Page 11 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

“Grateful,” he finishes for me. Ungraciously. What is it with him and compliments?

“I am!” I insist.

“No need.” His words gruff, he rubs his hand over the darkening stubble on his jaw.

Why does the motion only serve to accentuate his lips? And how come I didn’t notice before how well shaped they are? Full and kissable, maybe even a little pouty right now.

“Matt, listen, I—” But whatever I was about to say is cut off as the clowns return to the big top.

“Killaaa!”

“Killer Queen!”

Lord, do I hate that moniker.

Brandon’s over-the-top greeting is echoed by his sycophants, including the nerdy but sweet quant that recently joined Dreyland Cap from MIT. The kid must feel like he’s crossed over to the dark side, all the liquor and party favors available to him.

“Knock that off,” I complain, glaring at the ringleader clown. Meanwhile, Jared breaks into his off-key rendition of the Queen song “Killer Queen” as I stare at him icily.

“Come on, Kil—I mean, Ryan. It’s totally a compliment!”

“So says you,” I mutter. Someone must’ve told him his dimpled smile was cute. Probably when he was three or something. Someone ought to tell him that is no longer the case.

“Killer Queen” is a song about a high-class call girl, but that’s not where the association originates. It’s the dynamite and laser beams—the kick-ass themes. Their own twisted take, at least.

And though I’m no one’s pussycat, and rarely playful at work, the song does speak to me in other ways. Like to a girl pretending to be someone she’s not. I might not speak like a baroness, but I don’t speak like a girl from my hood either.

“Who’s this?” Brandon gives a jerk of his chin.

“My Nathaniel.” My tone says: Who d’you think? “Like I said, I won’t be hanging with you guys today.” Cupping Matt’s cheek, I press my thumb lightly against the corner of his mouth. “I have my favorite plus-one with me today.”

“Didn’t see you at the service,” he grates out.

“Didn’t you?” Screw you.

“Aww, shit!” Jared exclaims. “This is the guy—the one you met on vacation!”

“This is the guy,” I agree.

“Fuck!” Kyle drops into a seat. “Someone took my drink. I was coming back to it.” He looks my way as though I’m interested in his drunk-ass complaint. “Vodka, Red Bull, Fireball, and—”

“So go order another,” Brandon doesn’t so much suggest as order. “Aren’t you gonna introduce us?” This he fires my way, his tone sorely lacking suggestion.

I’ve opened my mouth to tell him exactly what I think of his demand and where he can shove it when I find Matt’s—I mean, Nate’s—fingers lightly squeezing my shoulder. I must’ve been too focused on these idiots to realize he’s moved closer and that his arm is now resting across the back of my chair.

“What’s up?” Jared says, dropping into the seat on Matt’s right.

“Nate doesn’t speak—”

“ Buenas noches ,” my imaginary boyfriend says in an accent that sounds convincingly Spanish. And convincing is better than comical.

“ ?Cómo estás? ” Jared returns, sounding like a bad actor in a telenovela. “ Mi nombre es Jared.” Or maybe that should be a kindergartener in a Spanish class.

I almost give a whoop of joy at Jared’s butchering of the language. Even I recognize that much. Before the wedding, I asked everyone in the office if they spoke another language, in a roundabout way, as damage control after I’d uttered my stupid lie.

Being hotheaded is such a curse sometimes.

“ Bien, gracias ,” Matt—Nate—returns pleasantly. And without an ounce of concern.

Meanwhile, I’ve still broken out in a cold sweat. I send a silent prayer heavenward. Please let him know a few more words, Lord.

“You speak Spanish?” Jamie, another of the guys, directs Jared’s way.

“Nah,” he admits. “I just learned enough in high school to impress this Mexican chick I wanted to get with.” He turns to Matt again. “ ?Hablar inglése? ” Jared says next.

“ Un poco ,” Matt returns with a small gesture of his hand.

He sounds so convincing, especially compared to Jared. I find myself thinking about what he said—why I hadn’t chosen an Italian pretend boyfriend, given I’d spent three miserable weeks in Italy.

Italy wasn’t miserable, but I was. I’d sold myself the vacation as a summer to get over my broken heart. I had very firm plans of finding an Italian stallion to screw some sense back into me. Sadly, the only D I got while there was depression.

“You really don’t speak the same language?” Jared looks as confused as a cricket in a hubcap.

“We converse freely in the only language we need.” For show, and because I suddenly want to, I press my hand to Matt’s left cheek and my lips to his right.

He makes a low, purring sound of surprise, then murmurs a string of seductive-sounding words.

Words I can’t make sense of, though their effect feels like hot syrup sinking into me.

“Man, I love love.” Jamie sighs sweetly.

In the periphery of my vision, I note how Brandon sends him a death glare. “What did he say?” he demands.

Beats me, I almost answer as my brain plays catch-up. My blood seems to have drained from my brain to my lap. Oh. My. Lord. His mouth—the shapes it makes. That melodic rise and fall of his words. The man speaks Spanish, hallelujah!

But why the hell didn’t he mention that?

“I only know basic greetings and es calinete !” Jared says. “You’re hot.”

“ No, no, eso no está bien ,” Matt—Nate!—says with a laugh. “Not correct. él está caliente . He is hot,” he repeats before turning my way. “ Ella está caliente . She is hot.” This he kind of purrs as he strokes his hand down my face. “Ryan.” Holy rolling r ’s. “Is beautiful.”

“Whoa,” someone murmurs. I can’t be sure who, and I’m not looking because I’m too busy staring into my pseudo boyfriend’s eyes.

Eyes that seem to shine with a dark possessiveness.

Man, he’s good. He’s obviously had a lot of practice, but good Lord, the man could melt the panties off a girl’s behind with just one look—no accent required!

My hottie inclines his head as he murmurs more of that sensual-sounding language, pulling me closer to whisper those sweet sexy somethings in my ear. It takes me a moment to catch on to his meaning, but somewhere in the shiver-inducing cadence, the husky rise and fall, I hear the word canoodle .

We’re a couple that canoodles. Fine by me, provided we don’t come anywhere close to second base in public.

“What’d he say?” Brandon demands once again, like a school bully who doesn’t get the joke. Maybe because he is the joke. And he is definitely the bully.

I flick Brandon a look that says: Like I’d tell you.

“So guys, this is my Nathaniel,” I begin, pawing his chest for good measure.

It’s a hard job, but someone’s got to do it.

“Nate, baby, these are my colleagues”—also known as the clowns I work with—“Tyler, Jared, Jamie, Kyle, and Dipesh. Why is Dipesh asleep?” I ask, watching his nodding head, his chin bouncing against his chest.

“Can’t hold his liquor,” Kyle supplies.

“You forgot to introduce me,” Brandon puts in.

“No, I didn’t forget.”

Five of the six offer varying degrees of lukewarm hellos, while Brandon just grunts.

“You just spoke to him in English.”

“Your point?” I slice Brandon with a look.

“And he spoke to you in Spanish.”

“Ten out of ten for observation.”

“Well?”

“We’re teaching each other. What the hell do you think we do all those hours on the phone?”

“I know what I’d be doing if I had a hot Spanish girlfriend,” Jared puts in lasciviously.

“There’s only so much phone sex one couple can have.” Or not, as the case may be, I think as I stroke my hand down Matt’s shirt. He feels like Michelangelo’s David under there.

“ Sufriría una lesión una y otra vez por ti cualquier día ,” Matt murmurs as he takes my hand in his and presses it to his cheek.

“ Sí , baby. Sí ,” I say. Damn it. I should’ve googled some Spanish phrases.

“Killer, you’re killing me!” one of the clowns moans.

“It wasn’t an invitation to watch,” I retort through gritted teeth.

“Then stop feeling him up,” Brandon mutters.

I spear the shithead with a look. “Really? The number of times I’ve had to listen to your tales of this hot girl from a bar and that hot girl from Instagram.”

Thanks to social media influencers, finance bros have become a hot commodity.

The irony is these men are often the smartest in the room, but they’re also idiots because they’ve bought into the finance bro hype.

They see themselves as irresistible, like our job is all yachts and partying.

In reality, it’s long hours in the office, with even longer hours glued to our phones at home staring at market alerts, reading emails and texts, and dealing with phone calls from other time zones.

“Can’t be much of a relationship if you can barely communicate.” Brandon lounges back in his chair as he sends a glower Matt’s way.

“We say all we need to in other ways.”

“I didn’t think you meant it,” he mutters sourly. “That you were bringing someone.”

“And I’m supposed to care what you think?”

He glares at me as the others make a kind of whistling sound, like fifth graders in the schoolyard.

“What’d I miss?” Dipesh says loudly, coming to like a lip-smacking jack-in-the-box.

“Killer Queen brought a boyfriend.”

“The Spanish guy?” Dipesh asks, all wide-eyed drunkenness as he glances around the table as though trying to make out who is who.

“Yup.”

“How tall are you?” Dipesh squints across the table at Matt.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s seeing multiple Matts. Lucky for him.

“Is he taller than five feet six?” he persists.

“Don’t be a dick.” I glance around the table with a look of disgust. You assholes.

“He’s tall,” Jared eventually offers up. “Six two would be my guess.”

“And handsome,” Jamie says.

“And more to the point, he’s really Spanish,” Kyle adds.

Dipesh nods as though taking this all in. Then he jumps to his feet. “Yeah!” He begins to hammer his fists to his chest like a puny Tarzan. “I win, motherfuckers! Pay up!”

Matt catches my eye, his expression seeming to say, You have got to be kidding me.