Page 96 of Fighting Mr. Knight

I nod. “This week was supposed to be her wedding day. Wednesday. Sean warned me.”

Danny frowns. “Only obnoxious people arrange a wedding on a Wednesday.”

“Max wanted to keep the cost down. It was meant to be in Italy. I guess when you’re on holiday it doesn’t matter what day it is.”

“Is she still hung up on Max?” Tristan asks.

“Why would she be?” I scoff. “I’m much more charming. I’ve got a massive dick and she knows it. Her eyes fell out of her head when she saw it.”

“You have to be more to her than a massive dick.” Danny smirks. “So does Max know you’re trying to get with his ex?”

“I couldn’t give a fuck what Max knows,” I say flatly. “We’re not mates. I just know him through Sean and the project. Besides, he ran off with some intern.”

He cocks a brow. “I admire your restraint for not going after her before this.”

I shrug. “I don’t break up relationships. No matter how much I want to.” It’s the one thing Dad and I don’t have in common. That, and the fact that I’m alive.

“You’ll get there.” He smiles. “I sensed she liked you at the wedding. Even if she doesn’t want to. You two are a good match.” He tosses me my golf bag to go to the next hole.

I catch a flash of red on his thumb. “What the hell is that? Are you wearing nail polish?”

He glances down at his thumb nail, painted red. “Yeah. The twins like to experiment on me.”

I scrunch my nose up in disgust. “Why didn’t you take it off before you came out?”

“Do I look like I give a fuck, mate?” He hits me with a glare. “I haven’t slept in three years. I’ll be their doll during the day if they let me sleep at night. Anyway, you think I know how to get this stuff off?”

Tristan and I exchange glances and laugh. Danny Walker, ruthless tech tycoon, has given all his power to three-year-old twin girls.

I study the thumb nail job. “They didn’t do a very good job.”

He frowns. “Not according to them.” There’s no mistaking the warmth under the layers of grumpiness.

Something surprising hits me right in the chest.

I’m jealous.

***

Eighteen holes and three beverages later, we’re sitting in the club bar when I see someone’s name flash on my phone that puts a bad taste in my mouth.

Fuck’s sake.

“Are you going to stare at that or answer it?” Danny asks, looking up from his newspaper. “Who is it?”

“Damon Manning.”

I learned the hard way it’s better to know what the smarmy git wants because it usually means a story on me is going to press.

“Knight,” Damon Manning booms cheerfully as I answer.

“Manning.”

“How are you?”

“Busy,” I reply. “You?”

“Can’t complain. We should have drinks soon.”

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