Page 40 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

“Which is kind of how Ryan feels about it,” I admit. “She’s been pretty stoic about the whole thing. Me, not so much. Especially as they’d booked her on a flight back to JFK today.”

“Fuck,” Fin mutters. “So that’s why ...”

“She’s staying with me? Part of the reason. She’s gonna pay me rent,” I say with a dark chuckle.

“Ah.” Fin gives a sly yet understanding grin. “It’s like that, is it?”

“Well, I don’t have a private island.” I give a shrug, and Fin’s grin widens. The tale of his and Mila’s marriage had its own obstacles. “I just need time and a little space to win her over.”

“From gigolo to baby daddy.” Fin sounds fucking tickled.

“From one-night stand to forever.” Because that’s what I’m aiming for.

Following our monthly meeting, I call in at one of our projects in East London, where I’ve agreed to meet the head quantity surveyor. I could ask her to meet me at our offices, or even her office in Canary Wharf, but I like to see how things are progressing with my own eyes.

The project, an urban regeneration, will include a shopping mall, businesses, and youth centers. It’ll be a huge bonus to the area, and I’m happy to see the foundations have been constructed. I know Mila will be too, given this is her old stomping ground.

After the East End, I make my way back across the city, mentally planning an impromptu visit to Theta Investments sometime in the not-too-distant future.

My plan is to ambush one of the big nobs and discover the real reason for canning Ryan.

Even if she’s telling herself she’s not interested in the reason she was fired, I’m sure she will be at some point.

And I’m more than a bit curious myself. As well as suspicious, because when I think back to those turds in tuxedos at the Pierre, and replay the things their ringleader, the head ball bag, bleated in the jacks, it’s hard to believe she was fired for anything performance related.

Those bollixes seemed almost deferential around her.

It was a weird kind of respect. With the exception of the ball bag, of course.

He was just jealous. And deluded. Which I put down to brain shrinkage from all the happy dust he probably shoved up his nose.

Who the fuck thinks having sex with a successful woman will make you successful?

Stuck in traffic now, I roll my shoulders and rotate my neck. Just thinking about those bastards makes me want to book a flight to New York to break a few noses.

As for Ryan, trading is a precarious business at the best of times.

No less so as part of a hedge fund. It’s a common phenomenon that when the P&L edges toward the red, heads begin to roll.

But I can’t see that being the case here, not after they went to the expense of recruiting and relocating her.

So yeah, I’m curious. She will be too. She’s just got a lot on her plate right now.

“Dial Ma,” I announce on a whim, and the car’s Bluetooth does just that.

I suppose I better get it over with. Tick another one off my list.

I wonder who Ryan has on her list. She must have people, right? How strange must it feel, being alone in the world. Well, she isn’t now.

As usual, Ma doesn’t pick up. She’s a bit of a gadabout, is old Catherine. Sixty-seven years and the doyenne of the Irish Countrywomen’s Association’s local guild. If there’s money to be raised, she’s doing it. Shit to be learned, she’s adding it to her skill set.

She takes on the arrangements for the Christmas party at the old folks’ home, the Easter parade and egg hunt for the local kids. She bakes lemon cakes made with olive oil for fundraisers and knits tiny cardigans for the premature babes in the neonatal unit.

Tuesday is for bridge, Wednesday is her knitting circle, and if you call into her home on Saturday afternoon, expect to be served aperitivo no matter who you are.

Marinated olives, jamón ibérico , and Manchego cheese.

Maybe patatas bravas , and a glass of dry cava or a bitter-tasting afternoon cocktail.

She lives a full life, and that’s without the fair chunk of time her and the old fella spend in Spain, where my ninety-six-year-old abuelo is still kicking about.

“Ma, it’s me,” I begin as the phone connects with her message bank.

“Just checking in. I also wanted to ask what your plans were for July. Specifically around the eighteenth. D’you fancy coming over to London for a few days?

I need someone to watch the cat while I’m in hospital watching your new grandbaby be born.

Anyway, let me know if you’re free. And no, I haven’t gotten a cat.

But I have just gotten someone pregnant. Ciao!”

I chuckle to myself as I end the call. She’s rubbish at checking her messages, so feck knows when she’ll hear it. But I’ll know the minute she does.

“Call mi mujer ,” I say next. My woman. She just doesn’t know it yet.

“Hey.” Ryan answers on the third ring.

“Hey yourself.” I can’t help the smile that seeps through my words. “How’s it going?”

“The unpacking? Pretty much all done.”

“Well, don’t overdo it.”

“It’s just some clothes,” she says with a soft laugh.

“Some?” For someone who’s only been here a matter of weeks, she has enough clothes to open her own shop.

“Yeah, okay. Lots. But what was I gonna do? The postholiday sales were too much to resist!”

“Hey, it’s your life. I’m just enjoying being in it.”

“Speaking of being in my life, I still need your bank details.”

A threat? “I’ll get them to you eventually. When I’ve got a minute,” I add, so as not to sound too flippant.

“Matt.” She gives my name a warning tone.

“There’s no great hurry.”

“Maybe not for you. I like to pay my way.”

“And you will,” I say insincerely. “Or you could just keep it—cut out the middleman. I’m only gonna put it into an account for the baby.”

“And that’s your choice. But I will be paying you rent.” By her tone I can tell she’s trying not to get annoyed. “And while we’re on the topic, I think you should have some paperwork drawn up by your lawyer. I want to reassure you and your family that I’m not out to steal your money.”

“My family would be over the moon if they thought you were. They’re always telling me I have too much of the stuff.”

“Matt,” she growls.

In my mind’s eye, I see her hands balled into fists. My angry little Chihuahua, not that I’d ever say so. I like my balls where they are, thank you very much.

“If you don’t get the details to me soon, it means I’ll have to visit the bank and withdraw cash.

And that would be a pain in the ass. You really don’t want to put me through that inconvenience, do you?

Braving the Tube and the cold weather, and not to mention the dangers of carrying cash through the city. ”

“Feck’s sake,” I mutter. “I’m still trying to recover from the last envelope of cash you left for me.

” A light chuckle sounds down the line. She knows she’s got me.

“You love to play dirty,” I mutter, my mind instantly bending to the first time I accused her of that.

Kissing on the dance floor. Lips soft and eyes full of promise.

Dirty to follow later.

“And like I said before, I prefer the term creative competitor .”

Her answer is all business and zero teasing. My disappointment feels distinct.

“It would be easier to write you a check, but the bank didn’t give me a checkbook when I registered my account.”

“Checking accounts are pretty old school.”

“Pretty convenient if you ask me. Look, just send me the details, or I might just end up buying more clothes.”

“You might need to yet. Muumuus, I reckon.”

“This baby better not be a giant, or I will never forgive you.”

“What? It’s not my fault I come from good country stock!”

“I swear, if I need a vagina reconstruction after this, you’re paying for it.”

“Okay.”

“What?” The word bounds from her mouth.

“If that’s what you want, but I think it’s only fair I should keep an eye on your vagina as part of the proceedings. What’s with the gasp? You said vagina first.”

“It’s not your use of the word!”

“It can’t be my perfectly respectable offer.”

“You think?” Hearing her laugh is such good medicine.

“I’d just check in. Periodically. Or maybe a daily debriefing might be better. You know, seeing as you’re concerned about it.”

“I didn’t say I was concerned, but I might be now.”

“I think it’s good idea, keepin’ an eye on your undercarriage.” Ah, fuck. I almost slap myself. Talk about unsexy.

“I’m not a car! Also, I don’t remember reading any of those suggestions in the literature from the clinic. Surely the doctor would’ve mentioned something like that, don’t you think?”

“I’m not sold on that doctor,” I say. Grumble. Bitch?

“I thought you said he was the most sought-after obstetrician in Europe—that he delivers all the royal babies.”

“So I was told.” He does come highly recommended. “There was something not quite right about him. Something off.”

“If by off you mean gorgeous , then yeah. Agreed.”

“You noticed that.”

“Hard not to. But I would never date a doctor. The God complex does nothing for me.”

“Right. Well ...” This is fun. Not. She’s treating me more like a fucking girlfriend.

“Was there anything else?”

“Yeah, I called to say I’ll be home about seven. I thought I could bring us some dinner. Anything you fancy? Thai? Mexican? Ethiopian?”

“I’m good, thanks. I’m kind of beat. I’m gonna take a shower and turn in early. See you tomorrow maybe?”

“Sure.” My spirits immediately sink.

“And don’t forget to send me your bank deets, okay?”

“ Yeah, all right ,” I say in a tone I’ve heard my father use when worn down by my mother. “Wait—don’t hang up.”

“What?”

“Steak or sushi?”

“I just said I—besides, I can’t eat sushi.” Her excuses fall quickly, her tone slightly panicked. And I don’t think I’m imagining it.

“On July nineteenth, which would you pick?”

“Why?”

“Play along,” I say. Cajole. “Gotta make the most of my opportunities in getting to know you.” I’m a patient man, Ryan. But feck knows you’re taking every opportunity to hold me at arm’s length.

“I somehow don’t think little bean is going to take me for steak or sushi on my birthday,” she says, hearkening back to our earlier conversation. But I hear the relief in her tone.

“Of course he will. Matt Junior is a gentleman.”

“Sushi,” she answers.

“Good to know. Now I’ll have an answer to his question, when he inevitably asks.”

“What about you?”

“Steak or sushi?”

“Yeah.”

“The caveman in me says steak all the way. Sushi is all well and good, but I’m a growing lad.” Growing dafter, my mother would probably say if she could hear me. “Sushi feels more like a snack.”

“A snack?” The upward inflection to her voice is curious. “I bet you’re looking like a snack right now.”

“I’m not always hungry,” I retort a touch defensively.

She’s laughing as she hangs up, which makes me wonder what I’ve missed.