Of course, she doesn’t wear them all the time. In fact, only at work. I noticed she wasn’t wearing them during our dinner, and again yesterday when we were working out together, so I asked her about them.
She told me that for whatever reason, wearing them while navigating the corporate world seems to cause men to take her more seriously. As if she actually has a brain since she wears nerdy-looking glasses. I have no doubt that’s probably been true in her prior work experiences, but I assured her Dominik wasn’t like that. She’d just have to figure that one out on her own, though.
What is absolutely different from the first time I saw her and tried to flirt with her—only to be painfully shot down—is the wide smile she bestows upon me right now.
I hold up the plastic bag in my hand, and her eyes go wide when she recognizes the logo on it.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asks in amazement as she starts to rise from her chair.
“A double salmon poke bowl with brown rice, cabbage, radish, beets, eel sauce, and extra ginger on the side.”
Her eyes flare even wider that I would remember those exact details, but I remember every single thing we talked about yesterday.
Her love of poke and exactly how she likes it is one of the dozens of things I learned about her. Our shared workout—which should have lasted no longer than forty-five minutes—stretched more than two hours because we ended up doing far more talking than lifting weights.
I don’t know the reason for it.
I doubt she does either.
But somehow, conversation just seemed to flow as we switched out weights between sets. Sometimes it flowed so damn good we stopped working out and just stood and talked.
It wasn’t anything deep. We didn’t share secrets. But I now know her favorite way to eat a poke bowl, that she’s allergic to honey, and that she ran away from home when she was eight, only making it to the front porch because she was too afraid to go further. She spent an impressive full night on the stoop because she refused to go back in the house even though her dad and stepmom relentlessly begged her to. Admittedly, she accepted the pillow and blanket, along with the sandwich they brought out to her, but she felt she’d made her point.
Bottom line, by the time we finally made it through a complete workout, the dynamic between us had changed. We actually developed a friendship during that time, both of us realizing that we have a lot in common and enjoy the other’s company.
Of course, there was no mention of future dates and that was okay by me. I don’t want the complication of her having a kid and she doesn’t date co-workers.
In essence, it would be friends and nothing more, which isn’t anything strange. Over my life, I’ve had plenty of good female friends.
Except… well, I wouldn’t spontaneously bring one of them their favorite food for lunch, now would I? Maybe that only means I like her as a friend more than the others. And I’ve decided I can certainly overlook how gorgeous she is and push down any considerations that perhaps we could have something more.
No, we’re just friends.
I’m sure of it.
Maybe.
Leaning over Emory’s desk, I hand her the bag. She takes it with relish, dropping back into her chair and nodding at the chair beside me. “Sit down. I’ll share with you.”
“I’d love to,” I say, not accepting her offer and instead, putting a hand on the back of the chair to lean on it. “But I’ve got to be down in the auditorium in about ten minutes.”
“Game meeting?” she guesses, pulling the clear plastic poke bowl out of the bag, along with chopsticks. She doesn’t wait for confirmation, instead affirming her knowledge of the Vengeance. “It’s going to be a tough game tonight against San Diego.”
I smile at her, which she doesn’t see because she’s got the top off the bowl and is busy stirring all the ingredients with her chopsticks. Emory spent a lot of time yesterday quizzing me about hockey. She wants her knowledge base to go deeper than what she’s already cultivated through her own research. I spent time telling her a bit more about some of my closest mates on the team so she could understand the cohesion we have out on the ice transcends coaching and talent. It has as much to do with a personal connection between the players.
We spend a few minutes chatting about the strengths and weaknesses of the opposing team, which morphs into a discussion about the following evening’s game against the Spades in Vegas, and how we’ll fly back the same night to Phoenix.
Emory wipes her mouth on a napkin before she dips her chopsticks back into the bowl, then asks, “You have big plans for Thanksgiving? You know… seeing as how you’re not American and all.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “So asks the Brit.”
She snickers and expertly pulls a clump of rice, beets, and salmon up to hover before her mouth. “We definitely don’t celebrate the holiday.”
“That’s odd… given that your stepmother is American,” I remark.
“Right?” she says in obvious agreement. “But it was never a big holiday to her for some reason, and my dad hates turkey, so for the fifteen years she lived in London after marrying my dad, we didn’t celebrate it.”
“I’ve been invited over to Jim’s house. His wife is cooking a big spread. Coach has extended an open invite to all us single dudes to come eat with him as well.”
“Where will you go?” she asks in her brisk accent, blue eyes luminous behind her frames.
I shrug. Hadn’t really thought much about it. I’ll probably order a pizza and drink a beer in my own condo. “I’ll figure something out.”
She studies me a moment and then a sly smile takes over her face, making her look mischievously sexy. “Or,” she drawls. “You can come eat with us on Thursday. We’re going to have perfectly boring food. Something very un-American like steak and kidney pie.”
“Sounds delicious,” I say, although I might be fibbing a bit. Not sure about the kidney part.
“You should come eat with us,” she suggests, and I try to ignore the thrill that runs through me at the invitation. We’re just friends, after all. And I have perfectly good invites to spend Thanksgiving with people I’m closer to.
Yes, out of all my choices—including a pizza in my condo—hanging out with Emory is by far the most preferable.
Even though I know her sister and daughter will be there.
Odd.
“How about I bring something very traditionally Swedish,” I offer, which is my acceptance of her invitation.
She tilts her head with a smile. “Like what?”
I frown, then shrug. “I have no clue. I suck at cooking, but I’ll call home and ask for a good recipe.”
“Really?” she asks in amazement, her chopsticks hovering and her poke forgotten.
“Sure. But I can’t guarantee it will be any good.”
“It’s the thought and effort that matters,” she says, in a very Mary Poppins sort of tone which only makes her sexier in some weird and demented way.
“Is there anything else you want me to bring?” I ask, the realization I’ll be seeing Emory again in a personal setting getting me a little excited.
Which tells me she’s not strictly on my friend radar like I’ve been repeating to myself over and over again.
Hell, even the fact she’s got a kid isn’t producing feelings of panic or disappointment.
Just… odd.
“Bring whatever you like but we’ll have plenty of food,” she assures me.
I glance down at my watch, see that I have two minutes to get down to the meeting room and if the elevator is slow in any way, I’m going to get an ass-chewing from the coach.
“I’ve got to get going.” I move to the door, looking back at her. “Are you going to the game tonight?”
She shakes her head. “Not tonight. I have some work to do, but I’ll be watching on TV and cheering you on.”
My smile is big and almost preening.
The way she worded that last statement coupled
with her tone said she was going to be cheering “me” on. Not the team as a whole, although there’s no doubt she will be rooting for them as well.
“I’ll see you Thursday, then,” I reply and shoot her a wink.
She grins and then turns her attention back to her poke bowl, dipping her chopsticks back into the lunch I’d brought her.
I make a mental note to shoot a text off to my sister and mom to find a good recipe to bring to dinner. After leaving her office, I bypass the elevator, not willing to chance being late.
Instead, I risk a broken leg as I fly down the fire stairwell to the basement, scooting into the auditorium about three seconds before Coach walks in. He makes a grunting sort of noise that says I just escaped his wrath and I hurry to join my linemates in the third row.
“Cutting it close,” Jim mutters as I move past him to settle in next to Kane.
“Sorry,” I whisper, leaning to the right a bit so he can hear me. “Got caught up.”
“Hope it was worth risking Coach’s ire,” he says from the side of his mouth.
“Totally worth it,” I reply with a grin that is only for myself as I watch Coach move to the podium and the screen descend from the ceiling. Leaning in a little closer, and in the lowest voice I can manage, I tell Jim, “And thank you very much for the invitation to join your family for Thanksgiving, but I’m going to be spending it with Emory instead.”
Jim jerks, head whipping my way and jaw dropped open in astonishment. My linemates know that Emory having a kid sort of changed my desire to pursue her so diligently. We have a running text thread among the five of us—me, Kane, Steele, Bain, and Riggs—although Riggs barely participates. It’s usually reserved for arranging meet-ups and workouts. The occasional joke in poor taste. They had been eager to hear via text how badly I’d crashed and burned on our dinner meeting that wasn’t a date.
I had to set them straight that it wasn’t a crash and burn, but more of a change of feelings because of the single mom thing. I didn’t have to explain it. They know I’m not ready to settle down and a woman with a kid screams settling down. Even my buds with their own kids—Jim with his daughter and even Riggs with his sister—don’t hold it against me. They’re very aware of the responsibility that goes with that territory and that I just don’t want that right now.
“Why do you look like the cat who ate the canary then?” Jim whispers as Coach pulls out a binder and starts flipping through pages. “I thought you two were only going to be friends?”
“Fuck if I know,” I admit truthfully, because I haven’t been able to sift through the feelings I’ve got going on.
I’m attracted to Emory.
Like seriously attracted, and more than I’ve ever been with another woman.
I like her. I mean, I really like the woman and I’ve been able to discern that over just one dinner and a very long workout. Moreover, she likes me too.
Yes, we have a conflict. I don’t want anything serious because of the kid issue, and she doesn’t want to date co-workers because it complicates things.
So, in my mind, that leaves us being only friends.
Except for that whole attraction thing, and I know it’s a mutual feeling. I might not be wise to all things in the world, but I recognize feminine interest.
Maybe there’s a happy medium between a serious relationship and just being friends.
I know most people call it friends with benefits, but I’m not so sure that’s going to fly with Emory.
Coach clears his throat indicating he’s ready to start. I’m ready to put my mind on whatever he has to say because now I’m turning on “game mode.” Tonight is a must win, and I’m going to just let things with Emory play out however they see fit.
CHAPTER 7
Jett
Holding the container of kroppkakor in one hand, I knock on Emory’s front door. I made myself a note the other day to suggest she get a new doorbell system—one that has a camera on it for safety—and I’ll even offer to install it for her. It was easy enough when I did it on my condo.
I tamp down the tiny bit of frustration I have with myself that I’m even thinking such things. That screams relationship. It screams I’m worried about her safety, as well as Jenna and Felicity’s. It means I’m invested in this little family unit for some reason, which screams that something has changed. To be honest, I’m not sure I like it because it makes me feel uncomfortable in a constricted kind of way.
But if I’m really honest, there’s a part of me that likes Emory more than the unease that some of these feelings cause.
Because I’m not one who scares easily, and I’ve often been described as rising to insurmountable challenges, I’ve decided to press on with this friendship, with the idea in mind that I’m going to push for something more.
The door swings open, and it’s Emory herself who greets me. She’s in a pair of jeans, fuzzy socks, and a simple red V-neck sweater that looks soft, but the sleeves are pushed up to her elbows. I’m guessing maybe she was working in the kitchen.
Her black hair is pulled into a ponytail and her face is devoid of makeup. She doesn’t need it though. Her eyes are spectacular, and today they aren’t framed by glasses.
She looks fresh, down to earth, and totally at ease with me coming over as a guest.
“Happy Not Celebrating Thanksgiving,” she quips, then leans into me conspiratorially. “Except… we’re going to have to celebrate it somewhat. Felicity pointed out to me that we have American heritage that should be acknowledged and the fact that we didn’t set it as a tradition early on doesn’t mean we can’t start it now.”
“She has a point,” I whisper back, my eyes cutting over her shoulder to the kitchen I can see just beyond the family room. Jenna and Felicity are setting the table. My eyes move back to Emory. “What’s on the traditional menu?”
“Cheeseburgers,” she says with a firm nod of her head, as if there’s no arguing this choice.
“Cheeseburgers?”
Emory steps back and sweeps an arm for me to enter as she explains. “Apparently, Felicity isn’t a traditional traditionalist. She wants to celebrate American heritage, but she wants to tweak the customs. Her theory is that cheeseburgers are just as representative of the culture as turkey and dressing.”
“I’m pretty sure the settlers didn’t serve cheeseburgers to the Indians,” I quip.
“She’s taking license to have something tonight that she adores, and cheeseburgers are her favorite.”
“I like her way of thinking, and honestly, I’m a little afraid of steak and kidney pie.” I give her a guilty shrug. “Cheeseburgers sound good.”
“You’ll love the steak and kidney pie,” she assures me, and then nods at the container in my hand. “What did you bring?”
“Kroppkakor,” I reply, lifting the plastic lid off the container for her to peer inside. “Potato dumplings stuffed with fried pork and drizzled with lingonberry sauce.”
Emory’s mouth drops open. “I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be,” I assure her with a wink. “I found someone Swedish here in the Phoenix area who made it for me.”
“You’re kidding?” she sputters, not in an outraged way that I didn’t take the time to cook my offering, but more in awe that I managed to find someone who could do this on such short notice, especially given the fact I’ve been gone for our game in Vegas.
“Not kidding,” I assure her and then nod toward the kitchen. “I’ll tell you all about it while we eat.”
“Deal,” she replies and pivots away. I follow her into the kitchen and as we enter, Jenna’s head lifts and I get a shy smile. Her hair is worn down, pulled over her shoulders in what I bet is a habit to help hide her scars.
Felicity doesn’t take notice of me, diligently trying to put the silverware in a certain order on the napkins beside each plate.
“Jenna, Felicity… you remember Jett?” Emory asks, making way for an informal, re-introduction as the last one we had wasn’t all that warm an
d welcoming.
“Hi,” Jenna says and moves around the table toward me. “Let me take that from you.”
“Thanks.” I hand her the container, advising, “You can just warm that in the microwave.”
“Felicity,” Emory says, in a tone that cuts through her daughter’s concentration. “Can you say hello to Mr. Olsson?”
The little girl’s head pops up and the same light blue eyes pin on me. “Hi, Mr. Olsson. I hope you like cheeseburgers for Thanksgiving.”
“Call me Jett,” I say, an automatic reply whenever anyone calls me Mr. Olsson. Far too formal.
I get a toothy grin, but she doesn’t reply, merely goes back to arranging the silverware.
My attention is taken by Emory as she holds out a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. “You any good at opening wine?”
“Fairly passable,” I reply, taking it off her hands and getting to work.
“Wine glasses are in the cabinet to the left of the fridge,” she says, and moves toward the stove where I see various pots on top, and some casserole dishes to the side with tin foil covering. On the other side, I see what looks like some type of cobbler dessert and a glass dish with trifle. I have an unbearably obnoxious sweet tooth and I’m all for bypassing cheeseburgers and steak and kidney pie to dive into one or both of those desserts.
But I tear my gaze away and move toward the cabinet to pour wine for the adults. “Got any juice?” I ask no one in particular.
“Apple in the fridge,” Jenna answers.
“Do you like apple juice, Felicity?” I ask, and her head pops up once again to give me her attention.
She nods. “I do, but grape is my favorite.”
“I like grape better than apple too,” I affirm, and that’s not pandering. It’s the truth.
I pull down four wine glasses, pour three for the adults, and a moderate amount of apple juice for Felicity. As I’m returning the juice to the fridge, I have to sidestep Emory, who is walking toward the table with a casserole dish in hand. She smiles in a way that tells me she’s touched I included Felicity.
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