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

Matt

Maybe there is something about crying girls after all.

“Wait.” She tilts her head, her pretty eyes so blue and so glossy. “What?”

“What?” Hang on—that wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. I mentally play back my words, but before I can clarify—and by clarify , I mean backtrack the fuck away from this at a million miles an hour—her eyes widen and her expression morphs with understanding.

“You mean you’re, like, a professional?”

Or misunderstanding , I should say.

“Well, I guess, but—”

“So that’s what you meant when you said you’d tasted a lot of ass.”

“Yes. Wait, no. I didn’t say that.”

“I’m not judging. Paid or not, you clearly get a lot of ass.” Her eyes roam over me sort of speculatively.

“Thank you, I think.” I feel my expression flicker. This is the most bizarre conversation ever. “But that’s not—”

“Oh, my God.” She grabs for my hands and holds them between us. “This is amazing!”

“Is it?”

“Divine intervention for sure! Thank you—thank you so much,” she adds, her gaze tipping to the ceiling. “I mean, I’ll obviously pay you. For your time. And only for your time. I mean, it’s been a minute ...”

A minute since she ... had a ride?

Confirmation comes as her eyes drop to my crotch.

What in the name of all that is holy! She actually thinks I’m a male escort? I don’t know if I should be flattered or horrified.

What Would Fin Do? I hear that bastard’s voice in my ear like he’s standing behind me, whispering over my shoulder—I hear it so clearly, in fact, that I glance at my wrist, half expecting to see a beaded bracelet there.

I know exactly what Fin would do, the feckin’ opportunist, because his emotional depths run as deep as a yogurt pot. Premarriage, anyway.

“Listen,” I say, starting again. “I think we’ve got our wires crossed. When I said I’m the kind of man to get you out of this, I didn’t mean physically.” Not that I’m not tempted. Physically. What man wouldn’t be? Feisty, fiery, and as hot as fuck, she’s a regular pocket rocket, this one.

“‘Always hire the right man for the job.’ You said that was your motto. And the right man is you.”

“That’s not exactly what I said.” Though it kind of is.

“Look, I’m not ...” Fuck, I can’t even say it, the idea is so ridiculous.

“What I meant was—what I know is you won’t miss out on anything by not going to the wedding.

” My response sounds harsher than I mean it to, and because my knees are starting to ache, I take the seat next to hers.

“It’s not like I want to go,” she murmurs, dabbing her eyes with her fingertips.

“Then you don’t have a problem. Don’t go.” I rest my arm on the table next to my pint.

“You don’t understand. I’ve got to be there.”

“Maybe you think you do, but take my advice—it’s better you stay well away.” I reach for my glass, maybe to prevent myself from spilling my own tale and tangling this knot tighter. Or maybe this is just really thirsty work.

“I don’t have a choice.” Her eyes meet mine, deep blue and solemn.

“Everyone has a choice. The truth is, he won’t even miss you.”

Her head snaps back like I’ve just slapped her across the chops with a wet kipper.

“What I mean is, he’s moved on. You should too.”

“I don’t give a fuck about him,” she says, her frown deepening. “Besides, it’s not like he doesn’t have to look me in the eye every day. In the office.”

“Well, sure, working together is a complication.”

“The complication is he’s my boss. At least he is since he dumped me for the CEO’s daughter.”

“Oh.”

“C.E. Oh ... ” She gives a deep shrug. “As an employee, I’m expected to go. As his ex, I damn well refuse to be a no-show.” She grabs the remains of the whiskey and drains what’s left, then sets the glass down with an air of finality.

Your funeral, I think to myself. There’s no helping some people. “It looks like you’ve made up your mind.”

“The day I got the invitation. And I knew I wouldn’t be going alone.”

She pierces me with a look that’s a mixture of desperation and determination. I somehow know what’s coming next.

“No.” My tone is firm as I hold up a finger like I’m talking to my niece. “That’s not happening.”

“But you could do it.” Her reflexes lightning quick, she grabs my wrist again. “You could totally do it!”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

“It is. Plus, you’re here and you’re available!”

“I’m not a taxi,” I say, peeling away her hand. “And this is not happening.”

“I’ll pay you!”

“You couldn’t pay me enough,” I retort gruffly, patting the back of her hand to lessen the sting. There’s no way I’m doing two weddings in one day. Not as a favor and definitely not as a paid date, no matter what Fin would do.

“I wasn’t being cheap when I didn’t hire a professional. I can afford to pay you well—really well.”

Not as well as I’m usually paid, not that it matters. Fin might be right; I might be nice. But I’m not that nice. Or that fucking stupid.

“Please.”

I find my hands in hers suddenly, her head bowed and a subtle floral scent rising between us. The pendant light overhead turns her hair shades of sable, copper, and mahogany. I curl the fingers of my right hand against the insane notion of running them through the silky strands.

“Looks like you’ve had a manicure.” Her thumb slides over my thumbnail, my skin like fire reacting to the brush of her touch.

“It’s not a crime to take care of yourself,” I say gruffly. The hairs on my wrist stand like pins, but I know her game. I know exactly what she’s doing.

“So you do okay for yourself. That doesn’t mean you couldn’t do with more money. Everyone likes money.”

I’ve got more money than I could spend in a lifetime, but I’m not in the habit of telling people my business.

I learned that lesson shortly after I made my first million, because next thing you know, they’re googling your name, discovering your net worth, and eyeing you like you could be their new best friend. Or their next ex-husband.

“Maybe there’s something else you want.” She leans in, the action not at all accidental. Cleavage for days.

I cock a brow at the suggestion in her tone and spread my fingers wide on my thigh.

“No, I suppose not.” Her tone dips, her shoulders with it. “Not that I was offering, exactly.”

“Offering what, exactly?”

“ Not offering.” Her cheeks flush pink.

“Give it up, love. I’ve been to one too many exes’ weddings today.” Reinforcing my point, I flick my lapel. Check out the tux. Savile Row, not Abe’s Formal Wear.

“Your ex?” Her expression flickers before she sits up straight. “But ... but then you know .”

“I know I’m not going to another one.”

“Please, I’m desperate. You’re exactly the type of man I should’ve hired. Compassionate and understanding—”

“And not the type you rent out for a few hours.” I put my glass to my lips once more.

She doesn’t seem unstable, though I’m beginning to wonder if her ears are painted on under all that hair, because her listening skills leave a lot to be desired.

“Regardless of what I do or don’t do for a living, there’s no way I’m suffering through two weddings in one day. ”

“Please? I’ll return the favor—I’ll come to your next one!”

Laughter bursts out of me. “Sounds like you’ve heard about me.”

“You kind of have heartbreaker written all over you,” she says, her voice lowered seductively.

“Insults one minute, flattery one minute.” I give a mocking shake of my head as I ignore the stirring between my legs. “I’m just gonna finish my pint and be on my way.”

Her eyes turn almost instantly glossy again. “I guess I can kiss my career goodbye,” she whispers, putting her fingers to her trembling lips.

“Your employer can’t dictate what you do in your spare time.”

“I don’t have any spare time, not with my job. It’s my everything.”

“That sounds less than healthy.” Kettle, meet pot. Though in my current assigned role, I expect that would cause a lot of chafing.

“I love what I do. It’s who I do it with that’s the issue. I work in an office that’s like a frat house. I spend ten-plus hours every day with a bunch of asshole finance bros.”

“Banking?”

“Hedge fund.”

“On the trading floor.”

Surprise ripples across her brow. “Yeah, how did you ...”

“The balls on you, for one thing.” But talk about six degrees of separation. Well, six degrees plus the Atlantic.

“You think I’m ballsy?”

“You know you are. You’ve got more front than Bloomingdale’s,” I say, sounding like an old fart.

“Front. I like that.” Her amusement fades once more to a flickering frown. “Know thyself, right?” She gives a tiny shrug. “People usually assume I work a back-office role.”

“Then they aren’t paying attention.”

“It’s because I’m a woman. Or maybe because the back office is where I started.

Thank you for the compliment, but right now, you’re confusing moxie with desperation.

” She rolls in her bottom lip, chewing it a little.

“I’m the only woman on the floor. It was bad enough when I only had to listen to those assholes.

Being central to it is a whole other experience. ”

I bite the end of my tongue to stop myself from asking. Not that she needs the invitation, apparently.

“When I was dating one of them, they left me alone. When he dumped my ass, it seemed all bets were off.” She slides away a tiny lock of her hair, her gaze avoiding mine.

“Bets?” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it, though she continues as though I haven’t spoken.

“My ex proposed, and the CEO’s daughter accepted. A wedding was planned, our presence requested, and by that, I mean summoned .” Her frown is brief. “Good for the business, apparently. Today is an opportunity to show our clients how we’re all one big family. Or so the story goes.”

“We both know they can’t really make you go.”

“They can if I want a promotion. There or somewhere else. If I don’t go, I isolate myself, and I’ve had to work twice as hard as anyone there to get where I am. I won’t throw it all away.”

“You’re sure this is not about your ex?”

“Did you go to your ex’s wedding today just to be sure she was done with you?”

I scratch the back of my neck. “It was nothing at all like that.”

“Same. Like I said, I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of not seeing my face today. You see, I still have feelings for him.”

Well, that makes more sense. Though I’ve no clue why her words should feel like a fist to my face.

“I mean, those feelings are mostly loathing with a sprinkling of white-hot hate. But five days a week, and I’ve yet to give in to the compulsion to beat his brains into the carpet.”

“I applaud your self-control,” I say with a reluctant grin. “But if it’s not about him, why hire Cuddle Carl?”

“In support of a lie.” She gives a dramatic exhale, her bravado seeping out of her. “A lie I’ve been repeating for months.”

“That you have a boyfriend,” I guess.

“No. Kind of.” She gives her head a tiny shake. “That one of them won’t be taking me home at the end of tonight, no matter who has better odds.”

“Odds? You can’t mean . . .”

“That they’ve been running a book?” She nods. “It’s open season on the new boss’s ex since. I told them I had a boyfriend, not that it made one bit of difference. They don’t believe that I’m gonna show up with someone, despite my talking my invisible boyfriend up at every opportunity.”

“What?” The fuck.

“I know, right? I’ve sent myself flowers. Candies. Commissioned cute sketches and said they were from my artist boyfriend. What kind of a nutjob goes to all that amount of trouble? Well, I’ll tell you what kind of nutjob. You’re looking at her.”

“Fuck that. You should drag their arses to HR.”

“It’s a family firm. Old-school mentalities where boys will be boys. Meanwhile, men ...”

Men, on the other hand, do the right thing. They open doors. Offer seats. Put cloaks over puddles and ... annihilate misogyny? Or at least I was raised to treat people well. To have respect. And wouldn’t I have liked someone to rescue me from my ex’s tirade earlier?

“Looks like they’re right, anyway. I’ll be there alone.”

I almost groan with frustration. I’m no white knight, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling like I ought to do something, my desire for a quiet drink and my integrity pulling me in opposite directions.

“Maybe I should just get drunk and pick one of them. Get it over with.”

“You don’t strike me as stupid,” I reply, unsure why my internal organs hate the sound of that. Not my circus, not my clowns, right?

“Part of me wonders if it might put an end to their fascination.”

“It won’t.”

In answer, she gives a careless shrug.

“Why hasn’t he done anything about this—your ex—if he’s the boss now?”

“The man who slept in my bed while professing his undying love to someone else? The same man who has wheedled his way into the CEO’s family?” She gives a whiplash flick of her wrist. “You tell me.”

I dip my head as I rub my hand over my mouth. Mainly to stop myself from calling a complete stranger a string of very offensive words. “You’re better off without him.” If my frown gets any deeper, I’ll be able to offer her a seat on it. An invitation I’ll keep to myself.

“Maybe I should beat all their brains into the industrial carpeting.”

“Maybe you should.”

“You don’t think I’m too pretty for prison?”

I give in to a reluctant smile. I’ve heard it said that the crazy ones are crazy hot in bed. Not that I ...

“I’m tired of repeating that I’m not interested. That I have a boyfriend. That I’m off limits. That their jokes are old and uncalled for.”

“It’s so fucking wrong,” I put in, my tone low and angry on her behalf.

“But it’s my experience. I just don’t think that I can take things getting any worse.”

I must be soft in the head. I don’t know which is worse—that I’m contemplating giving in or the fact that I’ll have to pretend to be a ...

Gigolo?

Man whore?

Bro ho?

A male fucking escort.

Maybe worst of all, a two-time wedding guest in one day.