Page 45 of Jett

I stare at where Jacques and his friends are. As long as I’m still looking after Brooke, Jett Knight can’t dictate how I spend my evening.

Chapter 18

JETT

The evening drags on. I’m surrounded by men whose idea of a deep conversation is comparing yachts or private jets, as casually as most guys talk about their cars. It’s all just a pissing contest, and it’s getting old.

Someone laughs, recounting how he had to explain to his wife about an expensive trip he took with his mistress. The others chortle, their laughter bouncing around the table like it’s all a big joke. I don’t join in. Cheating grates on me, gets under my skin. It’s unacceptable. I don’t see men who cheat in the same way once I find out. I don’t care to do business with them. If they can cheat their wife, think what they could do in a business deal. People reveal who they are by their actions.

My mother’s face flashes in my mind. I don’t remember her clearly anymore, but the pain of what happened hasn’t dulled. Did she die in the accident? Or did my father kill her spirit long before? His affair with that Italian woman wasn’t just an affair—it tore our family apart. The resentment Dex, Zach, and I feel towards the half-Knights runs deeper than anyone’s willing to admit.

But I shove those thoughts aside as the conversation finally shifts. Now it’s about business and making money. Their real passion.

Mine too.

Work has been my lifeline since Sophia died. I had six months of grieving before I threw myself back into the business with a ferocity that left no room for emotions. It kept me sane, kept me focused. Helped the business, but I need to fix my work-life balance, especially now that Brooke is growing so fast.

“How long are you over this time, Jett?” Raphael asks, breaking through my thoughts.

“A few weeks.” I lift my glass, taking a slow sip.

“Fighting fires?”

I tilt my head. “You know how it is. We fight fires, and then we build something bigger from the ashes.”

Raphael’s eyes slide toward Cari, standing with Brooke in the distance. “She’s cute.”

I nod, absently. “She’s growing up fast. Just turned five.”

He smirks. “I meant the nanny.”

A sharp, hot flash surges through me. The punch in my gut is immediate, and I fight to keep my composure. “She’s probably only a few years younger than your daughter,” I snap, disgust twisting in my stomach. Raphael is in his fifties, with grandchildren, for fuck’s sake. Dirty bastard.

I stand, excusing myself from the table, pretending it’s business as usual. But inside, I’m seething. I never planned for this. Being around Cari outside of work, on a fucking island for three weeks, is not something I expected to deal with.

It’s been impossible for me to erase the image of her in that pink bikini, and seeing her in that dress is yet another image I’m struggling with. The way it looks on her, bringing out the rich color of her hair and the golden tint of her skin, make it impossible for me to keep my eyes off her. I’m not hiding it well, and it’s no wonder that Raphael has noticed. Cari’s turning heads and its fucking with my brain. She’s been on my mind for most of the time I’ve sat here.

I glance at them. Cari’s sitting on a bench, Brooke and some girls playing with hula-hoops. I walk toward them, but someone steps into my path.

“Fancy seeing you here.” It’s the journalist from the plane. Her voice is sugary sweet, but there’s an edge to it, like she wants to have her say because of the way I dismissed her. Over her shoulder, I can see Brooke laughing with her friends. Cari sits on her own, watching. This is a good time to check on her. My gaze shifts to the journalist, and forcing a tight smile, I say, “Fancy that.”

“We got off on the wrong foot,” she purrs, playing with a strand of her dark hair.

“Maybe don’t sit in someone else’s seat next time.” I raise my glass, trying to figure out how best to extricate myself from this leech, but then I see Cari take Brooke’s hand and they walk in the direction of where Jacques is.

My stomach tightens, a slow burn turning into a full-blown blaze. Why the hell does that bother me so much? It shouldn’t. But it does.

“I apologize for that. Can we start over?” the woman asks.

“Sure,” I say, watching Cari approach a group of young people. Jacques comes over to her and they start talking. He’s sniffing around her like a dog and now I have two reasons for losing my shit. The journalist before me and that guy standing too close to Cari.

The woman before me still twitters away, her voice blending into the background, but my attention is firmly on Cari. He hands her a cocktail, and the sight of it makes my blood boil. I came here to get away from Raphael, and now his son is pushing my buttons.

I clench my jaw, watching as Cari stands, her dress flowing in the soft night breeze, looking stunning. She’s a far cry from the woman who organizes my life at work. Here, she’s someone else entirely. Someone I shouldn’t think about.

In the office, I had control. I could wind her up, push her away. Send her on errands to buy gifts for my lovers, lingerie for someone else. I had strategies for keeping her at a distance. But here? No walls. No rules. No boundaries.

I stand here, pretending to listen to the woman in front of me but not only do I have to put up with this shrew who bores me to death with her inane conversation, but I have to watch a younger guy make a move on Cari.

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