Page 64 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Epilogue

Ryan

“Have you seen this?” A curious-looking smile plays on Letty’s mouth as she holds out her phone.

We’re standing on the terrace of Matt’s—of our —vacation home, situated close to one of the most charming pueblos blancos , or white villages, in southern Spain.

Set among olive and citrus groves with views of mountain ranges and undulating valleys, the house—or rather, estate—is so beautiful.

Full of ancient Moorish accents and vibrant bougainvillea tumbling down sun-drenched walls, it’s become our haven.

The sky is azure, the sun so bright, and the air is fragrant with the smell of bitter orange blossoms. It’s a perfect day to get married.

It’s been nine busy months since my world imploded. Nine months since fear made me pull the pin on self-destruct. At least until Mother Earth stepped in to finish me off.

Or rather show me I was worth fighting for.

And I did fight. I fought for my life, and my body fought for Maeve’s. And when we both came out on the other side, I learned to fight for Matt’s love in place of fighting against it.

As harrowing as my birth experience was, it was also humbling. Get over yourself, the world seemed to say. Rest. Get well. You’re needed here. And from thinking I deserved to be alone, I was suddenly surrounded by love. And stuck in a hospital bed, unable to run away from it!

Matt never left my side, and his loved ones rallied too. They brought words of hope and joined us in our silent prayers for Maeve, fingers pressed to the windows of the NICU.

What I’d felt before her birth, my insecurities, self-loathing, and hurt—they weren’t cured by those days.

But the sense of perspective I felt when we were allowed to take her home certainly helped.

Everything else seemed so unimportant, so inconsequential, after I’d bargained with God and offered my life for hers.

I’d do that again in a heartbeat—and it was that love that made me set my baggage down.

Have I forgiven myself for my part in my mother’s death? Not entirely. But I have reached the point where I recognize I might’ve been the knife, but I wasn’t the hand.

I look forward now, not back, trusting that life is made in the living of it, through both the good and the bad.

And that love is made in the doing of it.

And if Matt’s love has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t love someone for their perfection.

You love them in spite of everything they’re not.

It’s a lesson that’s been hard to learn, and I guess I’m still learning it.

There are moments when old patterns creep back in.

Sometimes when we argue—and we do argue, because we’re not perfect—I can feel myself closing off.

Drawing away. But then I remember it’s just a moment.

An experience. It doesn’t mean it’s the end of us. That I have to go it alone.

And when he tells me he loves me, I remind myself I’m worth his love.

“You gonna read that or what?”

“What? Oh, yeah.” I glance down at Letty’s phone. And the online edition of a newspaper? A gossip column, judging from the byline.

A Little Bird Told Us ...

Gather round, little cluckers. Let us bow our heads and reflect.

Stop all texts and close down email,

Silence the notifications on your phone.

Our time, our opportunities, have passed.

Bring out the mourners, for he is gone ...

From the market, at least.

“What the ...” I glance up. Letty is smiling a real smile now. “What is this? Reads like really bad funeral poetry. Who died?”

“Read the rest.” She puts her fingers to her mouth as though to suppress the chuckle that makes the flowers in her hair tremble anyway. “It’s hilarious, I promise.”

So eyes down, I scroll.

It’s a sad day indeed for London’s single gals, as the last of the Maven Inc. bachelors is no more.

“No more ...” I murmur, lifting my head to scan the crowd below.

“Don’t worry—they’re all there. Present and accounted for.” Letty sounds so amused right now. “None of them have fallen off the terrace and suffered a terrible death on the rocks below. At least, I haven’t pushed them,” she adds, all wide-eyed innocence.

“Let’s try to keep it that way. I’d like to keep your brother around for the next fifty years or so.” A subtle thrill shimmers through me.

“Read the rest,” Letty demands.

So I glance back and read a little more.

The dark-haired and mysterious Matías Romero is to be married this morning, so we’ve heard.

“What in tarnation?” I say unironically as I hand back her phone. “Is this for real?”

“I knew he wouldn’t have mentioned it! I’d like to say he’s a dark horse, but personally, I think he’s more like a donkey.”

“Flattering!” I laugh a little. I mean, he does have that ass.

“There’s no accounting for taste, no offense,” she adds with a grin. “But the thirsty ladies of London are really into him. You should read some of the comments—they’re a hoot!”

“He has a fan club?”

“Yeah, but he’s last on the list of three. Which, to my mind, makes him the equivalent of the weird-looking, slightly bruised melon left in the produce aisle.”

“Not nice, Letty,” I playfully chastise. This family’s love language is torturing each other. And I am here for it!

“Weird how they think he’s a catch.”

I’ve opened my mouth to respond—to defend my man’s honor—when the sound of his voice makes us both turn.

“I am a catch.”

I get a little excited hitch in my chest when our eyes meet. Hello there, handsome.

He stands, framed by the terrace doors, so suave in his wedding suit of pale, lightweight linen. A matching vest skims his trim waist, and his white shirt is open at the neck, his face tan and his hair a little long. The perfect length for fastening my fingers in.

His boutonniere is in honor of our daughter. Maeve, the queen of roses. And in his hand, he’s holding ... a folded newspaper?

“You, a catch?” Letty’s dismissive snort breaks the spell between us. For some reason, she mimes reeling in an invisible fishing rod. “Like an auld boot when you’re expecting a rainbow trout.”

“I feel like I’m missing something,” he says, sounding mildly confused.

“I was just showing Ryan your fan club news. We haven’t gotten to the comments yet.”

“What?”

“That stupid column—the one that’s been chasing you Maven boys.”

“Not me,” he scoffs. “They were only ever interested in the posh two.”

“Like you haven’t been stopped in the street for a selfie!” she says as she moves toward the doors.

“Did that really happen?” I ask, delighted by the exchange—and the reveal. Because our love language also might include a little teasing. Aside from the teasing that goes on in the bedroom. Though technically, that might be edging.

“That happened once,” he mutters, his brows pulling down. And the blades of his cheekbones turning a tiny bit pink. I love it!

“Yeah, yeah,” Letty retorts. “I’ll see you downstairs?” she adds, sliding me a look over her shoulder.

I nod, and she presses a quick kiss to her brother’s cheek. Then she’s gone.

“Who knew I was marrying a celebrity?” I purr, absolutely ready to get some mileage out of this.

“I think you’ll find it’s the other way around,” Matt says as he comes closer, unfolding a copy of The Financial Times , unmistakable due to its pink pages.

“Where did you get that?” And more to the point, what’s this about?

“Oliver. He and Evie thought you might like to read it.” They both flew in this morning.

“I’m not sure today is the day for ...

” That’s as far as I get as he widens the pages to a picture—of me.

My corporate headshot. “Did you know about this?” But Matt is already shaking his head.

And smiling, so I guess it must be good news.

“ New Kid on the Block ,” I say, reading the headline aloud.

“Might’ve been worse. They might’ve said girl . ”

“Try powerhouse ,” he says, a playful smile tugging at his lips.

“I’m not sure about that.” But the compliment still feels like a warm hug. I quickly scan the rest of the article and read out the good parts. “ Socially responsible private equity fund has bumper start. ”

“And so it has. Thanks to you.”

“To us,” I whisper.

Because in the cutthroat world of investing, Maven Inc. is diversifying. While the fund recently began to channel some of its energies into investments with social causes (thanks to Evie and Mila’s good influence), they now have a new division to do that for them. Headed up by yours truly.

It’s been a learning curve, but it turns out that my instincts are transferrable.

Instead of looking to investment purely on potential profit margin, I now examine what good that investment will also bring to the world.

We have a new era of investors too. Those whose motives are impact-driven wealth, individuals looking to aid substantial social and environmental change.

While also getting rich off the back of those changes.

“Did you read the quote from the director of investment solutions?” Matt asks, his next smile huge and proud. “In case you’ve forgotten, that would be you.”

“I’m never gonna forget that.” Because my role is perfect. It feels like it was made for me. I guess it was. It fits me like a glove.

“And you know what they say, behind every great woman ...”

“Is a man reminding her she’s left her phone on the breakfast table?” Because I have been affected by the dreaded baby brain. It’s been a small price to pay as, between us, we strive to support each other, striking a near-perfect work-life balance.

Matt and I work together. We live together. We take care of our child together. And we thrive together. I can’t wait to see what the next fifty years have in store for us. Together.

“Inky fingers!” I give a little squeal as I slap Matt’s hands away. He drops the paper and moves toward me. “You’ll ruin my dress before we even make it to the altar.”

“Not if you take it off,” he purrs oh so suggestively.

“Do you know how long it took Letty to fasten me into this thing? See these,” I say, turning around to flash the row of tiny silk-covered buttons at him.

I give a sharp intake of breath as his lips find my shoulder and his hands my breasts.

My dress is light and flowing and fit for a princess, though fitted at the bodice a little like a serving wench’s dress. So I can’t really blame him ...

“I won’t have the patience to unfasten them all tonight.” His voice is low and velvety, his mouth at my ear. “I might just need to rip the fabric.”

“The silk,” I whisper as his mouth lays claim to my neck. “Maybe I won’t have the patience to wait until tonight.”

“Fuck it,” he says, bending me forward over the ornate railing.

“We can’t,” I say—laugh—as I twist my head over my shoulder. “Not when everyone is waiting for us.”

“Let them wait.” His gaze flicks to the garden, and his expression changes from simmering lust to love.

I glance around myself, my heart warm as I see our friends and family assembling on either side of an aisle bordered with flowers.

Matt’s brothers and sisters move to take their seats; Catherine, my wonderful mother-in-law-to-be, already in hers.

Maeve sits on her lap as Antonio, her lelo (Clo said she’s happy to share him), makes our darling giggle by hiding and peeking from behind his hands.

It’s so wild how much Matt looks like him.

“Look at her.” His whisper is a soft puff of air against my neck, his arms tightening around my middle. “She’s so perfect. I know it sounds silly, maybe,” he says with an emotional swallow. “But thank you.”

Such sincerity. Such love.

But from her blue eyes to her easy temperament, Maeve is all Romero. It’s funny how, my whole pregnancy, I said I was carrying a daughter, and Matt maintained our bump was a boy.

Somehow, the universe manifested both of our plans. And so much more.

Five things I can see.

I’m not stressed or overwhelmed but rejoicing.

I see mountains and lakes. Our home from home. Our family and their love as I watch them down below.

Four things I can hear.

The chink of champagne glasses ready to toast. Matt’s brothers’ teasing jeers. Our daughter’s infectious giggle and the sound of Matt’s soft puff of laughter in my ear.

Three things I can touch.

The iron rail beneath my fingers, old and strong. How our love will be at the end of our journey. Matt’s strong arms around me and, always, his love.

Two things I can smell.

My man’s cologne and the hint of whiskey on his breath as I turn.

One thing to taste.

Now and for always, my lips on his.

“There’s no need for thanks,” I say, pulling away from our kiss. Touching him. Loving him. “You saved me.” When he opens his mouth to protest, I press my finger there. “Come on, it’s time.”

“Yeah?” One elegant eyebrow lifts.

“Yeah. I have a date with the best thing to ever come out of Manhattan.”

“Zeppole?” he asks with a quirk to his head.

“With my darling white knight.”

And he was worth every penny.