He winked at her, a crooked grin on his face as he turned back to the counter to help a pair of women who had just walked in.
“You’re on a first-name basis with the barista?” Knightley asked, still looking at his phone. He hadn’t bothered to take off his coat, but Emma could spy his suit peeking out from underneath: the navy wool jacket, the silk maroon tie. It was still odd to see Knightley wear a suit every day; it was as if she were watching him play grown-up.
“He’s new. I’m just being friendly,” she said, offering him a saccharine smile, the one she knew he hated.
Unfortunately, he didn’t notice, as he was still scrolling through his emails. “So how are classes going?”
Emma stirred some sugar into her latte and shrugged. “I haven’t started yet.”
He looked up at that. “I thought you said classes started on Tuesday.”
“And?”
“And it’s Thursday.”
“Yes, wellIhaven’t started yet.”
He put his phone down and reclined back, his broad frame relaxing into the wooden chair so it creaked under his weight. “Do I even want to ask?”
She smiled over the rim of her mug. “Yes, because it is brilliant. Are you ready?”
“No.”
“Okay, so the master’s program requires ten courses over the two years, including a thesis. Now, apparently students in the program usually complete six courses that first year, which leaves four courses for their second year, plus all their thesis work, but that just sounds like a lot to ask of someone, you know? So last year I completedeightcourses and outlined my thesis. Now I only have to do one elective course each semester this year. And since electives are almost always at a reasonable hour, this year will be a breeze. I even managed to limit my classes to Thursdays and Fridays.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “You figured this out last year.”
She nodded, raising her drink as if accepting applause from the rest of the cafe.
“And now you’ve achieved your goal of… ultimate laziness?”
Her smile flattened. “Yes, Knightley. I overextended myself last year while maintaining a 4.0 GPA in order to be lazy.”
“Premeditated laziness, then.”
She leaned forward, tapping her finger on her chin and pretending to be deep in thought. “Hmmm.”
“What?”
“Just trying to remember why I asked you to grab coffee.”
He tamped down a smile and picked up his phone again. “Where are all your girlfriends who are usually attached at your hip?”
Emma tilted her head to the side, trying to recall. “Well, Haydie is still in London for business school, and Raquel has been in Madrid since right after graduation—she just moved into this amazing apartment with her boyfriend. And Lulu got a position as a PR assistant at this fashion house in Paris…” Her voice trailed off as she realized Knightley’s attention was still on his phone.
It took him a minute to notice the silence. When he finally did, he looked up. “What?”
She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, if I’m stuck here while all my friends are abroad and having these big adventures, the least I can do is give myself a little break in my grad school schedule.”
He arched an eyebrow at her. “A little?”
“Yes. As a consolation prize.”
Knightley’s patronizing expression softened a bit as he watched her, letting a moment pass before speaking again. “He would have let you go, you know.”
Emma shrugged, pretending to find something interesting through the nearby window. It was easy to forget sometimes that Knightley knew her father almost as well as she did. Perhaps even better. After all, Knightley was seven when Emma was born and could recall when her father was married to his younger and much more carefree wife. Emma’s mother had been the one to take the risks for both of them, and her father had loved her for it. Everyone had.
Emma had been too young to remember when she died, how her mother’s unexpected aneurysm had shocked everyone, but Knightley did. Apparently, her father had retreated into himself for months, and when he finally emerged, he was more careful, more hesitant. And so much more protective, like if he tried hard enough, he could learn to control the uncontrollable. At least for his daughters.
