Page 4 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Matt

Apparently, I am soft in the head.

Not only am I about to suffer through my second wedding reception of the day, but I’ll also be pretending to be an escort who’s pretending to be a boyfriend.

What a head fuck.

As I reluctantly capitulated, Ryan, according to her belated introduction—and spelled the boys’ way, so she said—thrust her hand into mine and said she’d be eternally grateful for my help. It was strange how her tears seemed to almost evaporate.

After draining the last of my pint, I helped her into her coat, and we left the bar together. Much to the amusement of the barman, who seemed to think he’d just witnessed a lovers’ tiff.

Meanwhile, I couldn’t help but feel a little played, what with the flirting attempts and her tears.

The tears were bad enough. Those big solemn eyes.

And the flirting was cute, though a little desperate.

But it was the genuine edge of her distress as she spoke of her ex and her so-called colleagues that changed my mind.

No matter what my head told me, I couldn’t ignore it.

So I can make peace with what I’m doing and why I’m doing it.

But what I can’t get my head around is how I said yes to attending another feckin’ wedding.

I’d almost rather she did want to stick the points of her heels in my ball sack.

At least her company will be more fun than what I had planned, which was probably introspection and an evening drinking myself morose.

In fact, just walking down the street with her is more fun than what I’d planned.

The waft of her floral perfume, the tap of her heels.

The brush of her arm and the gentle sway of her hips.

The beauty in spontaneity.

It turns out, Fin might be right.

Fucking Fin, I think less charitably. He can shove the rest of his advice where the sun doesn’t shine—shove it right up there along with his beaded bracelets, which, if I know him, he’d use as anal beads.

“Something funny?”

“Nothing.” Nothing other than the fact I’m allowing a woman small enough to put in a mail sack to herd me down the street. Not that I have a mail sack on hand, but I could outrun her if I had half a mind. The length of her legs ... the height of her heels.

Maybe that’s why I’m still here. For those legs and those heels.

I examine the thought. It’s a possibility.

“ If I’d hired an escort, at least I might get fucked at the end of the night. ”

Her words pique my curiosity.

Not that I expect . . .

Not as though I’d say no either. I’m not that nice.

“Now you seem deep in thought,” she says, her amused gaze darting my way.

“Deep?” I kind of scoff because my thoughts are very shallow.

“Wanna share with the class?”

“Not really.” Fuck, she is lovely. I clear my throat and school my features. I said I’d help, so I will. Pot committed, in poker terms. This is a good decision, even if the situation is a bit fucked.

“I get it, Mr. Mysterious.”

“No,” I reply. I might not be her white knight, but I’m not a complete twat either. But that’s not to say I can’t have a little fun with this.

“No?” she repeats, her expression turning quizzical.

“No, you don’t get it. Not for free, at least.”

“Wow!” She gives an embarrassed-sounding chuckle as her gaze dips, her lashes like the dark sweep of an angel’s wing. If I believed in angels, I reckon they’d look a bit like her. Petite, curvy, and with more than a bit of heaven in the sway of the arse.

“Where’d you say this wedding was?” I ask as we turn into the evening hustle of Lexington.

“It’s at the Pierre.”

So I’m pretty much backtracking to the Plaza. It’ll be fun if I bump into anyone from that wedding. Maybe I’ll just tell them I’m really into wedding cake.

“You can let go of my arm.” I angle my attention her way. “I won’t run off.”

She gives a soft laugh as she glances at me from under her lashes. “Maybe I’m not willing to take that chance. Especially as it took so much persuasion to get you here.”

“Some would say ‘persuasion.’” Others emotional blackmail.

“Besides, these shoes are kind of high,” she says, glancing down at the pointed toes of her green satin heels.

Like a fool, I do too. Dainty ankles and tiny feet. They’d look so fucking good resting against my—

“Vanity, thy name is woman.” She releases a soft sigh. “And the devil, well, he must be Jimmy Choo.”

I think the devil must be sitting in my brain if the image of those dainty ankles propped on my shoulders is any indication. “We could catch a cab, if you like,” I offer, engaging a mental modesty shield. For her benefit.

“You’re very sweet.”

She wouldn’t say that if she could see the images running through my head. Not that they mean anything. She’s an attractive woman and I’m a straight, red-blooded male, that’s all. A red-blooded male who has allowed her to think I sell sex for a living.

Fucking hell.

“It’s all part of the service.” How easily the words fall from my mouth. I should stick to them, stick to the story. Like I said to Fin earlier, nothing good comes out of a one-night stand. Except the obvious, which is fun but short lived. “Who’s Ava?” I ask, thinking of earlier.

“My neighbor. I kind of ran my idea by her, mainly because she has a younger brother and—”

“Carl?”

She grimaces. “Turns out her brother is only a kid. In my defense, he looks way older than seventeen.”

“ Oh. ” I draw the sound out. “Corrupting youth?”

“Not if I can help it. Anyway, Ava suggested Carl. They work out of the same center.”

“Do people actually cuddle for a living?” Sounds a bit far fetched.

“It’s just a side gig for Ava. She teaches yoga mainly, but that doesn’t mean she’s not militant about the benefits of cuddling. Touch is a basic human need, according to her. Forgoing it is all kinds of bad for a person’s physical, mental, and emotional health.”

“Right.” Sounds like money for old rope, if you ask me.

“I guess not everyone has someone to hold them,” she continues, “but what I can’t get my mind around is that the sessions are sixty minutes. Who wants to be held for an hour? I don’t even want to have sex for an hour.”

I laugh. At least until I realize she’s not joking. Someone hasn’t been living up to their potential.

“Don’t tell me,” she deadpans. “Your clients expect bang for their buck.”

Literally, I would imagine. Not that I’m about to explain what the women I sleep with can expect from me, imaginary clients or otherwise.

I sense her studying me a second before she says, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Can’t stop you.” I can, however, opt not to answer. Or opt to stretch the truth a bit more. I haven’t outright lied to her. It’s more that she assumed. And that I haven’t put her right.

This is so gonna come back to bite me in the arse.

“You said you’d been to your ex’s wedding earlier. I suppose I’ve been wondering if she minded what you do for a living.”

“I have a rule.” I have a motto. Why not a rule?

I scuff the soles of my shoes against the sidewalk for a step or two, stalling as I try to formulate said rule.

“I don’t talk about my private life. Not when I’m with a date.

” I sound like such a wanker. What woman would be interested in that level of bullshit?

“I could argue we’re not on a date.”

“And I would contend that, right now, you need me to be someone other than myself. So my private life remains just that.”

“But if I met you in Starbucks tomorrow, say?”

“Then someone hit me on the head and dragged me in there. Starbucks is all that’s wrong in the world.”

“It’s just coffee.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“It’s a hypothetical.”

We fall quiet, though she turns her head, anticipating more, as I inhale.

“I will say we parted on good terms.” Not a lie, because I thought we did.

“That must be nice. Not wanting to murder the person you used to love.”

I make a noncommittal noise in lieu of an answer. I can’t say I ever loved her, but I liked her enough to go to her wedding. Liked, past tense.

“You’re a nice guy. For doing this, I mean. But I’ve still got to pay you.”

I glance sharply her way.

“You just said this is a date, which I guess is a euphemism for a booking ,” she says, lowering her voice as a group of twentysomethings passes the other way.

“Are you saying you’d like to make a booking?” My tone is low and suggestive as the devil takes hold of my tongue.

“Yeah. Yes. I mean, not like that .” Her cheeks turn so adorably pink. “I want to pay you, but not for—”

“Fringe benefits?” The horror on her face as I draw out that first sound. How I manage not to crack up with laughter, I have no feckin’ idea.

“Exactly. Those. That.” Her pitch climbs adorably with each word, making her sound Southern for some reason. “What I mean is, I should pay you for your time.”

“Thanks, but this one’s on me.” I wish, I think absurdly. “On the house.” Instead of my fingers, my cock, and my face.

“That’s not right. I make good money. I paid Cuddle Carl—I can afford to pay you.”

“Except I’m not the kind of man you can hire for a couple hours.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.” She nods, embarrassed. And that makes me feel a little bit shit. “So how long is your—”

Wanna suck it and see? Thankfully, the ’80s porn star voice and stupidity stay in my head.

“—usual appointment time?” she asks, oblivious to where my imagination has taken this. Taken us.

“That all depends on the circumstances. Not that it matters on this occasion.”

“I’m not a charity case,” she snaps. “Come on. How much is the boyfriend experience?”

The boyfriend experience, Jaysus. What alternative universe is this?

“Why, are you interested?” I ask smoothly instead. Which is better than asking if that’s with or without socks littering the bedroom floor, I suppose.

“I guess I can see the attraction.” With the deft sidestep, her gaze briefly slides over me.

“Aside from the obvious?” I find I quite like being objectified. By Ryan, at least.

“I mean, it’s like you said earlier. All the benefits and none of the bullshit.”