Page 55 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
"I can tell. You've organized my spices twice in the last ten minutes."
I look down at my hands, which are indeed clutching the paprika like it owes me money. "Meeting family feels... big."
"It is big." His admission makes my heart do something complicated in my chest. "But good big. I want my sister to know you exist, Tessa. I want her to see why I've been walking around like a lovesick idiot for weeks."
"You have not been walking around like a lovesick idiot."
"Jamie would disagree. He asked me yesterday if I was taking medication because I've been too happy lately."
Despite my nerves, I laugh. "Too happy is a medical concern for you?"
"Apparently baseline Dax is significantly grumpier than current Dax."
I'm about to respond when there's a knock at the door that's somehow both polite and impatient—three sharp raps followed by a longer series.
"That's her," Dax says, his face lighting up in a way I've never seen before. "She always knocks like she's trying to communicate in morse code."
We make our way to the front door, and I try to smooth down my hair while simultaneously wiping my palms on my jeans. I'm being ridiculous—I've successfully handled professional meetings with sports executives, media interviews, and crisis management situations. Surely I can manage dinner with my secret husband's sister.
Dax opens the door to reveal a young woman who's clearly a Kingston. She has the same storm-gray eyes as Dax, the same strong jawline, but where he's all sharp angles and controlledintensity, she's warmth and movement. Her dark hair is pulled back in a claw clip, and she’s wearing a slouchy knit sweater half-tucked into a tiered mini skirt, her legs bare despite the chill. The whole look is effortless and a little chaotic—bubbly energy wrapped up in soft fabrics and motion.
"There's my favorite brother," she says, launching herself into Dax's arms with enough force to make him stagger backward.
"I'm your only brother, Em."
"Details." She pulls back to look at him, her hands on his shoulders. "You look good. Really good. Like, annoyingly good. It's disgusting."
"Thanks?"
"And you must be Tessa." Emma turns those penetrating gray eyes on me, and I suddenly understand why Dax mentioned she could be intimidating.
"I am." I extend my hand, but Emma ignores it and pulls me into a hug instead.
"I've been dying to meet you," she says against my ear. "Dax has been different ever since—well, since you, apparently. I had to see what kind of woman could make my emotionally constipated brother actually use feeling words."
"Emma," Dax warns, but he's smiling.
"What? It's true. You called Mom last week and talked a lot. Usually, I'm lucky if I get twenty words out of you about anything deeper than hockey scores."
She releases me and steps back, her gaze moving between us with obvious curiosity. "So, how did you two meet?"
Dax and I exchange a quick glance. We didn't exactly prepare for this part.
"Work," I say at the same time Dax says, "Bar."
Emma raises an eyebrow. "Work bar? Bar work? Are we playing some kind of word association game?"
"We met through work," Dax clarifies smoothly. "But we really connected at a bar afterward. Team thing."
It's not technically a lie. We did meet through work, and there was definitely a bar involved. The Elvis chapel and accidental marriage parts are just... details we're omitting.
"What kind of work do you do, Tessa?" Emma's question is casual, but I can tell she's genuinely interested.
"Sports psychology," I answer carefully. "I help athletes with mental performance, focus, that kind of thing."
"That's so cool! Do you work with hockey players specifically, or all sports?"
"All sports," I say, which is true even if my current assignment is hockey-specific. "Though I've been doing a lot with hockey lately."
