Page 34 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Ryan

La-di-fuckin’-da. Just look at you now. You’re no better than me.

No better than I said you’d be.

I jolt upright, dragged from my sleep like a person pulled from the deep as I press my hand to my chest and gulp mouthful after mouthful of air.

It’s still dark outside as I reach for my phone and realize it’s past seven already.

A lie-in, I think, like my heart isn’t still thundering as I use the back of my hand to brush the hair from my face.

As my panic begins to recede, I throw back the covers and swing my legs out of the bed. I thought I’d forgotten what my mother’s voice sounded like. That her accusations were no longer my problem.

Better than her. Lord, I’d like to think I’ve made better choices, but whether that makes me a better person or just more obstinate is anyone’s guess. I knew from a young age I wouldn’t be following in her footsteps. Not as long as I had breath in my body.

I’ll never be dependent on my looks or a man. I’ll never get myself so twisted up that I forget my responsibilities.

How can you forget about a child? My feet softly pad across the carpet as I head for the bathroom. How do you forget to pick her up from school? Or forget she needs to get there in the first place. How could you put your need for liquor above her tiny stomach?

I won’t ever be her, I think as I pass my suitcase on the luggage rack, both items that signify my temporary state in this place. The arms of my pink sweater hang from the case. What story do they tell? The need for a hug? A bolt for escape?

It’s too early to start analyzing myself this morning.

The sweater is a manifestation of my manic attempt at packing last night after Matt brought me home.

My temporary home. The phase that lasted less than twenty minutes and seemed to achieve nothing but piles of clothes dotted on every surface, and a few dumped to the belly of my $2,000 Rimowa suitcase.

What to take, what to leave, and how the heck did I end up owning all this stuff anyway?

I’ve only been here a matter of months. But the January sales were just too tempting.

It seemed almost rude not to treat myself to a new wardrobe to match my new life.

Nothing to do with filling the empty space in my life with shopping, right?

And not that my new clothes will do me any good in the coming months.

After, though. I become aware of a flutter of anxiety in my chest. I will return to work after this, though what I’ll be doing is anyone’s guess at this point.

Babies and trading aren’t exactly a marriage made in heaven.

I have only known women in more-senior positions who’ve made it work, but at what cost?

You take a few months out of the game, and your clients are handed off to others, which is bad for income.

For networking. For morale, and the Lord only knows what else.

It’ll be fine, I reassure myself. Something will turn up—there isn’t anything in this world I can’t do. Including raising a child by myself, if it should come to that.

I pee, brush my teeth, shower, and all that stuff, while my brain revolves around a never-ending list of unknowns I’ll be facing in the coming months. There’s the literature the doctor handed me last night—the dos and don’ts, the what-to-expects, including a bunch of stuff I hadn’t even thought of.

And then there are the practicalities of my return to New York next week.

From getting a new phone number to finding somewhere to stay, beginning with an Airbnb.

And, of course, discovering how Matt will fit into all this.

Also, if how he’s feeling right now will last. The safest thing is not to buy 100 percent into his involvement.

It wouldn’t be the first time I have been stung by a man.

Pretty sure the pattern began while I was in utero.

Out of the shower, I examine my body in the mirror. It looks exactly the same as it did yesterday. Except my boobs are a little bigger, so maybe my favorite bra didn’t shrink in the dryer.

Maybe I’ll be one of those moms-to-be with a cute bump, I consider, both hands splayed there. All round and petite like I swallowed a soccer ball. Considering the size disparity between me and my baby daddy, maybe I won’t. So maybe I’ll elect for a C-section to save my poor hoo-ha.

Something else to consider.

Or not.

It’s weird to think I’ve been undergoing changes for weeks without even realizing.

It’s also good to know that the food and water here don’t really taste weird.

It’s just that my taste buds are a little .

.. hormonal. Slipping into my fluffy white robe (another recent purchase), I consider how externally, things are pretty much the same, while internally, my world has shifted.

I make my way to the kitchen, with a detour to the bedroom to grab my phone. I find a text from Martine asking how I’m bearing up, not that she knows anything but that I no longer work for Theta. I’m beginning to text out a reply when my phone vibrates with an incoming text from Matt.

Matt : Fancy some breakfast?

Me : A girl has to eat.

I feel way too fluttery for my reply. It’s not a date, I remind myself. It’s just breakfast. With your baby daddy. The one you’ll be leaving in a few days.

Me : Don’t you ever work?

Last night, Matt was insistent on taking me home after our appointment, despite my reassurance that I’d be fine in a cab.

The standoff over, I sat in his passenger seat, holding the ultrasound image of our little bean as the radio played low in the background.

It’s the strangest feeling in the world to know I’m currently cooking a small human.

Such a lot to get my mind around. I guess he must’ve sensed that as he pulled up outside the building.

“Whatever else,” he’d said, taking my hands. “I promise you’re not alone in this.”

Which is a whole something else to get my mind around.

I have a bazillion questions about how this will work—the logistics, for one.

And his family—will he tell them? Will our little bean have involved aunts, cousins, maybe uncles?

Grandparents, even, who’ll live so far away?

Will he visit? Will he want to bring the bean back for the holidays?

Will he be there for the birth? And how long can I expect before our little bean gets a stepmom? How is it I’m already jealous of her?

My phone dings again.

Matt : I’m not saying I’m lazy, but if there was work on a bed, I’d sleep on the floor.

And then a second follows.

Matt : Now imagine that in my dulcet *Oirish* tones.

And then a third text.

Matt : In other words, there has to be some perks of being the boss, right?

I want to smile, but I won’t. The man is entirely too cute for his own good. Even when he’s being incomprehensible. Which might be another problem, if I let it go that way.

See you at 10? comes his next, and final, text.

Should I draw the line at being picked up?

I’m not his girlfriend—he shouldn’t be running around London after me.

The traffic is enough to make you want to tear out your hair from the roots.

On the other hand, I don’t think I could stomach the hot-metal-and-grease smell of the Underground this morning.

I give in to a whole-body shiver at the thought of all that stale air and the carriage rocking.

Maybe I’ll draw that line another day.