Page 1 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Matt

“I blame romance novels.”

“They’re not mine.” I pause at the crosswalk and glance at the dusky sky as though seeking divine intervention. “I told you, my sister left them when she stayed over.” It’s not exactly a lie. Fat lot of use they’ve been, anyway.

“You’re too nice for your own good,” Fin continues, clearly on a roll. “And that is not a compliment.”

From him, it’s a bigger compliment than he realizes.

“Who in the hell goes to an ex’s wedding and expects to have a good time?”

Me, obviously, I think as the light changes, and I step out among the tourists and native New Yorkers. My gaze connects with that of a striking blond coming the other way before her eyes drop admiringly over my tux. But I’m not in the mood. Not for women, and not for this conversation.

“I didn’t realize she invited me to insult me,” I insist. “I thought we’d parted on good terms.”

“Was it an insult, though?”

“Well, I’ve been called a ride once or twice in my time,” I say, leaning into my Irish accent. “But hearing I’m the boyfriend equivalent of training wheels isn’t quite the same. Worse, she might be right.”

“Huh?”

“Fin, the last three women I’ve dated have gone on to marry the fella after me.”

“So you’re like ... a foster boyfriend. The one before they find their forever homes.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, beyond frustrated. How the hell he has a wife, I’ll never understand. “Look,” I grate out. “The day is done. Over with. All I want to do now is turn off my brain and have a drink.”

“I like that plan. Saturday night, a hotel bar. May the odds be in your favor.”

“I’m not going to the hotel bar.” One hand sunk deep in my pocket, I scoot sideways between two teenagers engrossed in their phones.

“Pretty sure the saying is Misery loves company ... not Misery loves the minibar .”

“I just want a drink,” I mutter. “Not a lecture.”

“Here’s a revolutionary idea. Why not a drink and a little company?”

“You’re a gobshite.” I mutter the uncomplimentary epithet as I turn into a quieter side street, away from the hustle and bustle.

“You deserve to let off some steam. Treat yo’self, as the kids say.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“You’re definitely in a mood.”

“Look, I’m over one-night stands.”

“Said no man ever.”

“I am who I am,” I grumble, trying to keep a lid on my worsening mood.

“And like I said, you’re nice .”

Fuck it, maybe he’s right. I have just spent the afternoon doing and saying all the right things.

I pressed my lips to the cheek of a woman I once passionately kissed, shook hands with and congratulated the man she kisses now.

I danced with mothers and grannies, toasted love and marriage, and fixed on a smile until my cheeks fuckin’ hurt.

All because I’m a decent fella.

A nice guy all out of nice right now.

“What I feel like right now is getting nice and drunk in a place where the windows are dirty, the floors are scuffed, and there are pretzels on the bar that you wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot barge pole.”

“You do you, booboo. But it’s more fun when you do someone else.”

“Where the beer is cold,” I say, talking over him, “and the people mind their own feckin’ business.”

“Oh, subtle, Matías.”

“Subtle doesn’t work on you.”

“As the only married man between us, I really think you ought to pay more attention to the things I say. Maybe we should get you one of those cute bracelets with the beads and ‘WWFD.’”

What Would Fin Do.

“So I can do the opposite?”

“Listen, if you want to settle down, you’ve gotta put yourself out there!”

Right now, I feel more like putting my fist in his face. It’s just as well he’s a couple of continents away.

“Besides, hotel bar, dive bar. Doesn’t matter. You’ll have to feign laryngitis because you know what that accent does to women, especially over there. Panties dropping left and right! Add in the James Bond getup, and they’ll be like bees to a honey pot.”

“There won’t be a woman under sixty where I’m heading.”

“Big panties, then.” The bastard laughs. “Except it’s Saturday night,” he adds in an all-knowing and very fucking annoying tone. “Which means the ladies will come tottering out on their spiky heels in short, short dresses, looking for cheap pre-drinks before they hit the cocktail bars.”

God give me strength . . .

“And who knows, maybe among that crowd is the girl for you, dreaming of a house in the burbs and a half dozen snot-nosed kids. It could all start tonight.”

Reaching my destination, I put my hand to the door handle and pause as an image of just that flashes in my head. Love and family. It’s what we were put on the earth for, surely. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” I yank on the door handle, my mood not improved.

The interior is dark and the place pretty quiet, just a few old fellas hunched over glasses at the bar or staring up at TVs playing a game I’ve no interest in. The bartender turns, acknowledging me with a nod. I was here yesterday. He knows what I’m drinking.

“Come on, Matías. There’s beauty in the spontaneous. Even magic sometimes.”

“How’s this for magic,” I say, already pulling the phone from my ear. “Watch as I make you disappear.” And I do just that as I end the call.

I don’t need this from him. I already have a sister and a mother hounding me about my love life.

Ma: Why can’t you find yourself a nice girl, Matías?

Leticia: How come you’re the only one of your friends not married?

Ma: Such a handsome face (while she squeezes the cheeks from my skull) . Why does no one else love it?

“Jaysus,” I mutter. Slotting away my phone, I rub my hand over my taut jaw. I think I must be really feckin’ nice to put up with Fin’s bullshit.

I wasn’t lying. I am over casual relationships, one-night stands, and booty calls.

I don’t want to wake up next to some woman whose name I can’t remember and hustle her out the door before she realizes, making us both feel like shit.

And I can’t admit to Fin that I’m envious of him.

I mean, I’m happy for him, but I reckon I’m also allowed to feel a bit sorry for myself.

What I want is forever. The fairy tale, I think with a derisive snort.

I’m so lost in the bog of my thoughts that I don’t immediately realize someone has stepped between me and the bar. At least, not until something hits me in the center of my chest.

“What the . . .”

My first thought is to offer an apology— Sorry, I didn’t see you there on account of you being the size of a flea. But I don’t get to do that, as she opens her mouth and declares loudly and very pointedly:

“You’re late.”