I don’t mention that though. Instead, I keep my enthusiasm high. “I’ll stop and get us the very best bottle of red to go with the braised short ribs.”
“You’re the best, sis,” she replies.
“No, you are,” I reply back.
And we’re both right. The two of us have leaned on each other tremendously the last few years.
We are one another’s rock.
We chat for a few more minutes and I get details on her new job, but the front desk receptionist sends an IM through our organization’s personal messaging system letting me know my two o’clock appointment has arrived.
I grimace internally.
Jett Olsson, the relentless, although admittedly gorgeous hockey player, who has gone to ridiculous measures to get me to go out with him. Many women would be charmed, but I don’t have time for it, so it’s more of an irritation than anything.
“Gotta go, Jenna,” I say to my sister as I respond to the message, asking the receptionist to send him back. I promise Jenna I’ll be home promptly at 6:30 PM and we disconnect.
Standing from my desk, I take in a deep, fortifying breath and let it out slowly. Smoothing down my skirt, I tug at the silky bow tied at my throat. My outfit is on point today, like it is most days. I’m driven by fashion trends, even breaking them on occasion, and today I’m wearing a black, high-waisted skirt that hugs my body and comes down just below my knees. And when I say high-waisted, I mean it comes up high enough to almost cover my rib cage. I paired it with an emerald green, long-sleeved silk blouse with a bow at the throat, and black boots. It’s an interesting look with the form-fitting skirt starting just below my breasts and the billowy blouse above it that sort of froths out a bit.
I wore my hair down today, the raven locks parted down the middle and hanging in long, spiky layers I’d straightened to perfection. My hairstyles are as diverse as my clothing choices. Just yesterday I went with old-fashioned pin curls.
The one thing that always stays consistent are my black-framed glasses, which I wear routinely at work. I have contacts which I don’t mind wearing, but I’ve found that people tend to take my work in analytics a bit more seriously if I look studious.
There’s a short knock on my door and Jett Olsson is walking in. I push back the initial shock that has come the other two times we’ve met, mainly the healthy appreciation over how gorgeous he is.
Unlike many hockey players, he wears his dark blond hair cropped close to his scalp and has perpetual, but a perfect amount of, facial hair on his face. His eyes are dark blue—the color of pure denim—and his Swedish accent is faint, but not unsexy.
Yup… I push that all aside and move around my desk, professionally holding out my hand for him to shake. “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Olsson.”
Rather than align his palm to mine for a business-like shake, he scoops mine up, turning my knuckles upward. I know his intent before he can attempt to lift my hand to his mouth to graze his lips over. It’s how he greeted me the first time we met and it caught me off guard, embarrassing me.
Jerking my hand from his, I chastise, “You know… men stopped kissing women’s knuckles in the late eighteen-hundreds.”
I have no clue if that’s true as history was not my major in college.
Sweeping my hand toward one of the guest chairs opposite my desk—indicating he should sit for our meeting to start—I move back around to my chair.
“Not true,” he says, and it stops me in my tracks. I look over my shoulder at him. “I often greet a woman that way and last I heard, it’s the twenty-first century.”
I roll my eyes, turning toward my chair. “Kiss a lot of women, do you, Mr. Olsson?”
“It’s Jett,” he corrects me and adds, “Why? Are you jealous?”
“Hardly.” I hope my droll tone clearly implies that I don’t find him amusing.
I settle into my chair, my spine straight, and clasp my hands on the desk as I stare at Jett. His blue eyes stare right back at me, a slight smirk on his face.
I decide to wipe it off quickly. “I appreciate you coming in to discuss your IG account, Mr. Olsson. So far, it’s the worst one I’ve seen out of all your teammates.”
It’s frustrating that his smirk doesn’t slide a millimeter, but his eyes flash with surprise. “I thought you’d be impressed with what I did.”
“Impressed?” I ask incredulously. “You didn’t do a single thing I asked you to do.”
I think back to the meeting we had to discuss the team’s new policy on player interaction on social media. I went over the rules and guidelines with him the same as I did for every other player.