Page 55 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

“Ah, well, you’ll like him more. He’s like a golden retriever. Maybe a handsome Lab? Once upon a time, pre-Mila, he’d probably have had a go at humping your leg.”

“The reformed playboy,” she asserts, amusement filling her tone. “The wolf and the pooch. What does that make you?”

I give a shrug. “A horny toad?”

With a soft laugh, she slides her arm through mine. “Does that mean I need to kiss you to get my prince?”

“Stick with the toad that’s really a lizard.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Much sexier, I think. Especially with all that tongue action.”

“Don’t even think about it.” Her words are heavy with warning.

“What, this?” I make a lewd gesture. Gene Simmons has nothing on me.

God, I want this too. A lifetime of her telling me no and laughing anyway. Of course that would be the moment the hostess appears. Blond hair pulled back in a sparkly scarf, slacks, a white shirt, and spats, of all things, on her feet. I’m sensing a theme.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she murmurs, pretending to have missed my oral air sex.

Sucks to be her.

“Table for Maven,” I say with a give-no-fucks assurance and a mile-wide grin.

“Of course,” she assents. “May I take your coat?” She directs this toward Ryan, who currently looks like she’d prefer to pull it over her head.

“Allow me,” I put in. Ryan turns, and I help slip it from her shoulders, which means it’s too late for this wave of .

.. second thoughts, probably caveman-style.

But I can see right down the front of her dress, which means most other people will be able to see down it too.

I suddenly want to cover her back up, then pick her up, before carrying her out of this place. Keep all this loveliness for myself.

But I can’t do that and share with them how much she means to me. Not in one sitting, anyway. So we follow the hostess. Or rather, Ryan does. Meanwhile, I follow mi mujer , my woman, and the hypnotic sway of her hips. I’d follow this woman anywhere.

“Here they are!” Fin stands first as we approach the table, all smiles and welcome and well-bred bonhomie. Oliver next, his manners and suit impeccable. Introductions are made, Evie and Mila doling out hugs and effusive greetings.

“Oh, my gosh, you are stunning!” Evie grabs Ryan’s hand, sending an accusing look my way. “You didn’t tell me you were punching, Matt.”

“Hush, don’t tell her. She might leave.” I lower my voice as though sharing a secret. “I got my claws into her at a low moment, just the way Oliver taught me.”

“Charming,” Oliver murmurs, amused or unimpressed. It’s hard to tell.

“It’s okay, baby,” Evie says, chucking his chin. “I love you anyway.”

“And Matt likes his women pregnant,” Fin says as I press my hand to the small of Ryan’s back, guiding her into her seat.

“Like a fetish?” Ryan asks with a chuckle before turning those baby blues my way. “Am I not the first?”

“You’re like ...” I pretend to count on my fingers.

“At least my twelfth. But my fetish isn’t for pregnant women.

It’s for christening cake. Who found this place?

” I ask, glancing around the restaurant.

We’ve been given a private room that’s not technically closed off from the main space, so still part of the general atmosphere.

“Mila did,” Evie offers up. “Or one of her projects did. It’s great, right? I keep expecting a young Evelyn Waugh to walk in.”

“Who’s she?” My mouth curls, and Evie sends me an unimpressed look.

But I get what she means. The place is .

.. of an era, I suppose. Sophisticated and sexy, thanks to a moody color scheme full of tactile furnishings and lamps made from ostrich plumage.

It’s a distinctly 1930s kind of vibe without being overly kitsch.

“Har- har ,” Evie says, overstressing. “Well, I think this place is like the Bloomsbury set and Jay Gatsby had a restaurant baby.”

“It was Abena who told me about it,” Mila offers up. “She was the interior designer who planned your home office?”

“Ryan’s home office,” I say, glancing fondly her way. “She’s in there beavering away most days.”

“Matt says you’re investing for him,” Mila says, turning her way.

“A little.” Ryan nods. “Just keeping my hand in.”

“As the vicar said to the actress.”

“Oh, my God!” Evie exclaims. “My husband made a funny!”

“Maybe we should ask Abena to design the nursery,” I murmur low in Ryan’s ear.

Although where that will be is anyone’s idea.

Upstairs? Downstairs? I’m not even sure what we need.

I know Letty and Ryan went shopping, but my sister said they bought very little.

She said Ryan seemed overwhelmed, but that there’s still plenty of time.

But is there really? Aren’t pregnant women supposed to nest at some point?

Not like pigeons or anything. “What do you think?” I ask when she doesn’t answer.

“Maybe,” she hedges, her gaze slipping away.

My expression flickers, ice dropping into my evening warmth. We are turning a corner, aren’t we? Don’t expect too much too fast, I remind myself as I slide my hand to the small of her back, finding the muscles tense there.

“I’ll send her a message if you like?” Mila offers.

Ryan adjusts her position in her seat. “That’s okay. I have her number.”

“You okay?” I whisper as the conversation moves on.

She gives a quick nod and an even quicker smile.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” I say. “It means a lot to me.”

“Of course.” Her next smile is genuine, and it holds. Even in the low light I see the color in her cheeks.

“Have I told you I love how you blush?”

“I don’t blush.”

“Course not,” I murmur, biting back a grin. And pressing the meat of my palm to her lower back. “Nice?”

Ryan bites her lip, her expression part pleasured, part pained. But then she slides me a look that seems to say, I know your game .

“I think it’s nice.”

“Stop with the tone,” she half whispers, half warns.

“And stop this?” I ask, pressing harder now.

She bites back a groan, and my grin breaks free.

“Don’t be too pleased with yourself,” she protests. “It’s a symptom of this pregnancy. Pink cheeks too.”

“Nothing to do with my magic hands?”

“It’s hormonal fluctuations and increased blood flow.”

I make a low noise. Part inquiry, part tell me more .

“Stop that!” Her blush deepens as her eyes dart away. Though her smile is so wide it’s as if I just reached out and tickled her.

“Maybe I should be the one blushing, because you say the sexiest things.”

“Hogwash!”

“Stop,” I purr. “You’re giving me increased blood flow myself!”

“Ohmygod.” She slides a lock of hair behind her ear, her words running together as she ducks her head. “You are the worst.”

She might be right.

The worst kind of fool for her.

The food is grand and the whiskey even better. I order a steak, and Ryan has pasta, though we end up sharing our plates. The evening passes in a blur of friendship and laughter. Which, of course, includes embarrassing stories.

“No, no, no,” Mila says, waving her hand as she laughs. “It isn’t Stockholm syndrome. Is it?” Glancing her husband’s way, she takes his face in her hand.

Fin bends to meet her lips with his. “I mean, we were both stuck on an island.”

“And high on shrooms,” Evie puts in. “Maybe what should be worrying you is how he practically stalked you when you got back to London.”

“No,” Fin says, all seriousness. “I didn’t stalk her. It was more like a little friendly ... blackmail. Technically, if you want to blame anyone, blame him,” Fin says, throwing the accusation my way.

“Thank me, more like.”

“What did you do?” Ryan asks, glancing up at me.

“He told me to read Bridgerton ,” Fin answers for me.

“Bollocks!” I scoff. “Get back to the topic of blackmail.”

“No,” Fin retorts. “Love deserves a sacrifice—that’s what I learned from romance books. That or a diabolical plan.”

“Diabolical?” Evie sends a sly glance Oliver’s way. His answer is to take her hand and press a kiss to the back of it.

“Come on, Evie.” Mila giggles. “Don’t be mad. The man did buy you a menagerie.”

“That’s true.” Evie gives a considering nod. “And bitches do love a menagerie,” she says, glancing Ryan’s way. “And lions and tigers and labradoodles.”

“Those guys are too cute.” This from Mila as she rests in the crook of Fin’s arm. “Do you know what you’re having yet?” Her eyes dip with warmth to a bump called Flip.

“According to Clo, a guinea pig,” I say, reaching for my glass.

“Clodagh is such a hoot,” Mila says. “Matt’s family’s great, aren’t they?”

“Ah, yeah,” Ryan begins hesitantly. “They’ve been really welcoming.”

I stroke my thumb across her back. No need to feel awkward, teacup.

“Then, of course, Matt is pretty great too.” Ryan tilts her head my way, and her smile just gets me. Like an arrow to the heart.