Page 35 of Date Knight (Roll for Romance #2)

“Out of the way,” I heard from behind me. Chloe’s eyes went wide as she stood up and took a step back, and then Phil was there in front of me.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked, his voice hoarse and angry as he looked over me, and I tried to ignore the way my breathing responded to his intensity.

“No, it just caught my skirt,” I said. “I fell because I was trying to get out of the way.”

“Fucking be careful, mate,” he yelled at the fighter, who was stood a few feet away watching us, his hands fidgeting on the hilt of his sword.

“Sorry!” he called again, then resumed biting his lip anxiously.

“You’re sure you’re not hurt?” Phil asked me, and I nodded. “Can you stand?”

He held out his hand, and I took it, letting him pull me to my feet. As he did, the huge hole in the side of my skirts fell open, and I could clearly see my hip through it. I gasped.

“Phil, I’m so sorry,” I said, looking up at him to see his gaze fixed on the hole, too.

“Why?” he asked, reaching out to grab the fabric, and I shuddered when his knuckles brushed against my exposed skin. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He bunched the hole closed and handed me the fabric to hold whilst he stood back and looked at it, then nodded, seeming to make a decision.

“Put your shawl around your waist, and come with me.” He held out his hand again.

I took my shawl from where it was draped over my arms and fastened it like he’d shown me, so it just about covered the giant tear, then took his hand.

I followed him as he pulled me through the festival grounds, back the way we’d come, towards the entrance.

He paused a few times to check the festival map on his phone, but he never dropped my hand.

Eventually, we came to a tent with a red hospital-style cross and a needle and thread on the side, and Phil pulled me inside.

There were a few other cosplay-clad festival goers inside, sat at the central table or stood on pedestals, mending their costumes.

One side of the tent was lined with shelves full of plastic storage boxes, each labelled with a different item, from eyelets to thread to sheets of leather.

In the middle of the table was a tray with scissors, needles, pins, and seam rippers.

Phil had me stand next to a table, then walked over to the section of thread boxes, scanning for what he wanted. Once he had the right colours– off white, and a brown that roughly matched our tartan– he came back and sat down next to me, bending so his face was level with my hip.

“Thank you,” I said as he removed my shawl and began to pin the tear in the underskirt shut first.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said softly around the pins he held between his lips, his brow pinched in concentration. “It won’t be perfect.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I said, shaking my head, which I apparently did with my whole body, because Phil put a hand on me to remind me to keep still, glaring silently at me.

His hand pressed into the back of my thigh, so high that the tips of his fingers grazed my ass through my skirts.

I wasn’t sure if he could tell where he’d touched me, but I certainly could, and I definitely went still, which I supposed was the desired effect.

When he moved his hand and resumed pinning, I continued, careful not to move this time. “That’s not what I meant,” I said. “Thank you for coming to check on me. For caring.”

“Of course I care if you’re hurt,” he said.

Which, true; it was pretty basic human decency, not any particular affection. But the way he’d rushed over, the urgency in his eyes as he’d scanned me for injury– it hadn’t felt decent. It had felt almost desperate.

“You know what I mean,” I muttered, though I wasn’t sure he heard me, as he didn’t respond. “Are you managing to enjoy yourself at least?” I asked, a bit louder this time, but again I must have moved.

“Hold still,” he said, raising his voice slightly as if I were a disobedient puppy, and I rolled my eyes as I stilled, ignoring the shiver his stern voice sent up my spine.

“Yes, I was,” he said as he threaded a needle and started stitching the underskirt. “But then you had to go and get stabbed.”

“You literally just said it wasn’t my fault.”

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t stressful.”

As annoying as he was being, I knew Phil didn’t need any more stress– he’d been head down on these stupid costumes for weeks, and I knew Ethel had been needing him more and more during the day. And it showed on his face; dark circles hung under his blue eyes, heavy with exhaustion.

“Are you okay, Phil?” I asked, willing him to look up at me– to tell me exactly what was weighing so heavily on him.

Was it Ethel? Was it work? Was it me, and whatever had almost happened between us in the river last week?

I’d thought I was doing the right thing when I pumped the brakes– doing what he would have wanted, too– but maybe I was wrong?

I didn’t want to think about the implications of that though when he had his hand up my skirt.

He didn’t meet my gaze, and the pull of the fabric against my skin told me he was still hard at work down there.

“I’m fine,” he said, almost robotically.

“Okay, but are we fine?”

That got a reaction, at least– Phil’s fingers paused their work and he sighed, though he still didn’t look up at me.

“Does it matter?”

I frowned. “Of course it matters.”

He shook his head and put the lighter thread on the tray, picking up the brown as he started on the overskirt.

“I’m not so sure about that,” he said. “But if you’re worried about keeping up appearances, I’ll be better. I’m just tired.”

“Great, just what I wanted. I’m so grateful you’re willing to rally yourself to be around me.”

He didn’t respond to that, and we stood there in heated silence– literally, my face got hotter and hotter as my annoyance stewed– until he was done, which he indicated by silently standing up and putting the thread back where he’d gotten it.

The moment he moved away, I did too, desperate to put as much space between us as possible.

“How much?” I asked the attendant at the entrance, then handed her a fiver before I left. I heard Phil call my name as I walked away from the tent, but I didn’t look back.

* * *

An hour later, I still hadn’t found the others again.

They had moved on from the fighting area, and despite my phone indicating full signal, nothing was going through.

I was lost in a sea of costumes, looking for five nerds in a group of tens of thousands.

I thought I saw Chloe and Fatima’s weird helmets about a million times, but it turned out there were just a lot of pink and purple outfits, and even Jack’s six-foot-whatever ass was nowhere to be seen.

Eventually, I decided I’d just have to eat lunch alone, so I made my way to a grassy area next to the ruined part of the castle.

There was a cluster of food trucks and tents next to a large reflection pool, bordered on the other side by a stunning flower garden built into the ruins.

Dozens of people wandered through it taking photos, and I made a mental note to look for some online after the festival.

I was sure they’d look like they were straight out of one of those fantasy novels Morgan was always reading.

I ordered a whiskey pulled pork sandwich from a stand that was built to look like a steam engine, then took it to a bench that had just freed up in front of the reflecting pool, leaning forward as I ate so I wouldn’t drop any on my outfit.

I ate it in about five bites, licking my fingers clean of the sauce that had dripped down them.

“Is this seat taken?” I heard over my shoulder as I had my thumb in my mouth, and my heart jumped as I turned around, hoping to see Phil.

But instead, there was a man standing there in what looked like full plate armour, a helmet tucked under one arm, the other behind his back.

He had shoulder-length light brown hair and just a dusting of facial hair across his jaw, with deep brown eyes that turned down slightly at the sides in an endearing way.

He was maybe a few inches taller than Phil, at least from what I could tell sitting down.

Something about him looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it, until I looked closer at the sword, recognising it from where it had torn through my skirts.

“You,” I said, trying not to sound overly hostile.

“Yeah, sorry, it’s me,” he said, grimacing. “But don’t worry, I come in peace. And with a peace offering , no less.”

He produced a brown paper bag from behind his back.

“I hope you like pain au chocolat?”

“I do indeed,” I said, eyeing the pastry warily. I didn’t make a habit of taking food from men I didn’t know, especially those who had wielded a blade at me. But for some reason, there was something about him that felt trustworthy.

Famous last words before he buries you in the forest .

“I bought it from just over there,” he said, pointing behind him at a coffee cart with a rack of identical pastries on display. “But I’ll take a bite first if you’d like.”

“That’s okay,” I said, scooting over to one side of the bench.

He smiled and sat next to me, handing me the brown bag.

He set his helmet on the grass at his feet before fumbling for the shoulder straps holding his shield to his back.

I unwrapped the pastry whilst he did, pressing it lightly with my fingers.

How it was still so crisp despite having been out for hours at a festival, I had no idea, but I wasn’t questioning it.

I took a bite, my eyes fluttering closed, a pleasured moan escaping my lips. It was heavenly.

My enemy-turned-benefactor laughed, and I opened my eyes, brushing crumbs off my mouth and chest as I chewed. “Sorry,” I said, my mouth still half full.

“It’s okay,” he said, “it’s nothing compared to almost skewering you on a dull blade.”

I couldn’t help but smirk. “In public, good sir?”