study Emory as she checks her phone. She informed me on the drive here that, as a mother, she will be constantly checking to make sure nothing is wrong at home and I had no qualms with that. This was—I had resolved based on the change of circumstances—just business after all.

On the way here, Emory launched right into a lecture on how I needed to change the way I was posting to my IG account. I listened intently, because I knew if I didn’t, I’d let my thoughts drift to the disappointing fact she has a child.

But now, in the lull created by the waiter bringing us our drinks and taking our order, I find myself more curious than put off by the fact she’s a parent.

“Does Jenna live with you?” I ask Emory, and she glances up from her phone briefly.

“Yes,” she replies and she efficiently types what I assume to be a text. “She doesn’t have a car which is why I had you pick me up. She wanted to take Felicity out for some ice cream tonight.”

“You and your sister look nothing alike,” I remark casually.

Emory’s head jerks up from the phone and she narrows her eyes. “Why?” she demands defensively. “Because of her scars.”

I recoil slightly from the acidity of her tone, then immediately take offense which comes out as slicing sarcasm. “No… because you have black hair and blue eyes and your skin is rather pale, while she’s blonde and brown eyed with tanned skin.”

Emory seems to fold in on herself as she lets out a long breath of frustration before giving me a baleful stare. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to such an awful conclusion. Jenna is having a hard time with it and it makes me overprotective. I can obviously see that’s not what you meant.”

“You do have some matching facial features,” I say, pointing out I had at least noticed that.

Emory actually smiles fondly and nods. “We share the same dad. We’re half-sisters.”

“Okay.” I sit back for dramatic effect and pick up my drink—a club soda with lime, since this is business. “Give me the low down on your family, especially why you have an English accent, and hers is more American.”