One of the women—not sure if she’s the one who made the original comment—grabs ahold of Jett’s arm and attempts to pull him off the man. He’s like stone and doesn’t budge a fraction of an inch, except his head turns her way. Jett’s eyes are ice-cold as he looks at her and the other woman. “You are pathetic excuses for human beings.”
My jaw drops slightly, not by his defense of Jenna. I know that’s the kind of guy Jett is, but because he is intensely furious over the inherent unkindness these people displayed.
Without warning, he releases the guy who grabs onto his throat and wheezes. Jett merely says, “After tonight, I don’t ever want to see you three in this place again.”
And with that, he turns from them, takes my hand, and leads me toward the door.
Except I dig my heels in and stop, forcing him to look at me.
Without thought to the repercussions or the fact that I’m going against my own rule to keep our relationship a secret, I fling my arms around his neck and kiss him hard on the mouth.
Because that was without a doubt the sexiest, hottest, and sweetest thing I have ever seen.
The kiss ends before he can return it, but I take delight in the surprised look in his eyes.
Spinning from him, I hurry toward the door. When we exit, we find Jenna waiting there, head bent over her phone ordering an Uber. She looks up at us with a smile. “I was wondering where you two went.”
I let out a pent-up sigh of relief.
She didn’t hear what was said, and I’m so incredibly grateful that my legs feel a bit like jelly.
“I’ve got the Uber ordered,” she says cheerfully. “You two can go if you want. It’s safe here by myself.”
“We’ll wait with you,” Jett replies, glancing back toward the door.
The message is clear.
He’s become Jenna’s protector and my heart just got snagged a little in the process.
CHAPTER 13
Jett
I’m not sure what’s changed since leaving The Sneaky Saguaro but the undertones of sexual tension between Emory and me have seemingly fizzled.
Not in a bad way.
Not in an awkward way that says either one of us have changed our minds about what we ultimately want tonight. That’s just a given, and I sense that’s still there.
But while Emory amiably chats on the way to my condo about the fun she had tonight and the enjoyment of getting to know some of the players on a more personal level, I can tell she’s somewhere else inside her head.
I’m sure it has to do with Jenna.
Listening to those people spout such ignorance and pure spite almost had my head exploding. I wanted to pummel that guy and while I couldn’t do the same to the woman, I wanted to call her out and embarrass her in front of the entire restaurant. I had the clout to do it, but I knew it could possibly bring attention to Jenna and I’m glad she remained blissfully ignorant of what happened.
I pull into my parking spot, help Emory out of the passenger side of the car. I take a chance as we walk to the elevator, my hand reaching out for hers. My fingers lace with the edges of hers, a tentative hold on each other.
I realize… I’ve probably not held a woman’s hand since I dated in secondary school back in Sweden. Back then I had a serious girlfriend and we held hands wherever we went. Since entering professional hockey though, I’ve not wanted that type of relationship.
Admittedly, it feels good holding Emory’s hand.
There’s no frantic kissing outside my door or fumbling of keys to get us inside. We enter my condo and I drop her hand to turn off the alarm. Closing the door behind us, I ask her, “Want another beer?”
To my surprise, she smiles playfully. “Yeah… you know, I think I do. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to kick back and get a little drunk.”
I can’t help but laugh. She’s not a buttoned-up Brit, but she definitely doesn’t let her hair down often. “Let’s get drunk then,” I say as I move into the kitchen.
“No telling what I might let you do to me when I’m drunk,” she chuckles as she drops her purse on the coffee table and plops down on my couch, nestling into the corner of one end.
After nabbing two beers from the fridge and uncapping them, I bring them into the living room. Handing her one, I sit on the cushion next to her, tossing my arm across the back so I can angle toward her.
Holding my beer out, we tap the necks together. “Cheers.”
After taking a sip, I ask Emory, “Want to tell me what that kiss was about?”
We’ve only been intimate for the last week—two times prior to tonight. We’ve kissed a lot in that time frame, but there’s only one kiss that’s been different from the others.
“Oh, that,” she murmurs, smiling coyly down at her bottle. When her eyes come up to meet mine, she shrugs, “I got caught up in the moment.”
“Hmmm,” is the only acknowledgment I give, forcing her to continue to talk.
Emory’s face flushes slightly, telling me she’s embarrassed. “Fine. I admit I was a little overwhelmed—in a good way—by the way you stood up for Jenna. I just couldn’t help but kiss you.”
I nod sagely. I knew that’s what it was and I enjoyed the hell out of it. Giving her a playful wink, I say, “Well, you don’t need to worry. I don’t think anyone saw you being all trampy with me.”
Emory snorts and takes a sip of her beer. Her expression sobers a tiny bit as she admits, “I’m not sure I care anymore if people know about us.”
I dare not acknowledge the fact that statement makes me feel good. Because that goes against how we decided to play this thing—casual, loose, and no strings. One of the things that kept us at arm’s length was her reticence in people knowing about us.
Pushing that aside, I take the opportunity for us to just talk. “You’re very protective of Jenna.”
“As are you apparently,” she points out, holding up her beer in a silent toast to me.
Tapping my finger on my bottle, I give a shake of my head. “I can’t fucking stand mean people. It’s like my pet peeve and I just don’t get why people are like that.”
“I gave up trying to figure out why people do the things they do a long time ago,” she murmurs. And while I know she’s talking about the way people treat her sister based on her appearance, I know she’s talking about other things too.
“Do you mind me asking what happened to Jenna?”
I know it’s a nosy question, and I’m not asking from some grim fascination with her suffering. I want to know so I can understand Emory, and probably even Jenna, because what affects Jenna affects her sister.
Emory kicks her shoes off, pulls her legs up under her, and takes another pull on her beer. She nestles the bottle between her legs, eyes coming to me, but I can sense she’s far away, slipping into a memory. “Almost two years ago, Jenna was babysitting her boyfriend’s daughter, Chelsea, while he was at work. It was his weekend to have her but he got called in for an unexpected night shift. The next morning, before he got home, Jenna was cooking breakfast and a grease fire started on the gas stove. The kitchen went up unbelievably fast, but Jenna wasn’t thinking of that. She ran upstairs where Chelsea was playing in her room.”