Page 20 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Matt

“Uncle Matty, you don’t got the right color hair for Prince Charmin.”

“ Charming , Clodagh,” Leticia, my sister, corrects as she straightens her daughter’s sparkly crown.

“The other stuff is toilet paper,” I say, plucking at a cheap gold-colored button on my chest. “Which I suppose is apt, considering I feel like something you wipe your arse on. I mean, what are these meant to be?” I demand, now flicking the gold fringing dangling from my shoulder.

“Epaulets, you heathen.” My sister gives a pitying shake of her head. “Prince Charming is obviously some sort ... of military man.”

I look down at the pale-blue velvet frock coat, complete with gold braiding, belt, and satin sash.

It’s an outfit Sebastien, our younger brother, promised he’d wear when he took Clodagh to the theater before gallivanting off to Spain last minute.

The tickets were supposed to be my contribution to the outing!

I didn’t think for one minute I’d end up dressing like a pantomime prince and taking her there myself. I must be soft in the head.

“Some sort of feckin’ tool,” I mutter as I eye the matching white gloves distastefully. “Ow! What was that for?” I clutch my bicep after Letty catches me a good one with her pincerlike fingers.

“For behaving like a tool.”

“Did you see that, Clo? One of the ugly sisters just walloped Prince Charmin. What do you reckon—off with her head?”

“Mommy’s head isn’t ugly.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No! Not Aunt Lo’s and not Aunt Lou-Lou’s, neither!” she says, using her nicknames for my younger twin sisters, Lola and Lucía. “And you gotta potty mouth, Uncle Matty.” Clo’s brows pull down.

“For saying feck ? Feck isn’t swearing. Prince Charmin wouldn’t swear.”

Clo gives me a doubtful stare.

“It’s Charming .” Letty’s hiss is delivered through gritted teeth. “Which is something you know nothing about. Honestly, Matt, do you think I don’t have enough problems without having to police your language where there are impressionable ears?”

I glance down at a confused Clodagh as she gingerly touches her tiny shell-like ears. “Our own father cursed like a sailor—in two languages—and we turned out all right.”

“Debatable.” Letty’s gaze slices my way, looking me pointedly up, then down.

“Come on, sis,” I cajole. “’Tis a long way from smashed avocado on toast we were raised.”

“True,” she reluctantly agrees. “Gentle parenting back then meant being threatened with a slipper rather than a shoe.”

“ Verás como saque la zapatilla! ” I say, impersonating our father as I slap my hand with an invisible slipper. Letty laughs.

“Who are you pretending to be?” Clo asks, her cute little face perplexed.

“Your grandpa.”

“My lelo wouldn’t hit anyone with a thlipper!”

“A slipper?”

Letty elbows me in the ribs.

“The sins of the parent are not visited upon their grandchildren, obviously.” I send Letty a speaking look.

“Lelo did smack Uncle Matty with a slipper when he was a kid because he was a terrible tearaway.”

“I think you must be confusing me with Hugo.”

That puta , she replies silently, smiling as she mouths the insult.

I slap the gloves down on the console table. “Did you just call the apple of our mother’s eye a very bad name?” To be fair, Letty has a point. At the ripe old age of thirty-two, Hugo is yet to grow out of his whoring phase.

My heart gives a sudden duplicitous pang. What I wouldn’t give to be in that position again. Whore. Pretend or not. For one woman only. One woman I’ll likely never see again.

It’s been ten weeks nearly to the day since I woke in that suite at the Pierre alone. Sixty-nine days since the best sex of my life. One thousand six hundred sixty-four hours (give or take) since I last held Ryan in my arms, sated and glad, as we’d finally fallen into bed.

We screwed on almost every conceivable surface, from the table to the bed, the bed to the shower, and the shower to the sofa. And against the window overlooking a purple-skied predawn Central Park. I played the role until my abs hurt, but it didn’t feel like pretend.

The morning after, it was like her absence had left me hollow, and somehow, I’m still feeling that loss weeks later.

I give myself a mental slap. Fucking woolgathering again.

What-ifs and maybes don’t make a bit of difference to my current reality.

My current predicament. My current state of dress.

You can hit the big time. Be touted as one of the top forty under forty.

Be a mover and a shaker, see your own face staring at you from the front of Forbes .

But none of that will get you out of a stupid feckin’ frock coat when it comes to family.

Good thing Clodagh is cute.

“He’s only the favorite ’cause he’s not here,” Letty says.

“Fair fucks,” I agree.

Seb is visiting Hugo, who plays midfield for Real Madrid, which is probably part of the reason he hasn’t settled down.

Hugh is a footballing god over there—everywhere he goes, he’s trailed by wannabe WAGs.

Ironic, given he wants neither wife nor regular girlfriend.

Ironic and unfair. He doesn’t want a girlfriend, and I can’t keep one.

“As in, not here teaching my child unsavory words.” Letty pinches me again.

“Shit—I mean, ow! What in the name of arse was that for?”

“Guess,” Letty demands as she draws the sides of her cardigan closer, suddenly the very image of our mother. Not that I’d say so because I prefer not to wear my testicles as earrings. This divorce is really doing a number on her. It seems to have sucked all the fun out of her.

And my guess? I glance down at Clo. “Sorry,” I offer.

“That’s three more times, Uncle Matty.” Clo holds up three stubby fingers.

“Ah, come on,” I cajole. “That last one didn’t count. Arse isn’t really a bad word. No worse than ass , at least—which they say a lot where you’ve been living.”

“They don’t say ath a whole lot in kindergarten.” Clodagh gives a twist of the lips that’s far too sardonic for someone who’s yet to reach the age of six. “Uncle Matty? Why does Uncle Seb say you get more ath than a toilet theat?”

“Oh, for feck’s sake,” Letty mutters, rolling her eyes.

“What does that mean?” Clo persists.

“It means you shouldn’t listen to your uncle.” I sweep her up into my arms, which is no easy task, thanks to the hoops of her sunshine-yellow princess dress. “Haven’t I told you all boys are idiots? Especially Uncle Seb.”

“You got that right,” Letty murmurs.

Clo begins to giggle as I swing her around, almost knocking an original George Condo off the wall. But the sound is enough to lighten anyone’s heart.

“Put her down.” Though the words are delivered like a complaint, my sister’s expression is merry as she sweeps up Clo’s coat. “Let’s get you into this.”

“That’s a bit small for me. Oh, well.” I stick out my hand as though I’m about to put it on.

“Uncle Matty, that’s not your coat!”

“Isn’t it?”

“You’re too big!” Clo answers through a delightful-sounding giggle. “Anyway, printheth don’t wear no coat.”

“Prin ... princesses don’t wear coats?”

This kid needs a speech therapist. Maybe I should’ve paid for sessions instead of theater tickets for Chrithmath. I mean, Christmas. “That’s because princesses don’t live in London in January,” I say, taking the woolen duffle coat from Letty and shaking it out. “In you get.”

“Thucks,” she complains, shoving her fist into the armhole.

“Clodagh!” her mother chastises.

“Well, it does. You gonna wear a coat, Uncle Matty?”

“I most certainly am.” To hide this ridiculous getup, if nothing else. I pull my phone from my pocket as it buzzes with a text. “Car’s here.”

“You sure you don’t wanna wear the matching pants?” Letty taunts as I slide my phone back. “Personally, I think the golden edging was very fetching.”

I send her a less-than-friendly look as Clodagh begins to bounce on the spot.

“And the boots! Please, please! We’ll look like we’re going to the ball!”

“They don’t fit, remember? My feet are bigger than Uncle Seb’s?”

“You mean your ath,” my sister adds with a snicker.

“Jealousy is very unbecoming, pancake pants,” I reply, patting my sister on the head.

“But you gotta give me the wothe,” Clo says, cutting off her mother’s—judging by her expression—unpleasant response.

“The what?”

“The wothe,” Clo repeats, her hip jutted and her palm facing the ceiling. She eyes me like she thinks I’m an idiot. My vacant expression probably confirms her suspicions.

“Belle needs a wothe , Uncle Matty.”

“Uncle Matty doesn’t have a rose for you, baby. He’s never seen the movie,” Letty says softly, “so he didn’t know to bring one.”

I feel like I’ve been punched in the guts watching Clodagh’s little face fall. She’s already been let down twice today by the men in her life. Once when her father forgot to call, and the other when fuckin’ Seb conveniently forgot their plans. Ah, fuck it.

“Not a problem,” I say, scooping her up again. “We’ll stop at a flower shop on the way.”

After we’ve secured a red rose, Dave, the driver, drops us as near as permitted to the theater. As he pulls away from the curb and the stupid satin sash whips me in the face, I realize I’ve left my coat on the seat.

Fucking thing, I think as I tuck the shiny piece of shit one-handed into the belt. At least it isn’t raining, or snowing, I decide as I take Clodagh’s hand. I’m not sure I would’ve gotten my coat on anyway, not with the size of these feckin’ shoulder pads and epaulets.

The Palladium is in the West End, the London theater district, and is currently buzzing with theatergoers.

But as far as I can see, we’re the only ones dressed for the occasion.

And drawing a few funny looks. Some indulgent ones, mostly from the female population.

The blokes, however, seem to silently agree Rather him than me .

“Come on, slowpoke,” I say, tugging on her little hand. Apart from feeling a bit of a tit, I’m feckin’ freezing! “Pirate code says stragglers will be left behind.”

“We aren’t pirates!” she answers with a giggle.