Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,121
us, and then he flopped down on the grass with all the loose-limbed enthusiasm of a golden retriever.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Enjoying the day,” he said. “When was the last time you got to sit in an olive orchard in Tuscany on a workday?”
“This side of never.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Have a seat, Martin. Take a load off for a minute.”
I heaved a sigh and sank down on the grass, knowing there would be no moving Knightley until he was ready. A soft breeze rustled the leaves in the trees, and the grass was cool beneath my fingertips. I had to admit, it was nice to take a moment to soak it in.
He turned his head and studied me until I felt compelled to ask, “What?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but his phone went off. It was an abrupt clanging jangle in the middle of paradise. He sighed and reached into his pocket to pull out his phone. The initial wallpaper was the Red Sox logo—not a surprise—but he tapped in his security code, and a new picture came up of a boy and a girl. Now, I really wasn’t trying to see his passcode, I swear, but he might have picked something harder than the six numbers in descending order from the number nine. Honestly, did the man have no sense of security?
He swiped the screen to open the text that had just come in. He read it quickly but didn’t respond. Apparently satisfied, he closed the texting app and tossed his phone into the grass.
I glanced down at the photo of the kids, who looked to be about age ten, making goofy faces at the camera. Adorable! The boy had his eyes crossed and his tongue out, while the girl had her thumbs jammed in her ears, with her hands out like antlers, her mouth hanging open, and her eyes wide. They looked ridiculous, and I laughed at their expressions.
Were they Knightley’s kids? A niece and nephew, perhaps? It occurred to me that I didn’t know that much about Knightley’s personal life, which was weird, because I felt like I should know more. I mean, I’d made out with the guy. Three times! Shouldn’t I know if he had kids in his life?
Mentally, I scanned everything I knew about him beyond the surface handsome face and charming—when he wanted to be—personality. He arrived at the office a few minutes late every day, everyone greeted him like he was their best friend, and he responded the same. He was always on board for shenanigans, betting pools, happy hours, and holiday parties. As far as I knew, he was single—at least, he’d said as much the night I’d called him in Boston and he was leaving his “bros” at the bar.
I scanned deeper. He’d mentioned his parents in passing at a few work functions. I hadn’t really listened, because at the time I’d considered him a useless frat boy and my rival. I had not been interested. Thinking about it now, I was positive he’d grown up in central Massachusetts, as he’d never met a Boston team of which he wasn’t a die-hard supporter.
Boggled that I knew so little about him, I decided it was time for a fishing expedition. I picked up his phone. “Cute kids.”
A grin slowly unfurled across his lips, drawing my attention to his mouth. “What are you trying to ask me, Martin?”
“Nothing.” I shrugged. “Just making an observation.”
“So you think I’m cute.”
“You?” I glanced down at his phone, but it had gone dark. I tapped the screen, and a prompt to enter the security code appeared. I held it out to him in silent question, and he tapped in the number. Again, I wasn’t trying to see it, but seriously, way to make it easy to be hacked. I refrained from saying anything. His phone, his business.
Instead, I glanced at the photo. I studied the picture of him as a boy. Then I looked at the girl. She was a feminine version of him. I could see the same mischievous twinkle in her eye, the unruly dark hair, and the same irrepressible grin.
“Yup, that’s me and my twin sister.” His voice was gruff, and he tipped his head back and squinted through the leaves at the bits and pieces of blue sky overhead as if he were trying to fit them back together to make the sky whole. “She died of leukemia.” He cleared his throat. “When we were twelve.”