Page 10 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

“So that was my story, and I’ve stuck to it.” Especially when his efforts intensified. Hair touching, fingers tracing the base of my spine or briefly touched to my hip, his opportunities chosen when he knew I wouldn’t make a scene. An elevator dick brush that I tried to tell myself was an accident.

“ We will fuck, Killer. ” This he said as late as last week, his assertion like a lover’s whisper as he hung over my shoulder as though helping me with something. “ It’s only a matter of time before it’s my cock you’re riding. ”

“ Pretty sure anyone willing to fuck you is just too damned lazy to jerk off. ”

“ That mouth ,” he said, all growling and entertained. “ One of these days I’m gonna use it as a— ”

“ What part of ‘I have a boyfriend’ don’t you understand? ” I demanded, rolling my chair back over his foot.

“ The part where I’ve never seen him. ” His retort, always with an air of having the upper hand.

I give an uncomfortable shrug. “That’s why I was so desperate earlier.”

“Why the hell are you still working there?” he asks with a serious frown.

“I have plans,” I say, not willing to give them away. To jinx them. “I know I’m not perfect, and in some ways, I’ve brought this on myself.”

“Fuck that,” he says immediately. Passionately.

“I just mean my smart mouth seems to encourage him. But you know that old saying, if you run into an asshole in the morning, you run into an asshole, but if you run into assholes all day, you’re the asshole?”

“And that’s not you.”

“That’s not me. I know I’m kind of prickly, but I’m more than aware of my own flaws.” But even if Brandon’s interest was genuine and he gave me flowers in place of intimidation, I still wouldn’t date him. I won’t ever get involved with another man in finance. Too much drama. Too much trauma.

“I just wanna get tonight over with.” My words feel brittle. “We only need to stay long enough to make a point.” And not long enough for anyone to realize Matt isn’t a Spanish artist called Nate.

“And the point is that you’re taken? Or that they should pull their heads out of their arses and join the new century?”

“Both works for me.”

“Then I think we should dance. So you can show me off to the whole office, the big strappin’ lad that I am.”

I tsk. “Such a peacock.”

“Are you gonna want to congratulate the happy couple?”

I glance down and smooth my hand over the tablecloth. “ Want might be putting it a little strongly.” Fun times to be had by all, right?

“What’s he gonna think about me?”

“I don’t give a flying fuck.”

“But you know he’s not gonna like it. He’s still part of the reason I’m here.”

I guess that’s true—no point in arguing. “Pete traded up.”

“Fucked up, more like. But getting back to me, the peacock.”

I give a tiny laugh. “Oh, so you admit it?”

He almost rolls his eyes. “Do you want to know the reason I’m here? And I don’t mean them.” He glances across the table to the chairs yet to be filled. “The reason I came with you? It’s because you intrigue the hell out of me.”

Intriguing. That’s more than I expected.

Better than pretty or hot or any of that mundane stuff.

And boy, do I soak up his regard like a sponge, no words between us, just a thousand crazy ideas.

Then I remember what he does for a living—again—and the pleasure swelling in my chest pops like a painful blister.

“You’re good at this,” I say like I know what I’m talking about.

Something clouds his expression before he gives a nod, his fingers rubbing across a suddenly taut jaw. “The thing is, I mean it.”

“Small talk,” I almost shout. “We should ... talk.”

“I did suggest that earlier.”

“Did you? I don’t recall.”

“Tell me something,” he purrs, and I remember. “Tell me something about Ryan.”

“Now, there’s a can of worms you really don’t want to open.”

“Fuck that. Tell me all the things.”

“You asked for it,” I say. Though it sounds more like Your funeral .

“I’m an only child. Adult orphan.” I pull a stupidly sad face and make a crying gesture with my index finger before realizing I have no idea why I told him.

“Favorite food?” I hedge, and he nods. “Carnitas, specifically from a Mexican place in FiDi. Oh, and zeppole. Can’t forget zeppole. ”

“Specifically from?”

“Someplace midtown.” Zeppole. My having-a-good-day treat, probably because the taste reminds me of times past. Of elephant ears, of podunk towns and country fairs. “Pastimes?” I rush on, conscious of revealing too much.

“Anything. Everything.”

“I love my job—I think I already said that. If I’m not working, I’m thinking about working. It’s the best thing ever when my instincts are on point.”

“They must love you.” That doesn’t sound like a compliment.

“Yeah, especially as they got me cheap.”

“The fuck?” he mutters. “You’re really not selling this outfit.”

But I know I was lucky to get a job here.

I likely only got an interview because of my name.

Like they confused me for a guy. I don’t have an MBA from Harvard, and I didn’t go to business school.

I started at an investment bank with a degree from a mediocre college I worked my ass off to put myself through.

The bank job was a back-end role, and I just got lucky.

Asked a lot of questions. Learned about the business.

And once I had my butt in the interview seat, my ego did the rest. But yeah, they got me cheap.

“I’m not complaining. The industry is notorious for underpaying women, but my bonus kind of makes up for things. What else?” I ponder, refusing to return to our stare fest. “I’m not big on friends. Or people generally. I’m impulsive, quick to judge, opinionated ... and I can’t cook.”

At this, he laughs. And I love that I made him do that.

“ Couples kiss, Ryan. They touch. ”

Yes, please. Sign me up for some of that lady’s choice, whatever that meant.

“Your turn.” My mind is a spaghetti mess of thoughts, and the second the words are out of my mouth, I remember he doesn’t share. On dates.

“Let me see,” he says, his mouth curling in one corner. Like the cat anticipating a juicy treat. “I have more siblings than is seemly.”

My expression must reflect my surprise.

“I blame the poor choice of TV shows in Ireland during the ’80s and ’90s.”

“Wow. Good for your parents!” Maybe he’s not telling the truth—why would he tell the truth?

“What a deviant you are, talking about my parents’ sex life.”

“I am not! It was you who—”

“You know, when we first met, I wouldn’t have believed you were the kind of girl who blushes at the drop of a hat.”

“I am not blushing! And if I am, it’s because you’re shameless.”

“Do you think my parents might be responsible for the field I’ve ended up in?” This he says with an air of I dare you to ask . “Not that I’m complaining about my chosen career.”

In my head, it’s my turn to make chicken noises. “I guess enjoying your job makes life easier,” I answer uncertainly.

I’ve never had an opinion of sex work. Or even sex workers.

I mean, I guess it’s one of the oldest professions in the world, but if you’d asked me this morning if I’d pay for sex, the answer would’ve been heck no.

Why pay when dick is only ever a swipe away?

Not that I’m into that kind of dating life.

But also, I guess not all dick is created equal.

And not all dick owners are interested in anything more than getting their own rocks off.

I can see that making the choice—the choice to go pro—might be empowering.

Like he said before, there could be an element of security in the decision.

And with a man like Matt, there would be fun.

Laughter. A genuineness of connection. And the kind of mind-blowing sex a girl would max out her credit card for.

Not that I’m considering . . .

No, I am not.

“Makes for happier individuals,” Matt replies enigmatically.

I have no issue believing he leaves a lot of women very happy. “What else?”

“I tolerate my friends. Mostly,” he adds with a humorous lilt. “I like to climb. Rocks, mostly. Food? I like food. All food. And I can cook, which is just as well, as I have a voracious appetite. In fact, right now, I’d eat you if you stood still long enough.”

My laughter is loud and genuine.

“Though I reckon I wouldn’t have to be hungry to nibble on you.”

I feel what he’s saying, even if I don’t fully understand it—feel it physically.

“As for the rest, I like beer and Irish whiskey, and I dress on the right.”

“Such quiet confidence.” I roll my eyes for effect and try very hard not to let my eyes fall there. I bet he’s abundantly blessed. “Anything else?”

“According to my ex, I’m rubbish at commitment.”

A slip from the vault? So much for keeping his private life just that, though I kind of see her point. I would have issues sharing him. “But just look at how you committed to this!” I sort of explode because the images that flash through my head are more than a little disconcerting.

“Or maybe I should just be committed.”

“You are not crazy for helping me out.” I’m the crazy one for thinking the things I’ve been thinking. “You’re nice.”

He pulls that unimpressed face again.

“You—you’re a gentleman!” A gentleman on the streets and a freak between the sheets. We’ll call that an educated guess. “Give me your phone,” I demand, holding out my hand. I need a distraction before I overheat. “I’ll call your ex and set her straight.”

His mouth curves as he takes my hand in his instead. “Thanks, but I’m sure that would go down like a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest.”

“And that would be a problem?” I feel a little pang in my chest. “Because you want to get back with her?”

“It is her wedding day.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He puts our joined hands on his knee. “It’s just been a weird day.”

“Maybe a little weird,” I concede, forcing my gaze upward. A thin scar bisects his left brow, and I find myself wondering about the cause. “But you’ve rolled with the punches admirably, and for that I’m truly—”