Page 7 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

His expression flickers. Annoyance, maybe?

“—for the love of God, please don’t speak in here.”

“You’re dating a handsome mute. That’s the story you’re going with?”

“Better than Super Mario’s hotter brother!”

“Super Mario is Italian.”

“His Spanish cousin, then.”

“Fine.” His tone turns playfully flat. “I’ll restrain myself.”

“Good.” But I’m still hanging on to him like a lover about to be kissed. “Want to tell me why we’re still standing here like this?”

“A man without a voice. How else am I meant to get my point across?”

“I don’t know. Mime? Interpretive dance? I was kidding,” I tag on hastily when he moves a tiny inch. He wouldn’t, would he?

“That’s good, because I was thinking more along the lines of ...”

My eyes fall closed as he draws closer, and his lips brush mine. It’s barely a kiss—more a fleeting glance—but it’s enough to register how soft his lips are. And how my body shimmers with the desire to curl into his embrace.

“... that,” he murmurs, pulling away.

Were his eyes so dark before? “That,” I repeat, whisper soft.

“Couples kiss, Ryan. And they touch.”

“Yes,” I agree, not really sure what I’m saying. What I’m offering.

“Couples who’ve been separated by land and seas. Well, they just can’t get enough. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Handle you?” Surely, I’d meant my retort to be full of derision, not want. Because despite his terrible Spanish accent, my fingers itch with his suggestion. Neurons fire, and my skin seems to tingle, every fiber of my being demanding more. More kissing, more touching ... more everything.

But then I remember what Matt does for a living. It’s like a drenching of cold water that extinguishes all that. “You’re good at this. At pretending.”

“Because I should be so lucky, right?”

“I should think you get lucky a lot.” Even without the job.

“A compliment?”

“I do have eyes.”

“Very pretty ones. But the thing is, I don’t feel like taking directions tonight.”

“You mean the accent?” I ask, slightly confused, slightly worried, and still feeling like I’m missing something.

“I can play the strong, silent type.”

“Then I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know. And that’s what makes this fun. For me, at least.”

“Right. Fine.” See also: whatever. “You can let go now.”

“I don’t think I will. Got to keep up those appearances.”

“I told you. No one’s watching us. Not when there’s a bride and groom to moon over.” I turn my head toward the room, my gaze connecting immediately with Heidi’s. The accounts administrator looks thrilled, the two thumbs she holds up a pretty good indicator.

“Their moment’s over.” Matt’s voice brings my attention back. “You’re the big-ticket item now. The topic of next week’s gossip. And who would prefer to watch some insipid bride over you?”

“She’s beautiful.”

“I bet she doesn’t have a thing on you.”

I make a noise. Disagreement. Annabelle has money. Privilege. A family who adores her. And my ex, poor bitch.

“You’re a rare kind of beauty, Ryan. Your spirit is as captivating as your face.”

“I don’t need your flattery,” I say, fighting the instinct to lean into that concept. That seduction. I can’t remember the last time anyone said something so lovely to me.

Nice tits.

Your ass is the bomb.

You’d be prettier if you smiled a little more.

“But I do appreciate your diligence.” I lift my hand to his chest, my fingers trailing upward.

I touch the edge of his bow tie as though to straighten it, then ghost my thumb over his lips.

A subtle thrill runs through me as his mouth parts and his eyes darken.

“But I think I can handle a Latin lover for the night.”

“Be careful what you promise, pretty girl.”

But promises are only words. As well I know. “Let’s get this over with.”

Matt inclines his head, then straightens. Somehow, he ends up with his arm still around me. I’m not going to complain as we step into the room, him all poise and confidence and me on slightly shaky legs.

“Just what I need.” As a server passes with a tray of champagne, I take two glasses without giving a hoot who they were for. I press one into Matt’s hand and almost throw the other back.

“Thirsty?” he asks as I put the empty glass on a nearby table.

“Let’s go with that.” I’m not much of a drinker, but Lord knows I need all the help I can get.

“Champagne is the candy floss of booze,” he says, examining his glass. “Satisfying for only as long as it touches the tongue.” There’s something sexual about his words, though not exactly overt. Story checks out about his career, I guess.

“You don’t like champagne?”

“Let’s just say there’s nothing like a cold pint and a whiskey chaser to improve the mood. Or blacken it, I suppose.”

Was he in that god-awful pub to drown his sorrows? The thought dies as he offers me his glass, and I take it.

“Come on,” he says, sliding his arm around my waist. “I won’t let you fall.”

I try not to take too much comfort in his words.

His touch, though? That I can handle. Even if it makes me realize I’ve missed this.

Holding hands and hugging. Maybe Ava is right about touch being a basic need.

Not that I’ll be hiring Cuddle Carl anytime soon.

But hire Matt? I roll my bottom lip to stifle a ridiculous smile.

I’m relieved to see I was right about the timing. The dance floor is packed and the tables surrounding it only half filled. When my gaze lands on Heidi’s for a second time, she grins and fans her face theatrically from the other side of the room. Agreed, Heidi, the man is hot as fuck.

The music segues seamlessly to another song, and I almost laugh.

“What’s funny?”

I give my head a tiny shake. Not the Supremes, that’s for sure, as the unmistakable introduction to “You Can’t Hurry Love” begins to flow from the speakers.

I’m sure my ex would disagree. Did disagree, in fact, after staring into Annabelle’s doll-like eyes and seeing his future.

Status, wealth, the Upper East Side town house.

The guaranteed leapfrog effect to his career when he discarded me like one of his Twinkie wrappers.

I should’ve known better than to trust someone whose favorite treat is so chemical filled it would survive an apocalypse.

And I thought I was supposed to be white trash.

But being here, in the ballroom, at his wedding, makes me feel ...

Nothing, surprisingly.

There’s no flash of green envy as I take in the tables laden with white linens, gold accents, and flickering candlelight.

I feel nothing for the floral displays as tall as I stand.

The decor is elegant, refined, and timeless, and though it might be the kind of wedding I once dreamed of, it was never the kind of wedding I would ever have.

We were never destined for the Pierre. The most I could’ve hoped for was a quickie ceremony in Vegas. That way, there’d be no questions asked about my family’s nonattendance. No gossip about little ole me.

I almost can’t blame Pete for getting sucked into all this. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t happily crush him under the wheels of a bus. Then reverse over him.

Up ahead, a whirl of white catches my eye. The new Mrs. Peter. J. Langley in all her wedding finery. Annabelle the perfect. An alumna of Nightingale and Brown—hundreds of thousands of dollars of education for someone destined to be a nanny-overseeing UES mom.

That’s not jealousy. Not much jealousy. I guess I feel sorry for her because she deserves better than a piece of shit like Pete. It’s just not my place to tell her so. I doubt she’d even believe me. Not right now.

“It’s this one here,” I say over my shoulder as we weave through the tables. Not that we have far to go. Naturally, the help has been seated near the back. I’m relieved to find our table empty but for a graveyard of glasses filled with liquids to varying degrees.

Just what I need. Assholes only get worse when they’re full of liquor.

Ask me how I know.

“You’re frowning at the table as though it’s offended you.” Bringing my attention back, Matt slides a lock of hair behind my ear, his expression one of soft indulgence.

“I’m not.” I put my hand to the back of an empty chair and give a ’sup nod of recognition as a couple of faces I vaguely recognize pass. Analysts, I think.

“Jesus,” Matt mutters. “You really do work at a hedge fund.”

“Did you think I made it up?” I drop my clutch to the table and, for the first time tonight, realize I haven’t been glued to my phone. In my job, if I’m not in contact, I’m not making money.

He slides me a sardonic look. “Forgive me if I didn’t believe everything you said.”

“That’s fair. So what convinced you?”

“The reek of Creed cologne and the glint of entry-level Rolexes,” he says, hooking his thumb in the direction of the analysts.

Cuff links from Graff. His earlier words drop into my head. My eyes flick over a suit that’s definitely made to measure, given his build and its fit. I glance at his wrist and the watch I can’t see—that I haven’t paid attention to. Yet.

“Patek Philippe,” he says, lifting his wrist. “Wanna know which one?”

“No,” I say quickly, uncomfortably caught out.

“My job pays well too.”

“So I see.” Would that be thanks to generous sugar mama or a happily fulfilled client base?

“Go on.” He reaches for the gilt picture frame in the center of the table, surrounded by knickknacks oozing Frenchness. “Ask me. Whatever it is you’re thinking.”

Not in a million years would I utter the phrase sugar mama in his hearing. “And spoil your air of mystery?”

His mouth kicks up, and he reads the text accompanying the print in the frame, the reason for our cutesy designated table name.

“Peter proposed in Paris,” he reads with an unimpressed twist of the lips. “Original.”

Oh, you have no idea. “That’s Pete.”

“Pete?” He slides me a look.

“He prefers Peter. That’s why I call him Pete,” I say, acid sweet.

“Kill Stinky Pete,” Matt murmurs as he puts it down.

“What did you just say?”