Jett (Arizona Vengeance 10)

Emory picks up her phone from the table, looks at it briefly before bringing her eyes to mine. “It’s getting late. Want to go over a few more things about your IG account while we get the check handled?”

“Sure,” I say easily. While this wasn’t a date, I actually had a nice time. Emory’s a fascinating woman and I enjoyed learning more about her, even if the things I learned all spoke to why I’m not interested in a second date.

She waves at someone behind me—presumably the waiter—who seems to appear out of nowhere with the check. Emory tries to take it, but I manage to snag it out of the man’s hands. “I’ve got this.”

“I was going to expense it out,” she says with a pointed look. “You agreed.”

“I’m the one who invited you to dinner,” I reply, with my own pointed look. “Besides… you know I’m kind of rich, right? I don’t need you to buy me dinner.”

Emory tips her head back and laughs, and I have a crushing sense of disappointment at how beautiful she looks in this moment.

Because there can’t be anything between us.

CHAPTER 5

Emory

“He has an Olympic medal, you know?” Jenna says as she drives me to the arena. It’s actually my car, but she’s driving since I’m going to hop out when we get there.

The thought of Jett makes my skin prickle in irritation, as does Jenna’s casual drop of information about him.

I don’t let her know that’s an interesting tidbit, and instead, jerk my head toward the back seat where Felicity is sitting behind me. “Shh… delicate child ears back there.”

Jenna snorts and looks in the rearview mirror at her niece, face soft with fondness and love. “I don’t see how an Olympic medal is scandalous, but she can’t hear anything. She’s too absorbed in Elena of Avalor.”

I glance back. It’s true. Felicity has my iPad on her lap, headphones on, and her eyes riveted to the screen as her favorite princess rides flying Jaquins and battles an evil sorceress. She’s oblivious to us.

But I don’t want to talk to my sister about Jett. She had fallen asleep on Felicity’s bed before I got home last night. They were clearly in mid-bedtime story as evidenced by a Captain Underpants book laying on her chest and Felicity’s legs sprawled across Jenna’s. I decided to let them be, knowing Jenna would wake up at some point and go to her own room.

I had a hard time getting to sleep last night. Our date—which wasn’t a date but a business meeting—ended up being… well… a good time for me. Jett was easy to be around. I thought he’d bring a high-pressure pitch to jump into bed with him, and I fully expected him to press for a second date—or business meeting as I’d prefer to call it.

But he didn’t.

He merely walked me up my sidewalk and stopped at the foot of the porch steps. I turned around to see him there in the shadows but I could see the easy smile on his face.

“Thanks for the social media lesson, Emory,” he’d said in his faint Swedish accent that I could hear on the “r” in my name as it rose slightly in pitch.

“Anytime,” I’d replied, and I’m not so sure that was a business offering on my part.

I’d simply enjoyed my time with him, found him to be genial, funny, and surprisingly humble. All traits I’d never considered he’d have, but also didn’t really care about as I had no intention of getting involved with someone.

Have.

Have no intention of getting involved with someone.

As in present tense.

“Don’t you think that’s incredible?” Jenna asks, and I blink out of my reverie.

“What?” I ask befuddled.

“That Jett has an Olympic medal.” The smirk on her face says she’s baiting me. “He’s played in the winter Olympics for Sweden and they got a silver.”

Jett had mentioned playing in the Olympics but didn’t brag or linger on it. I think that just goes to his humble nature.

Add onto that genuine charm he has without even trying, the fact that he’s probably the hottest guy I’ve ever known—sorry, but the buzzed cut dark blond hair, crystal blue eyes, and facial scruff do me in—and I think about him far too much. I expected to wake up this morning and be focused on anything other than Jett Olsson.

“Will you go on another date with him?” Jenna asks.

My head whips her way and I glare. “It wasn’t a date.”

“Hmmm,” she replies, a sound deep in her throat that says she doesn’t believe a word of my claim. Probably because I’m fighting so hard about calling it a date.

I’m stunned though when she pivots. “Did he ask about me?”

I frown at her. “Just what you did for a living.”

“Not about my scars?” Her voice is soft, barely discernible. It guts me that she even has to worry about such a thing.