Page 2 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Matt

“I’m sorry?”

My gaze slices up from the slender hand and perfectly manicured nails to find fierce blue eyes on mine.

Typical man that I am, I take a quick but thorough inventory of the serious—and seriously pretty—woman currently accosting me.

She’s tiny and angry looking, like a bantam rooster.

Striking like one too. Her hair is dark, glossy, and expertly styled.

Jade-colored silk skims generous curves, her lips are painted plum, and her cheeks are highlighted by a subtle but shimmery hint.

Sure, she’s a tiny but pretty package. Though she’s not happy about . .. something.

“We agreed to meet at seven, and even that was pushing it.”

Pretty. Feisty. And confused.

My answer is a startled cough as she grabs my wrist and turns in the direction of the door, her wrap dress flaring to reveal a flash of toned, tan leg. Though her fingers and thumb don’t meet, she’s got some grip on her as she tries to tug me along. Tries being the operative word.

She makes a noise of frustration as her attention swings abruptly back. Something flickers in her expression, and I get the sense she changes her response a split second before the words leave her mouth.

“Glad to see the suit turned out okay.” Her tone is almost begrudging as her gaze flicks over me. “The cuff links are a nice touch.”

“Thanks?” I think?

“Tiffany knockoffs?”

“Graff, actually.” And not knockoffs, thank you very much.

Her gaze lifts from the white gold knot, and as our eyes meet, something electric slides down my spine. It feels like recognition, not that we’ve met before and not that I have time to ponder the effect as she flicks the cuff link with her nail.

“Just don’t expect me to cough up for them. I don’t care if you did pick ’em up cheap on Canal Street.”

“They were a gift,” I find myself answering. As though I need to defend myself.

“Whatever.”

I feel oddly bereft as she turns away again.

Bereft and bewildered and wondering if I should put my free hand over my watch—it’s worth more than my cuff links—but she’s dressed too expensively to be a thief or scammer.

And too tastefully to be touting for business in a dive bar, if you know what I mean.

“Come on , I don’t have all night!” She tugs again, harder this time.

I catch the bartender watching our exchange. He looks more entertained than worried for my safety. I give a rueful shrug as though this sort of shit happens to me all the time.

“Listen, love,” I say, ducking my head and keeping my voice low and soft. Kind, I suppose, though she doesn’t look like she’s escaped from the funny farm. “I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.” Think my arse, but it costs nothing to be polite.

“Is that an Irish accent?” Her lip curls in distaste, and it would seem discretion is not in her wheelhouse, given the lack of modulation in her tone. But at least she lets go of my wrist. Like it disgusts her.

“What of it?” My response wavers with amusement. I’d love to know why we’re having this conversation and why this tiny, angry woman is trying to kidnap me from a pub. And so much for Fin’s claim as to the knicker-dropping quality of my accent.

To give Fin his due, I’ve generally found women in the US to be more receptive when I open my mouth.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard “Oh, you’re Irish?

That’s so cool! I have a little Irish in me too.

” And as the old joke goes, they’re often keen to have a little more in them before the end of the night.

“You’re supposed to be Spanish,” the tiny bantam accuses, angrily tapping her beaded clutch against her thigh. “Why the hell put it in your bio if you’re not?”

Well now, that’s a coincidence, because I am Spanish. And Irish. Or a bit of a mutt, given I have one parent of each. But there’s no need to say any of this. Not when she’s obviously confused me for someone she’s swiped right on. I’m not one for the dating apps, myself.

“Like I said, you’ve confused me—”

“Don’t think you can back out now. Or screw any more money out of me.”

“Money?” My brows jump almost to my hairline.

There isn’t usually an exchange of funds on a dating app.

Unless it’s some kind of fetish one, maybe?

She is a tiny, bossy thing, and though that’s kind of hot, I’ve no intention of spending the night having spiked heels applied to my ball sack. Even if she has paid for the privilege.

“I already paid for the suit. And your cab fare.” She pierces me with the kind of look that might make a lesser man—or a less amused one—wither. “I knew I should’ve gone the professional route.”

What the fuck? I become conscious of the bartender’s straining ears as he sets my beer and whiskey chaser on the bar. So I take her wrist this time and move us a few steps away, ignoring how my hand looks giant sized on her.

“You mean, like, an escort?” I ask quietly.

“No, like a plumber,” she snipes, still with the volume as she snatches her arm back. Though I will note the tiny contradiction in the pink flush across her chest.

I rub my hand across my mouth, mainly to hide my amusement. It’s none of my business what she gets up to. But also, no fucking way! Why the hell would a woman as gorgeous as her need to hire a man for ... whatever she’s hired him for.

Even if it is a testicle stomping.

“You think that’s funny?” she demands, placing her hand to the curve of her jutted hip, full of piss and vinegar and don’t fuck with me attitude.

“Of course you think it’s funny. Because you don’t live in the real world, bless your heart.

” She points an accusing finger over her tiny clutch.

“You cuddle housewives for a living and pass it off as therapy!”

“I ...” I didn’t even know that was a thing.

“I should’ve listened to my gut, not Ava.

‘It’ll be cheaper,’” she adds in a breathy whine, presumably impersonating whoever Ava is.

“‘Carl says he’ll give you a discount on the Cuddle Collective hourly rate. He’s a decent guy.

’” One dark, elegant brow lifts, full of derision.

“But what Ava failed to mention is that Carl is unreliable, that he isn’t really Spanish, that he lives in fucking Bushwick, and that he doesn’t even own a suit! ”

“This is my suit.” Out of all the charges laid against me, I’m not sure why this is the one I choose to answer.

“Then why did I Venmo you money while you were standing in Abe’s Formal Wear? You know what? I don’t care. Carl from the Cuddle Collective might be cheaper, but if I’d hired an escort, at least I might get fucked at the end of the night, instead of just fucked over!”

“True story.”

“Excuse me?” comes her combative retort.

“Always hire the right man for the job. That’s my motto.

” I temper my amusement, entertained beyond belief.

I can’t remember a conversation I’ve found quite so .

.. engaging. Or a woman I’ve found quite so fierce.

Especially for one so small. After the day I’ve had, I’ll take enjoyment where I can find it.

“Really?” she snipes.

“I can see the benefits, especially for a woman. Discretion springs to mind. Safety. Pleasure.” And apparently, I have a motto now. “As for Carl ...” My words trail off as I give my head a sorry shake. I am kinda sorry I’m not Carl right now.

Her eyes move to the bar behind, maybe noticing my drinks, her words turning hesitant. “You’re really not Carl?”

“And this isn’t a suit from Abe’s Formal Wear.”

Consternation knits her brow before her gaze moves over my tux. When her eyes eventually lift, I see the wind has been knocked from her blustery sails.

“My name’s Matt.”

“Shit,” she says, bringing a hand to her forehead. Her eyes moisten, and she goes from angry to upset in a couple of blinks. “This cannot be happening. Not today.”

“I’m sure Carl will be along,” I offer, because here’s the thing: I can’t deal with tearful women. I don’t mean that in the emotionally repressive, übermasculine bullshit way. Crying women just happen to be my kryptonite—being around them turns me inside out.

If a shrink ever got their hands on me, I’m sure they’d find the root cause is my three sisters and a horde of female cousins.

That lot seemed to work out very early on that if they teared up in front of me, I’d give them anything they wanted.

My Spider-Man figures to marry their Barbies, a live model to practice their makeup skills on, the last gingersnap in the jar, as well as the lifelong blame for smashing the TV screen with a hurley.

“Carl isn’t coming,” she says as her bottom lip sets to wobbling. “He’s almost an hour late already. I can’t believe I’ve been scammed by a jerk who cuddles housewives for a living!”

“I wonder if they’ve any vacancies.”

“This is the worst,” she says, appearing not to hear me. “All because I didn’t want to hire a professional.” Her watery eyes rise to mine. “It felt like a step too far. Too skeevy, maybe?”

“Right.” I give a solemn nod and try to ignore the hollow sensation in my chest. No way anyone as lovely looking as her should need to hire a bloke for .

.. whatever she was hiring him for. Not that I’m offering.

As pretty as she is, all sad and interesting, and as hot and fiery as she was a few minutes ago, she might still be a few Cheerios short of a full fuckin’ bowl!

“Oh, my God, what a mess. What an absolute disaster.”

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that,” I find myself offering as a tear slides down her cheek.

Ah, now. Don’t feckin’ cry!

“It’s worse. Worse than you could ever imagine,” she answers pitifully.

“There now.” I put my hands to her shoulders and maneuver us to a nearby table. “There’s nothing in the world that can’t be mended,” I add, sounding like my granny as I press her down into a chair.

“How about trust? Or a person’s soul?”

Fuck me, that was a bit dramatic. “Here.” I quickly swipe up my whiskey from the bar and push the glass into her hands. “Drink this. It’ll make you feel better.”

She puts the glass to her lips, and—news flash—it does not make her feel better. It doesn’t make me feel better either as she begins to cough and splutter, tears rolling freely down her face now.

“Oh, my God. That is the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.” She stares at the glass in her hand with something like horror. “What the hell is it?”

“Irish whiskey.” Who on this earth has never had a drop of the good stuff?

“Tastes like ass.”

“It does not taste like ass. And I would know. I’ve tasted a lot of—”

“Ass?”

“Whiskey,” I retort with a frown. “I’ve tasted enough whiskey to know what you have there is premium.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.” I’m not normally so easily offended on behalf of my people. Half of my people. Whatever. I move to the bar and shove a fifty down in exchange for the shot and my pint before turning back to a pitiful sight.

“Ah, darlin’. Don’t cry.” I put my glass on the table as my stomach sinks.

“I’m not crying. It’s the whiskey.”

“That was fast. You’ve usually got to drink at least half a bottle before the tears start.”

“I’m supposed to be at a wedding.” Her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath.

Pushing aside the coincidence, I down a good portion of my beer. She’s not the only one in need of a drink, and that news doesn’t exactly help. But because I’m not a complete dick, I crouch down in front of her and take her hands in mine. “Supposed to be?”

“My ex is getting married,” she whispers. “ Will be married by now.”

“Ah.”

“I’m not crying,” she says, oblivious to the obvious as her shoulders begin to tremble again.

“Not over him. I never cry. Unless—oh, my God. Maybe this is what happens when you have ten years of tears stored inside you. Why is this happening now? I’d rather store them as cankles than have this happen now! ”

“Come on. There now.” Jesus God, I sound like my sister soothing her little one. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she retorts, shaking her head, her words all blubbery and wet. “Months of planning, for it to come to this.”

Whoever said crying girls are attractive needs their head examined.

“Hush now,” I say a little harsher, changing tack yet still borrowing my sister’s parental tone. The one she uses when little Clodagh is overwrought. “No good can come from getting yourself in this state.”

“What the fuck would you know?” she says, snatching away her hands.

“What do I know?” Not much, apparently. Because as my brain tries to formulate an answer, my mouth takes the opportunity to become an independent contractor. “Only that I’m exactly the kind of man to get you out of this.”