Page 5 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

And there goes my ego, farting through the air like a burst balloon.

“His bullshit?” The ex’s?

“Relationship bullshit. Infatuation. The rush. The relationship,” she says, making an upward motion of her hand. “Big love,” she adds as it levels out. Then a downward curve. “Rejection. Confusion. Breakup. Heartache.”

“When you put it that way.” Why do we bother—any of us? But then I think of Fin and Oliver and how love has completely turned their lives around. How their priorities have changed to include the happiness of another and how that seems to make them happier in turn. “But you missed some stuff.”

She gives an adorable scrunch of her nose. “Sex? I don’t miss having sex. Besides, I can meet my own needs. When necessary.”

Now that is something I’d pay to see. Preferably sitting very close, breathing in the heat from her skin. “I meant laughter and fun. Respect. Good times. Mutual pleasures?”

“Not worth the risk,” she says, her words barely audible.

“Right.” That fucker really did a number on her. “You said I was nice,” I say, rerouting the conversation. “So let me be exactly that tonight. Let me do this for you. Let me fawn all over you like Cupid shot me a good one.”

“Why?” She sounds genuinely confused.

“For the narrative. In support of the lies you’ve had to tell. And on behalf of decent men everywhere. We’re not all arseholes, you know.”

“I know,” she retorts unconvincingly.

“And maybe because I’m also in the mood to crack a few heads.”

She laughs. I don’t join in.

“It’s just a pack-mentality thing,” she says, her fingers shifting on my arm.

“Law of the jungle? You don’t really believe that.”

“Look, I just know what happens to the gazelle outside the pack. She gets looked on as lame.”

“You must really like your job.”

“Yeah, I do. Do you enjoy yours?” she demands.

“I’m having fun now.”

“Well, that’s good, but I don’t need the macho kind of help. I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and I have plans. I want to make a name for myself, but not that kind of name. So bring on Cupid, but leave the tough stuff to me. Please.” The latter seems like an afterthought.

“Fine.” We fall quiet for a beat before I find myself saying, “I don’t know how you can stand it. An afternoon in the company of my ex was enough for me.”

“I thought you parted on good terms.”

“Doesn’t mean we were meant to be best friends.”

She gives a heavy-sounding sigh. “I hear that. Why do we make life so complicated?”

Doesn’t have to be, the devil suggests. I could make it so easy. So easy.

“Working with your ex must be a nightmare.”

“It has its perks, especially as I’m his dirty little secret.” She slides me a speaking glance. “And I don’t hate seeing the fear on his face when I coast a little close to the C-suite offices.”

“No?” I say with a chuckle.

“Oh, how his flat butt must pucker.”

“There’s a thought I’d like to bleach from my brain. Ex or not, he must be a massive fucknut if he’s not doing anything to stop what’s going on. It’s harassment, plain and simple.”

She makes a careless gesture before her grip tightens on my arm. “Next time, I’ll find somewhere that isn’t run by dinosaurs.”

But her attitude is suspiciously blasé, I decide, as we fall quiet again.

A car honks at a set of lights, and a group of squealing girls piles out of an Uber as, across the street, a guy in hot pants and a sequined T-shirt belts out a song from West Side Story .

“He feels pretty, and I feel pretty awful for bringing you into this. But honestly, I don’t need your protection,” she repeats. “I fight my own battles.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I say with a rueful chuckle. The way she accosted me, then hammered me, thinking I was Cuddle Carl. How she pivoted and hung on—come hell or high water, she wasn’t giving up her plan. She’s got buckets of pluck, and I like that about her.

Like not only that about her.

“Good, because it’s true.”

“Back in the pub,” I begin, “when you found out I wasn’t Cuddle Carl, I could’ve been anyone. I might be anyone—a murderer for all you know.”

“Do you know what makes a good trader?”

“The ability to make money, I imagine.”

“And how we do that is through instinct. I have excellent instincts.” Twin flames of determination flare in her gaze. “So no, I didn’t choose just anyone. In fact, the point that you are who you are—that you do what you do—kind of proves my point, don’t you think?”

“Chosen,” I repeat flatly. “I feel special.”

“Oh so special?”

“Careful, or you’ll have me borrowing that fella’s sparkly T-shirt.”

“You’re already pretty.”

“Thanks,” I say with a gruff chuckle.

“But a murderer?” She makes a dismissive gesture. “I could see you as a hit man.” Her amused gaze slides my way again, slides over me. Neck. Chest. But not quite brazen enough to dip lower. “An assassin, maybe.”

“I’m more like the victim.” I send her a pointed look, which she’s careful to miss.

“A spy with that James Bond swag.”

I give a soft snort, thinking back to what Fin said. “When you think about it, Bond can’t be much of a spy when he introduces himself to the bad guys at every opportunity.”

“You’d be like him.”

“An idiot?”

“The kind of assassin who only kills bad guys.”

“If you say so.” She’s so willfully oblivious, I’m impressed.

“You’ve got the look.” Her next glance my way bears an edge of coquetry. “Tall, dark, and mysterious.”

“Are you flirting with me?” It feels like she is as her heels clip-clip against the pavement to keep time with my regular strides. But she’s in the driver’s seat, and I’m just along for the ride. I kind of like that too.

“Just paying you a compliment. If we’re judging books by covers, I’m saying you look like you’re an expert of some kind. Dangerous. Confident. You might kill for a living. But you’d be a hit man with a heart. This is fate, Matt. You were meant to be by my side tonight.”

I say nothing, mainly because I’m more like her pawn than her savior. But something tells me Ryan doesn’t play damsel in distress very often, so maybe I should be flattered.

“You haven’t asked what I think about you, aside from your balls of steel.”

She pulls a face. “I’m almost afraid to hear more.”

I give a low chuckle. “Now, that I don’t believe.”

“The hotel isn’t very far,” she says, changing the conversational direction.

“Yeah, I know where the Pierre is.”

“Do you live in Manhattan?” There’s an edge of discomfort in her question.

I fight a frown. “I’m only here for the wedding. For the weekend.”

“Really?” Was that surprise or gladness? “All the way from Ireland?”

I give a noncommittal shrug.

“It’s a long way to come for an ex’s wedding.”

“Yeah, I’m nice like that.” Fuck. I’m even saying it about myself now.

“You’re sure it wasn’t a Hail Mary?”

“I object, you mean?” I pull a face. “Nah. What about you—you live here?”

“Lower East.”

So much for being able to pay me well. I mean, all housing is expensive in Manhattan, but the Lower East Side is no view of the park.

We pause at the crosswalk, ignoring the waft of trash carried on the unseasonably warm breeze.

Late October tends to be transitional, but the city is definitely resisting the change of season.

The light changes, and we step out, then dodge a DoorDash cyclist who plows through the light.

Ryan squeaks and clutches my arm, all awkward smiles and embarrassment a moment later.

She’s fucking adorable in the moment. Not so adorable is the noise my stomach makes at the greasy scent of meat from a nearby food truck. I could go for a gyro. It’s been hours since I’ve eaten.

“I hope there’s food at this wedding. I’m so hungry I could eat the hind leg off the Lamb of God.”

“What?” Her answer gurgles with amusement.

“I need food.”

“There’s food. Six hundred dollars a plate, so I heard.” Her gaze dips to the slender watch on her wrist. “But I imagine the meal will be over by the time we get there.”

“Great,” I mutter. Not even a feed out of my good deed. Supposed good deed.

“If anyone asks, we should say your plane got in late. The timing might work in our favor.” The latter she adds under her breath.

“Not for my stomach. I’m half starved.”

“You don’t look it.”

Go ahead and call me a peacock, because I fucking preen under that verbal slip. “I’m a big lad,” I say, not bothering to make that sound like anything other than what it is. “I’m not cheap to and kind of hard to satiate, once I get going.”

“Is that so?” She’s amused. And she’s interested. She almost purrs.

I meant to feed , but that works too. If I was selling sex, I reckon I’d get paid pretty well.

I’ve never had any complaints. Plenty of compliments.

A few stunned looks. And several You’re the best I’ve ever had s.

I think that old adage The quiet ones are always the worst has a ring of truth to it.

What the hell am I thinking? This whole thing is like something out of one of my sister’s romance books. The ones she keeps leaving like heavy hints around my house. The ones I’ve read that have provided very little help.

“Late works,” Ryan announces suddenly, pulling me from my musing. “It means less time we need to be there.”

“Right.”

“Also, the band will be playing, so people won’t notice your accent. Hopefully,” she adds with a flicker of consternation.

“I have an accent?”

“Sorry to break it to you.” Shielding her amusement, she glances at the window display of a boutique as we pass. “Maybe you should speak as little as possible, because it’s an accent that doesn’t work for the narrative.”

“And what is that narrative?”

“Well, Nathaniel, Nate, my imaginary boyfriend, is Spanish.”

“Like Carl from the Cuddle Collective.”

“Like Carlos from the Cuddle Collective. Who I’m going to smother with a pillow,” she adds quite happily.

“It’s sounding more and more like you’re the killer here.”

Her brow furrows.

“Nate. It’s not a very Spanish name,” I continue, not sure what’s made her frown. Maybe she’s vegan.

“I know.” Her shoulder lifts and falls carelessly. “The story kind of spun away from itself.”

“Our backstory?”

“We met last summer in Florence.” Her footsteps begin to slow until we’re both stationary and facing each other. “And you’re an artist, hence the sketches.”

“The ones you sent to yourself.”

“It was a good touch, right? Anyway,” she adds when she finds confusion and not agreement on my face. “You were working on the banks of the river.”

This is batshit crazy, right? “A Spanish artist? On the banks of the Arno?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Why not an Italian artist?” Which would make way more sense.

“It just came out that way, okay?”

Touchy. “I can see that. Especially with a name like Nathaniel.” Why not Matías? Or Sebastien or Hugo? On second thought, if she’d used my name or one of my brothers’ names, this would be much weirder. “Was he—I—drawing or painting?”

“What does it matter?”

“I tell you what does matter. He’d fry in summer. Could be worse, I suppose. You could’ve picked the rainy season.”

Her brow furrows again.

“Have you ever been to Florence?” I ask.

“Of course.” Her shrug is pointed and prickly, though her answer is assured.

“It mustn’t have rained. You would’ve noticed the smell.”

“Florence smells?”

“All cities with ancient sewerage systems stink,” I reply, outing myself as a bit of an engineering geek.

She wrinkles her nose, and it’s fucking adorable. “I felt like shit in Florence. Does that count?”

“Don’t tell me. You went to recover from a broken heart?”

“You know how it goes.” She shoots me a quick look and a smile that doesn’t meet her eyes.

“A bit.”

I’m such a fucking liar. I’ve never had my heart broken, though I’ve had it bruised a few times. Or maybe that was just my pride, and the pain came from overuse—from putting myself out there too many times. The truth is, I’m a serial monogamist who’s never truly been in love.

“Again, I truly appreciate your help. And again, I will pay you for your time.”

“Help. Sure, let’s go with that.” I shoot her a look. “I would’ve gone with coercion myself.” The rest I ignore. I’ve no intention of taking money from her. I’ll have my payment in amusement, I reckon.

“You just said you wouldn’t run away.”

“That’s not to say I haven’t considered it. Along with putting you in a sack.”

“Is that an Irish thing?” she asks, amused.

“Yep. It’s what we do to women in pubs who won’t take no for an answer.”

“What about men who won’t take no for an answer?”

“You might just find out when we get to this wedding. Anyway,” I add before she can interject. Or argue again. “If we’re not staying long, you can take me out for a feed as payment.”

“A feed. Are you a horse?”

“It’ll ease your conscience, I reckon. For hijacking my evening.”

“My conscience?” she trills. “Now who’s being bold?”

“I’m taking a leaf out of your book.” How is it she’s gotten prettier since we left the pub?

“I’d say your book gets enough action of its own.”

Maybe. Maybe not. But I’ve never had an evening like this.