“Neil,” a feminine voice calls.
Neil turns, and I watch his profile change as he smiles at the woman moving toward us with her arms extended. Neil has his father’s name, but it’s his mother’s genes that are written all over his face.
“How are you, son?” she questions after pulling back from the hug and holding him by the shoulders.
“I’m great, Ma.”
“It feels like forever since I’ve seen you.”
“We were on FaceTime yesterday,” he says.
His mother’s smile drops as she frowns. “FaceTime isn’t the same thing as in person. Her golden eyes swivel over to me and widen. “Oh, and you must be the young lady that’s taking all of my son’s free time.”
“Ma,” Neil groans, causing her to laugh.
“Mrs. McKenna, it’s nice to meet you,” I say, holding out my hand.
She ignores my hand and pulls me into a warm hug. When she pulls back, there’s a twinkle in her eyes as she looks me over. “Aren’t you stunning?”
“Thank you.” I smile, instantly liking this woman. Her warmth doesn’t feel put on or phony, which, I have to admit, a part of me thought it would. Neil’s mother is the daughter of a very wealthy Washington tycoon.
“Ma, this is Desiree. Desiree, this is my mother. You can let go of her now,” he says, pulling me closer to him and out of his mother’s hold.
“Possessive already.” She giggles and turns. “Neil, come get a load of your son.”
Neil Senior moves next to his wife, wrapping an arm around her waist. My Neil certainly got his looks from his mother, but his height was from his father. Mr. McKenna stands at precisely the same six-foot-three height as his son.
“Dad,” Neil greets warmly. However, instead of a hug like he did with his mother, the two exchange a handshake. Neil Senior’s smile is genuine as he looks on at his son.
“Mr. McKenna,” I say when he turns his gaze on me.
“Desiree, that’s a lovely name. Nice to meet you,” he says, nodding.
I can tell right away that Mr. McKenna is much more reserved than his wife. Though he’s not unfriendly, he’s more in line with what came to mind when I pictured him given his public reputation. Neil’s father holds a medical degree with a specialty in psychiatry and an MBA, which helped him as CEO of McKenna Rehab.
“Son, did you get the chance to speak with Grace yet?” his mother asks.
“No, we just arrived. I thought she was with you.”
“She was, but had to tend to something for a moment. Come, let’s us show you two around.”
We follow behind Neil’s parents, moving farther into the party. There’s an array of sequin-dressed, pretty people smiling with glasses of wine or champagne in their hands. Many of them know Neil by name and wave or pause to greet him as we walk past. He makes it a point to introduce me to any person he engages in conversation with. I can tell he isn’t necessarily in love with making small talk, but he holds his own.
The woman, Grace, that he referred to earlier turns out to be Grace Wilkins, owner of the Winstin Art Gallery, after it was passed down from her grandfather to her parents and eventually to her. She’s very well-known in the art world here in the Seattle area.
“Neil, so good to see you,” she greets in a deep, rich voice that calls attention to her.
“Grace, I hope you’re still holding that painting for me.”
“Would I let you down?” she questions with a laugh.
He shakes his head. “Not so far.”
“And I never plan to.” She turns green eyes my way, and her smile lifts. “You must be Desiree.”
I raise an eyebrow, turning to Neil, wondering if he told her about me.
“Yes, dear, he’s spoken about you. All good things, though.”
