Page 45 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Ryan

I can’t sleep.

It’s not the pregnancy. Not the physicality of it, at least. But maybe the emotional realities. The fact that I barely coped looking after Clodagh for an hour. Maybe I should take some parenting classes along with those cooking classes I have yet to book.

Most of the stuff I’ve read seems to make it sound like motherhood is instinctual. I just hope that instinct will kick in, because I feel so out of my element right now. But maybe I should cut myself a little slack and remember this is, in fact, my first rodeo.

I didn’t know my father, and my mother was a mess.

My upbringing was chaotic. Toxic. I felt powerless, and I was often scared.

But I knew the world had other plans for me.

Be it God, or the universe, or some other deity, I had certainty.

I just knew I wasn’t going to perpetuate the cycle, that I was going somewhere.

I’d grow up, get smart, make money, become happy. Be safe. And never look back again.

I did that—I did all that. I did the work, studied hard, and found my place in the world.

But now I’m rudderless. Out of my depth.

And if I let my mind dwell, it becomes a scary place.

My job was such a big part of my life, and it feels a little like, well, maybe I don’t know who I truly am without it.

Ryan the mom-to-be isn’t Ryan the killer queen. As much as I hate the moniker because of how it speaks to the past—a past that no one but me knows about—I do wish I felt a little more like that girl. Kicking ass and taking names, not caring for anything but success.

Instead, as I stand in Matt’s kitchen, the cabinet lights the only illumination in the room, I feel truly lost.

I’m in the big kitchen because I’ve run out of the tea I once pretended to like but now actually enjoy.

There’s something soothing about the preparation of tea, a kind of mindfulness in the boiling of water and the waiting for the tea leaves to steep.

Steep, not brew. I’ve already been schooled there.

And then there’s the drink itself, which I find now to be like a warm cup of comfort.

As I wait for the leaves to infuse, I pull myself up onto a stool and open the stock-trading app I recently installed on my phone. Time to redirect my thoughts and channel a little positivity into this evening. Hormones. It has to be.

It’s been years since I’ve dabbled in the market privately. Working for a hedge fund pretty much exempts you from doing so, and I was never interested in putting my job on the line. Instead, I invested in the employee fund, which, while lucrative, wasn’t as much fun. Or as personal.

Hedge funds trade on loans and lines of credit.

Meanwhile, I’m playing with my own savings.

So I’m playing conservatively but using the same parameters as I watch the market for specific events, things that might influence the price of stocks or derivatives.

Affect the price either way. Whatever your poison is, the name of the game is to get out at the optimal time.

The optimal time for profit. And so far, I’m doing pretty well.

Haven’t lost my touch, I’m thinking, allowing that small win to soak in, when an email notification flashes up on the screen. My stomach flips as I realize it’s from a business contact back in New York.

Dear Miss Hoffman . . .

Weird, considering he and I have shared many a lunch together.

Thank you for your recent email ... blah, blah, blah ... currently aren’t in need of advisory services in any capacity, nor will we be in the future.

What the hell? That’s not what my email suggested. Hinted at, maybe. I basically just asked if he had time for a call. The asshole was willing to listen to my advice before! What’s with the formal language and the curt brush-off?

Mother . . . fucker .

As I set down my phone, I find the sting is more than just in my cheeks.

The rejection burns, maybe because it’s from someone I thought was .

.. not a friend, exactly. A friendly contact.

But also because this isn’t the only rejection I’ve had since I sent out a bunch of speculative emails, looking for work.

True, most of those rejections have come in the form of silence.

Which I tried to sell myself as something other than outright rejection.

What the hell is going on? Maybe news travels continents, and that’s why I’m running into walls. Maybe they know I got fired. Or that I’m pregnant.

What is my life right now? I can’t manage a five-year-old, and I can’t get anyone to answer a call or reply to an email. It’s like my identity is slipping from my grip.

Something catches the corner of my gaze. There, on the countertop, lies my gift from Letty. Baby’s First Year .

I feel ... in need of something—a distraction—as I draw the book closer and lift the cover.

I turn the pages, losing myself in the cute illustrations, each page a place to record our child’s milestones.

Until I’m struck by the realization that no one recorded my history.

The arrival of my first tooth. My first tentative steps.

My first word. I hardly remember ever receiving a kind word, let alone having someone take a photograph.

There were probably photographs, but I took nothing when I left home.

I didn’t want the reminder. Like she didn’t want me.

“ Think you’re so goddamn clever. ”

“ All you’ll ever be is a hole for a man to fuck. ”

Those were her parting sentiments.

Projecting, Mama? Oh, how you loathed your little girl.

But this book. These people—Matt, Letty, Clo. There is so much love. My experience won’t be hers, because this baby will be watched with awe. She’ll be encouraged, cherished. And oh, what a life she’ll have, I think, my heart aching with this gladness. And still a little sadness.

Matt spoke of foundations, and I’m beginning to see what he meant. The heights she will reach standing on the shoulders of that man.

My heart skips as I hear soft, padding footsteps and look over my shoulder to find Matt coming toward me, dressed for bed. A pair of checkered pajama pants barely hangs on to his hips, the fingers of his right hand curled around a book.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were in here.”

I make a careless gesture—he shouldn’t apologize—as I turn back to the book, dropping the end of my braid as though it’s burning.

It’s an old childhood habit, brushing my lips with the end.

“It’s your kitchen.” It’s your world. I’m just living in it for a little while.

I flick my gaze back his way, unable to resist a second look.

His half-nakedness makes my blood feel part lava, part champagne because he’s all hollows and dips in this low light.

“I was hungry,” he says, answering a question unspoken.

“Aren’t you always?”

“You know how it goes,” he says. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

“It’s not dark. It’s comforting.”

“And why are we whispering?” His shadow falls over me as he places his book down. The Expectant Dad’s Handbook. He said it was a gift from Fin.

“Because it’s nighttime.” And a good thing too, as my nipples draw tight under the cotton of my nightdress. I shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t be here. Whispering and ready for bed in all kinds of ways.

Why does my breathing sound so loud?

“What are you looking at?” he asks, leaning over my shoulder.

“The gift Letty brought earlier. It was so kind of her.”

“She owes you more than that after Clo—”

“She owes me nothing,” I say as I angle my head his way. A mistake, as I watch him reach back to rub the nape of his neck. The flash of dark hair under his arm shouldn’t twist my insides. The pop of his bicep, the muscle and sinew flexing in his chest, I’ll forgive myself for, at least.

“What do you think our baby’s first word will be?”

“I don’t know,” I say with a low chuckle. “But something tells me you’re about to say daddy .”

“Daddy,” he repeats. “Mind blowing, right?” When his gaze catches mine, his pleasure just shines.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “And look at these.” I reach for one of the tiny white cotton rosebuds from the box. “They’re socks.” I press my finger under one, unfurling the bud to reveal that truth. “Look how small they are,” I say, my demand awe filled.

“And they’ll probably be too big. Initially, at least.”

“You think?” I watch his face, wondering if he’s teasing me.

“When Clo was born, I could fit her whole body on my forearm.” He moves to demonstrate, his hand cradling an invisible head.

I have two very different thoughts, seeing that.

One, it’s good that one of us has held a baby before.

Two, my God, I can’t wait to see Matt bare chested and cradling our babe.

“Oh!” I make a wholly involuntary noise as I suffer a sudden twinge in my back and arch from the stool, trying to relieve the tension.

“Put your hands on the counter.”

Feelings riot through me at the command, need crawling through my insides like kudzu. “It’s just—”

“Your back is sore. Let me give it a bit of a rub.”

“There’s no need.” I shake my head, even as every fiber of me yearns to do as he says. “It was just a little twinge.”

“It might do some good. It helped Letty when she was carrying Clo.”

When he puts it like that, it sounds so normal. So unsexual. So why are my nipples as hard as doorknobs?

“I promise, no funny business.”

“That’s not ...” Come on, idiot. Matt is nothing if not a gentleman.

Except when he’s not. A time I remember fondly.

And often. But this is a dangerous game I’m playing, my head and my libido at odds.

Maybe this is what happens when you’re touch starved.

And feeling a little bruised. A little vulnerable.

“Ryan?”

“Okay.” I give a vigorous nod to seal the unsexy deal. Because this means something different to him.

“Yeah?”