Page 35 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Matt

“You look nice.”

“Thanks.” She twists, reaching for the seat belt, though I still note the tiny pinch in her brow as she simultaneously reaches for the door handle.

“I’ve got it,” I say, making as though to close it.

“That’s okay, isn’t it? Paying you a compliment.

Telling you you look nice.” Because she does.

Whether it’s the clothes she’s wearing, the muted tones, the fabrics that seem soft and inviting right down to her woolen bobble hat, or the fact that she seems to be glowing, I don’t know.

Or maybe it’s more because I’ve been thinking about her for weeks.

Fantasizing. Wondering what if. Anyway, who knows why I feel the way that I do.

Mother Nature and the mysteries of the world.

What I do know is Ryan was the last person I thought about before I dropped off to sleep.

And that she was on my mind the instant I peeled my eyes open.

“Yeah. I guess.” Her answer is nothing if not hesitant. “You look nice too.”

“Thanks.” I grin and close the door with a solid thunk before I say or do anything stupid. Like High five! I put a baby inside you.

What the fuck is with that? Why does that make me want to preen? As if bombarding her with texts this morning wasn’t enough idiocy for one day.

“Where are we going?” she asks as I climb in and start the engine.

“For breakfast, if you can face it. You’re not sick or anything, are you?” Fucking calm down!

“I’m kind of starving and jonesing for a coffee. Decaf from here on out, I guess.”

“I know just the place.”

After a period longer than I bargained, thanks to the traffic, I pull to a stop just off Kensington High Street.

“It says ‘restricted parking.’” Ryan points to the signage. “There on a pole.”

“So it does,” I say, muting the engine anyway.

Audi before, Range Rover today. I’m not a petrolhead.

A car is to get you from A to B, as far as I’m concerned, though I do own a few of them.

One of the perks of being worth a penny or two is the ability to buy a new motor without the inconvenience or necessity of having to sell the previous one.

Anyway, I left the Audi at home in favor of something more solid, my responsibilities this morning already feeling quite profound.

I loosen my belt, and Ryan is out of the car before I can get there to help.

“I was joking about the parking tickets before,” she says, straightening her oatmeal-colored coat. “But maybe you weren’t.”

I find myself staring at her. At least it’s not raining today, because her coat doesn’t even have buttons. She is as cute as a button, though. All that dark hair flowing from under her adorable bobble hat, coat almost trailing her ankles.

“Matt?”

“Huh? What?”

“Don’t tell me.” She’s all taunt and mischievous grin as she tightens the belt on her coat. “You’re frowning because you wanted to open the car door for me.”

“Well, yeah.” But not as much as I wanted to stick my hand up your sweater to see if you have an undershirt on. For starters, at least. What the fuck is wrong with me this morning? “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of chivalry, is there?”

“What do you suppose God gave me these for?” she retorts, making jazz hands.

“Maybe for this,” I say, taking one of them and linking my fingers between hers. We set off along the road.

“So we’re holding hands now?” she says, slanting her gaze my way. And by that, I mean upward. Her boots aren’t heeled, which really emphasizes the height difference between us.

“Looks that way.” Sure, she’s only two hands higher than a duck, I hear my mother say. I can’t wait for that lot to meet her. I’ve just got one or two things to take care of first. Like getting her to stay. “And you look to be enjoyin’ it, what with your cheeks so pink.”

“Dream on,” she retorts as she tries to pull her hand from mine. Not a chance, darlin’. “It’s just cold.” She uses her free hand to adjust her hat as though to prove her point. “What? It is!”

“Give it up,” I say, flicking its baby blue pom-pom. “It’s positively balmy out.” The sun is shining, at least.

“And that’s why my breath is half ice particles?” To prove a point, she purses her lips, blowing a breath of air like a kiss.

Lucky air.

“Wait till February,” I retort. “Then you’ll know what cold really is.” The second the words are out of my mouth, I’m cursing them. Beside me, Ryan falls quiet and stares at her feet.

“It’s a nice neighborhood, isn’t it?” I try again after a minute or two.

“Let’s see if you’re still saying that when we get back and you’ve been towed.”

“Nah, not today. I’m feeling lucky.”

She glances around at the houses, a mix of redbrick and white stucco, which I’ve always thought look like old-fashioned Christmas cakes.

“Looks like a pretty pricey neighborhood,” she says, glancing at a street sign. “The Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea,” she says, eyebrows raised and a touch of hoity-toity in her voice.

“I know. Can you believe they let the likes of me walk the streets?”

“You think they don’t like nice guys around here, huh?”

“ Well mannered , not nice .”

This time, she refuses to look my way.

A few minutes later we walk under the green-and-gold canopy of a tiny hole-in-the-wall Italian bakery.

“Pastries for breakfast?” Ryan says. “Do you have a secret sweet tooth?”

“They do great coffee here,” I say in lieu of telling her the truth. That I have a hankering for the sweet saltiness of a girl called Ryan. They also have something I hope she’ll like. Something that Clodagh might like too. Maybe I’ll get her takeout and drop it off for her after school.

The bell above the door chimes as I push it open. It’s not a café, just a bakery. No tables and chairs. Not that it matters, as we have another destination.

We join the short line, Ryan like the proverbial kid in a candy store, her fingers pressed against the glass pastry case.

“What do you want?” I murmur, bending so my head is almost at her shoulder.

“A girl. I’m thinking it has to be a girl.”

I give a delighted little laugh, caught off guard by her candor. By the moment and where her thoughts are right now.

“But that’s not what you meant.” She turns her head and gives a playful roll of her eyes.

“No, but that’s a bit more important than your breakfast order. Why a girl?”

“I don’t know how boys work,” she says, turning back to the glass.

“I seem to remember differently,” I say, pressing my hand to her hip. It’s a brief touch, and she doesn’t move away from it, but maybe she doesn’t notice because of her coat.

“What can I get you?”

I glance up at the twentysomething fella in a green apron. “A cortado , please, mate. And ...”

“A cappuccino. Decaf?”

“Make them both decaf,” I say.

“Matt, you don’t have to—”

“We’re in this together.”

“You gonna give up whiskey too?”

My expression twists, conflicted.

“You don’t have to do that either,” she says, amused.

“Anything else?” the bakery bloke puts in, his tone bored.

“May I please have one of these buns filled with cream?” Ryan presses her finger to the glass.

“ Maritozzi ,” he says, more North London than Italiano.

“That’s what you’re having?” I feel my brow furrow.

“Yeah.” She glances my way questioningly.

“That’s what you want?” The words escape without thought. And Ryan’s expression? It’s not much impressed.

“You brought me to a bakery for breakfast, so don’t think you can give me a hard time for my food choices.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to tell me about the risks associated with gestational diabetes.”

“No!” I say, backpedaling quickly. “I just thought you might’ve wanted zeppole.”

“They have zeppole?” Her eyes widen, then dart to the baker. Sales assistant. Whatever.

He nods and moves down the counter, tongs hanging over a row of pretty pasties swirled with cream.

“That’s zeppole?” Her tone is doubtful.

“Yeah.” The bloke frowns and snaps his tongs: Yes or no?

“With raspberries and custard?”

“Yeah.” He still sounds bored.

“Wow, y’all’s zeppole is way fancier than the ones I’ve had before.”

“We’ll take a zeppole,” I interject with a chuckle. Y’all’s? Ryan’s not from the South. Is she?

“ Zeppola ,” he corrects, monotone. “That’s one. Zeppole is multiple.”

“Yeah, all right. Thanks for the Italian lesson.” Fuck’s sake.

You try to do something cute, and this is what you get for your troubles.

“I tell you what. Give me a half-dozen box and a couple of the pistachio pastries.” What a miserable fecker.

Me, not him. It’s not like I was expecting cartwheels, but I wanted this to go better than it has. I’m a fucking try-hard.

We move down the counter to pay and wait for our coffees. I glance down at a tug on my sleeve.

“Thank you.”

My heart lifts a good inch from its cavity. “It’s just breakfast,” I murmur, all pleased anyway.

“Not for breakfast. Thanks for remembering.”

“I don’t know if anyone has ever told you,” I say, pressing my thumb to her chin. “You’re kind of hard to forget.”