Page 48 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Ryan

Twenty-five weeks, and my bump no longer looks like it might be the result of a big meal.

Matt’s baby bible informs us that the bean is a big as a cucumber now, but I’m thinking this bump looks more like half a pumpkin.

And I cannot contemplate what half a pumpkin might do to my vagina, never mine a full-grown one.

I might never have sex again.

And speaking of, the day following my needy kitchen cave, I couldn’t look him in the face. Meanwhile, true to his word, Matt carried on as though everything was normal. As though my hormones weren’t responsible for turning his back massage X-rated.

In the cold light of day, alone and in my own bed, I googled my reactions, and it turns out I wasn’t losing my mind. A person can actually orgasm from a massage of the sacral region. Of course, the orgasm that followed had nothing to do with a back massage.

But I’d felt so close to Matt, and his touch was ... Well, I needed it. The connection and closeness. I needed his hot breath and whispered words. His fingers, his tongue. All that bliss.

The experience certainly hit the spot. A couple of times.

And because I’m not as good at pretending as Matt is, I brought it up. Spoke the words. Mainly to say it couldn’t happen again. And he was so casual about it—“Yeah, okay.”

His response should’ve helped, not stung, right? But ignorance is bliss, so they say.

Not that I could feign ignorance at my next clinic appointment. As I lay on the bed trying not to react to the weight of Matt’s dark gaze on me. Or remember how his tongue felt inside me.

Hot Doc Travers, as I now refer to him—though not to his face, obviously—had suggested we might learn our baby’s sex during the scheduled scan.

We declined. Matt is a fan of surprises, so he says.

Me, not so much. But discovering our baby’s sex seems like a reality I’m not quite ready for.

I’m not sure that even makes much sense.

Matt : What’s on the menu tonight?

I give in to a tiny smile. Matt’s afternoon text is right on schedule.

Me : You tell me. Mary is your chef.

Matt : Yeah, but you can probably smell it.

Me : How do you know I’m home?

Matt : Because I didn’t see you last night.

Me : And that means . . .

Matt : That means, statistically speaking, I will tonight. Not that you’re avoiding me. Or rationing our time together or anything, right?

I frown down at my phone and take the coward’s way out.

Me : Statistically? Are you a secret quantitative data gatherer?

Matt : I’ve been called worse.

Me : Does that stuff get you hot?

Danger! Danger! I need to rewind time, because my fingers were too quick for my brain!

Matt : I think you know what gets me hot, Ryan.

Me : Yes, but we agreed not to speak about it.

Matt : And I know what gets you hot.

Me : Matt, we can’t have this conversation.

Not when it already has me hot under the waistband. Not that I have a waist currently.

Matt : You started it.

Me : And you’re riding too much into it.

Me : Reading—you’re reading too much into the conversation, I mean.

Riding was something I dreamed of last night. And not a horse in sight. Matt is hung—

Stop.

I guess it’s safe to say our little dalliance last month didn’t really help my hormones any.

Matt : But am I? I don’t really think so.

My heart gives a little pinch. I was hoping he didn’t care either way.

No, that’s not true. I was hoping he wouldn’t notice.

Okay, so that’s a lie too.

I know he’s not dumb, but I was mostly hoping he wouldn’t call me out. Rationing our time together. That’s exactly what I’ve been doing.

Matt : By the way, my parents are coming to visit next month. I hope that’s okay.

Is it strange that I love that Matt texts in whole words? I like a lot about him, and I know he likes me too. And the time we spend together is companionable. Mostly. Mostly if I ignore my back-massage hiccup.

I tell myself we’re friends, that our chemistry is natural, given our brief but very real past. But that it’s not something we needed to act on.

Again. Except, sometimes I see the way he looks at me and I get butterflies deep down inside.

But it’s more than just a physical attraction, because the way I like him as a person, a human, a man, feels bone deep.

Me : It’s your house.

Matt : And it’s your home. Plus, they’re not coming to visit me. Not really.

Me : They know our situation, right?

Matt : I told them. I’m not sure it makes much sense to them, but when they’re here, it will.

I’m not sure it makes much sense to me sometimes. It makes brain-based sense, at least. The heart and the libido are other matters entirely.

Matt : I did wonder how long it would take the aul wan to check her message bank.

Me : The aul what?

Matt : Aul wan is how we refer to our mother in the Irish vernacular.

Me : Old one, I’m guessing?

Matt : You guessed right.

Me : I also guess you don’t call your mother that to her face.

Matt : I would never say such a thing in her hearing. Not without expecting a slap around the ear.

Me : You’re never too big for one of those.

Matt : Never too big and never too old, apparently. Also, I told my siblings about us.

Us. So many thoughts and feelings and meanings in that tiny word. So much confusion. Opportunity. Temptation.

Me : How did that go?

Matt : Fine. Nothing to report. I expect we won’t see them until after the baby is born.

Me : Okay.

Matt : Seb has uni, supposedly. It’s the middle of the football season for Hugo. And the twins, Lucía and Lola, are currently working their way around Australia.

Me : You didn’t tell me they were twins. Wow, biological bullet dodged!

Matt : Our hypothetical twins would be nothing like those hellions. But the longer that lot stay away, the better. They’re like a swarm of locusts. They fly in. Consume all the beer and food in the house, and piss off again before you know where you are.

Me : Your siblings or your mom and dad?

Matt : Ryan made a funny.

Me : Hey, so, what do you call your dad?

Matt : Antonio, when he’s not listening. Otherwise, aul fella. The pair is also referred to as ma and da. And collectively as the aul wans.

Me : Just so you know, this child will not be referring to me as an aul wan or ma. Maaaaaaaa! Sounds like a sheep.

Matt : We’ll be Mammy & Daddy? Or Mommy in your speak.

That sounds so weird. And also kind of nice.

Matt : Anyway, I’ve told Letty she can unmuzzle Clo now.

Me : I do hope you meant that metaphorically.

Two minutes later my phone buzzes again.

Matt : Cats or dogs?

Me : For dinner?

Matt : Ryan made another funnee.

Me : I’m here all week!

Matt : I was hoping to keep you much longer than that.

My heart gives a little pinch.

Matt : So which one?

Me : I’ve never owned a pet.

I should’ve just chosen one. There was no need to admit that.

Matt : Not even a goldfish?

Me : Oh, yeah. I had a fish once. I got him at a county fair when I was 12.

Matt : What was his name?

Me : David Swimmer.

Matt : Ah, a preteen Friends fan.

Me : Reruns were always available.

Matt : So not a cat or dog person but a fishy friend.

Me : I can’t really say. He only lived a handful of hours.

Hell, why is all this stuff coming up now?

Matt : Fairground fish aren’t destined for longevity, sadly.

Not with the stepfather I had at the time. Stepfather of the month, probably, though it sometimes seemed as though they were only around a matter of days.

My mother bitched about a fish needing a fishbowl and where the hell was I gonna get one of those.

I put him in a plastic dish and said I’d figure it out tomorrow.

I’d probably go into town, to the dollar store.

They’d have something there. Maybe I’d even wait until the afternoon, when she was sometimes in a better mood.

Mornings were rough for her, coming down from last night’s liquor and the fighting with the boyfriend du jour.

By afternoon, she would be well on her way again, but there was often a short period between hungover and drunk where she was more amenable. Or less mean, at least.

Not that I got to test that theory after the asshole boyfriend sneaked into my room that night, claiming he just wanted to help. We were friends, weren’t we? He said he’d give me some money to solve my little problem. No doubt if I helped him with his.

I told him to get out—that if he didn’t leave right now , I’d scream so loud they’d hear me in the next county. I also told him I slept with a knife and that I wasn’t afraid to use it. By that age, I was well versed in fighting talk.

His revenge was to make my goldfish disappear overnight and said if I told anyone about our “little conversation,” I’d be the next one to vanish.

It’s weird how sad I was about that damn fish for months.

Also weird is how I’ve never thought of that night in years. It’s not really a story worth recounting. I haven’t before. I’m not about to do so now as I send my last text of the exchange.

Me : It was nice while it lasted.

I wonder if Matt will say the same, looking back on this experience. I’d like to think he’ll have fonder memories of me than I have of my fish.