Page 23 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Matt

“Here he is—Prince Charming!” Wearing a grin of shit-eating proportions, Fin raises his glass in toast as I cross the floor of Oliver’s almost-empty club.

Oliver’s club isn’t a nightclub or a sports club.

It’s the kind of place I never thought I’d see the inside of.

Heavy furniture and leather chairs built to last but not necessarily for comfort.

Poor lighting and antique paneled walls, the timber dappled with sword marks.

Allegedly. And my least favorite aspect, ugly portraits of long-dead white men staring disapprovingly down.

Ah, they’d be turning in their graves to know they let Irishmen—and women—in these days.

The club is a private members’ establishment, formerly known as a gentleman’s club, renamed so as not to be confused with the kind of place with poles, stages, and scantily clad women.

“I think you’ve got that the wrong way around.

” Reaching my so-called friends, I pull out one of the ugly leather chairs around a small table.

“You’re the one with the hair and the charm, pretty boy.

” I give my head a theatrical shake, a bit like a Thoroughbred Iberian.

Or a social media influencer in front of a camera.

“But you’re the one with the silky sash and shiny buttons.” Fin makes feckin’ spirit fingers over his chest, vicious delight in those sparkling blue eyes of his. “Or so I’ve heard. Wear it for me sometime, baby?”

I make a noise of disgust as I wonder what else he’s heard, the least of which would be that I dumped his wife with a kid she barely knows.

Thankfully, the pair of them seemed to be getting along like a house on fire when I got back to the theater just before curtain-up.

I had hung back before taking my seat, waiting for the lights to dim to hide the fact that I was mildly disheveled, sweaty haired, and red in the face.

Mila would’ve probably assumed I’d been up to no good.

Worse, she might’ve insisted on answers.

As it was, I spent the first half of the show with my brain reeling between plans to find Ryan and excuses to provide Mila with because telling Fin and, to a lesser extent, Oliver seemed like a fate worse than death.

But Mila was far too polite to ask and, during the intermission, merely murmured a quiet “I hope you caught up with your friend.” She didn’t wait for an answer, turning to speak with one of the kids from her youth group instead. She’s one of the good ones, Mila.

Good that Evie wasn’t there, is all I can say. She’s also a good woman, but it definitely wouldn’t have gone the same way.

As for Clodagh, she’s yet to mention my excursion to her mother, mainly because she was so enamored with the show, and yapped about it all the way home.

The only other thing we talked about was getting her a cookie jar.

Apparently, a jam jar won’t be big enough to store all my sweary transgressions.

“I knew about the romance novels,” Fin taunts. “But I didn’t know you were into fairy tales.”

Jaysus , you make one reference to Bridgerton , and you’re forever labeled. So I cracked the spines on one or two of Letty’s novels. So what? I know I’m not the only one.

“I hear romance books are more your line,” I retort with a careless gesture.

“I already have an abundance of romance in my life.”

I scoff, mildly pissed off. “It’s like you don’t even remember you snagged Mila by accident.

Personally, I’m still not convinced she isn’t suffering from Stockholm syndrome, given the beginning of your relationship.

An isolated island, no one to turn to but you.

Sounds more like the beginnings of a true crime podcast than a romance. ”

“What wrongs have I committed to deserve spending my Saturday evening with you two?” Oliver’s tone is withering as he reaches for his wineglass.

My attention pivots. “How long have you got?”

“The time it would take to list them would turn your wine to vinegar,” Fin adds.

“My conscience is as clear as the driven snow.” Oliver gives a haughty sniff.

“I wasn’t aware you had a conscience,” I say.

“Sure he has. It’s a recent addition to the stiff-upper-lipped, stick-up-the-ass Brit model. A conscience called Evie.” Fin’s attention glides my way again. “But back to you. What’s this I hear about you haring around London after a woman?”

“I don’t know. What is it you hear?”

“Enough to pique my interest.” He glances down, lowering his lashes like a coy debutante.

“That might work on Mila, but it’s not working on me.”

“Come on, give it up. Who is she?”

“Why, Fin. You’re practically frothing at the mouth.”

“Yeah, yeah. Creamin’ in my panties too.”

My answer is to borrow Oliver’s glower.

Fin continues to poke. “Am I not allowed to be happy for my friend getting back on the proverbial horse, Mr. I’m-not-interested-in-women ?”

“When did I ever say that?”

“When you were in New York in October, and things haven’t changed since. Frankly, I’ve been worried you might be considering the church.”

“Be fair, Phineas,” Oliver says with a wave of his glass. “After a day spent in the company of ex-girlfriends, we might all consider becoming men of the cloth.”

I frown again, Oliver’s way this time. It’s very fucking clear these two have been talking about me.

“So imagine my surprise at what my darling wife had to tell me after the theater this afternoon.”

“I said I wasn’t interested in casual sex,” I retort, pointing a finger Fin’s way.

“Please let’s get this over with,” Oliver adds almost wearily. “I would like to eat dinner sometime this evening.”

“Are we eating here?” is Fin’s only (complaining) response. To be fair, the food here is atrocious—like something served out of history. I’m convinced they’re still using Mrs. Beeton’s cookery book. Tough beef and soggy veg, but at least the whiskey is good.

“I wouldn’t,” another voice puts in. “It’s duck à l’orange. Or the Dover sole. Again.”

Oliver gives a pained expression. “Thank you, George, but we aren’t dining in this evening.”

“Thank God,” Fin mutters.

“You are, however, just in time to furnish Matías here with a drink.”

“Right you are, sir,” the waiter replies happily.

“Howya, Cyril,” I greet him, ignoring the dictums of this arcane establishment, whereby all members of staff are referred to by the name of George. Every one of them. So yeah, fuck that.

“Hello, sir. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Busy times.” I’ve been avoiding these evenings, mainly because Mila and Evie often meet us for dinner. Though my friends’ wives are great, I can’t help feeling like a spare prick at a wedding when sitting with the four of them.

“What can I get you?” Hands behind his back, Cyril leans onto his toes and back again, like an old-fashioned policeman.

“I’ll have a pint of the black stuff and a whiskey chaser, thanks.”

“The Bushmills 21, sir?”

“That’d be grand.”

Cyril retreats, and I find myself shifting uncomfortably in my seat.

There are only so many excuses a man can make to avoid hanging out with his friends and their wives, but right now, I need to be here.

I need their help in finding Ryan. “Right, so,” I begin.

“Not that it’s got anything to do with you, but I haven’t gone off women. ”

“Oh, we know,” Fin says with relish as he leans back in his chair. “Tell Daddy Fin all about it.”

“I think I’ve just been sick in my mouth.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Oliver crosses one leg over the other like a declaration.

“There was a woman. Is a woman.”

Fin’s brows rise high on his forehead as though to say, No shit, Sherlock . And though neither man says anything, they exchange a look.

“What the fuck is going on between you two?”

With a pained sigh, Oliver reaches into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out his wallet. He places two fifties onto the table before pushing them Fin’s way.

“Nice doing business with you,” Fin says, holding one of the notes to the light. It’s an act of showmanship rather than checking for counterfeits. “Ryan, wasn’t it?”

I make a noise, part dismissal, part get fucked.

Fin positively beams. “So tell us all your news,” he says like some teen drama queen as he slides the money into his top pocket.

I hold up a forestalling finger as Cyril returns with my pint of Guinness and single malt.

“Who won?” the waiter asks, setting them down.

“Not you as well,” I complain.

Cyril gives an apologetic half shrug.

“I did,” Fin replies.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Cyril turns Oliver’s way. “No offense, Mr. Deubel.”

“None taken,” he returns with equanimity.

“Well, I’m very glad to hear the news,” Cyril adds. “And I hope to serve the lucky lady a drink or two very soon.”

“We’ll see,” I mutter, lifting my pint. Cyril retreats almost soundlessly.

God knows what Ryan would think of the place, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

“So.” I put my pint down, turn it thirty degrees or so to the right.

“I met her in New York,” I say, studying the condensation on the glass. “The night of the wedding.”

“Perhaps you ought to give me my money back,” Oliver murmurs. “Sounds like I was right.”

“He hasn’t finished yet,” Fin says with a dismissive flick of his hand. “Go on.”

“After the wedding, and after I hung up on you, I more or less bumped into her.” Which is better than the truth: that she accosted me.

“That’s what’s called a meet-cute,” Fin says for Oliver’s benefit. “No need to kidnap a woman from her own wedding.”

“Hilarious,” Oliver drawls, unimpressed.

“So you bumped into her,” Fin says, turning my way. “And ... then you lost touch? Until you saw her again today.”

“Which is just another way of saying it was a one-night stand,” Oliver says without judgment. He makes a gesture with his hand: palm facing the ceiling, finger curling in and back. Sort of give me my money back .