Page 42 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Ryan

Seventeen weeks, and my pants no longer fit.

Just last week—three days ago—they were fine. Then, bam! I seemed to wake up and find my external world matched my inner. Like, Hello! Pregnant lady here!

Thankfully, I can still get into a couple of pairs of my casual pants, mostly with the aid of a hair tie looped through the buttonhole, then twisted around the button.

Classy, right? But I can forget wearing the black Reiss cigarette pants I bought in the January sales.

And the wide-legged cream wool ones. For now.

Matt and I had dinner last night—one of our sanctioned conferences—so we won’t be repeating the occasion tonight. Is treating myself meanly making me less keen? The jury is out on that one.

I’m still trying to balance things. To mitigate risks.

I don’t want to make it obvious that I’m avoiding him, so I’m trying to play things cool.

I make a point of texting him most evenings to ask if he’s home, even though my stomach flips like that of Pavlov’s dog when I hear the rumble of whatever car he’s driving that day pulling into the driveway.

I might text something like Hey, what’s up? Kind of frat boy seeks booty call .

Ha! I wish. Wish it could happen without the tangle of feelings, maybe.

Those hormones, I tell ya ...

I still allow myself dinner with him two or three times a week, courtesy of Mary’s culinary skills. He’ll ask me how I’m feeling, what I’ve been up to, and I try to make my answers sound interesting, because life is pretty dang boring at the minute.

Worse than boring is my rising anxiety. I’ve never been unemployed before, not once since I began working as a teenager.

No matter what else has gone on in my life, work was once my one constant.

Something to get lost in when life outside that bubble got tough.

That I don’t have that distraction right now is . .. hard.

I try not to worry—to keep my shit together. For the sake of the bean, if nothing else. What if she feels what I feel? I read that my stress might release cortisol, which, in turn, could affect her development.

Stop. I’m doing it again. Worrying about things I can’t control.

I’m treading water, that’s all. I’ll return to the swim soon.

It’s safe to say that it’s better if we stick to the topic of Matt’s job over dinner.

I enjoy hearing about his work and his partners—I gobble that shit up.

Even if I’m still avoiding meeting them.

They sound like really good friends, as well as solid business partners.

Frankly, I’m worried what they might say about me.

They probably think I’m trying to trap him.

Fuck. I’m doing it again, allowing my mind to run wild. Since when have I begun to care about what people think again? I close my eyes and take a deep breath, slow and easy.

Fuck it, I silently intone. It’s not my business. It’s not my problem, and I’m not gonna worry about it. I allow my eyes to flutter open a moment later. It might be a poor mantra to some, but it’s always worth reminding yourself that you can’t control the actions of others.

Hell, sometimes I can’t even manage my own thoughts.

Which is why some evenings when Matt gets home, I’ll say I’ve already eaten. It’s usually crackers and cheese for dinner then, or maybe something zapped in the microwave of my tiny galley kitchen, me eating it from the carton as I stand at the countertop. Life as usual.

I do enjoy our dinners together and find Matt really enjoyable company. He’s smart and funny and irreverent, his edges a little rough. Deliciously so. Sometimes I’ll catch myself watching him eat and wonder if I’m borderline developing a fetish.

The days we don’t eat together, maybe I’ll join him after dinner, or maybe I won’t. But when I do, he’ll drink a whiskey, and I’ll pretend to enjoy a cup of tea. And I will absolutely not think about asking him for a taste of his tongue.

Ah, the memories.

Sometimes we’ll eat ice cream at the kitchen island.

A pint of Ben & Jerry’s and a couple of spoons.

Maybe the rugby (kind of like football without the right precautions) will play on the big screen at the other side of the room.

Maybe music will play in the background instead, and after an hour or so, we’ll say good night and go our separate ways.

He might go downstairs to work out or upstairs to shower.

And I go back to my temporary home and try not to think of him doing either of those things.

Try and usually fail. I’ll imagine him, his body wet, his skin gleaming.

Muscles straining, veins prominent, his cock standing proud in his hand . ..

Because those are the kind of exercises I imagine him undertaking.

But most days of the week I manage fine to keep the bulk of our contact text based, and when he asks if I’m coming up, I’ll say I’m tired, that I’m turning in early.

Or that I’m off to catch up with Martine from the office, though we’ve only done that once since my awkward parting with Theta.

I feel a little like her dirty secret, but I’ll persevere.

Gotta cultivate those future work contacts somewhere.