Page 9 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Ryan

The server returns with our drinks as I try to talk myself out of what Matt just said—what I think he just said. Because I felt the truth of his words in the way his gaze gobbled me up. And I don’t like that I love where this might be going.

It’s not like I hired an escort ... I just kind of got him on a free loan.

I mean, if I like. If I want to take him up on it.

Pretty sure that’s what he meant.

But I couldn’t. I know I threw out big words in that old bar, but I couldn’t have sex with someone I’d normally have to pay. Could I? Only, I wouldn’t be having sex with just someone. I’d be having sex with him. With Matt. If I want.

Check, please!

Only kidding. Kidding myself.

I bite the inside of my lip to stop myself from smiling because, hell, the way it felt to be in his arms makes me think I probably could.

Except for one little problem. It’s not a moral issue.

Or even an ethical one. It’s more that I get the feeling Matt might be the sexual version of a gateway drug.

I’ve been lonely since the split. Just because I haven’t missed sex doesn’t mean I haven’t missed being touched, I now realize. Missed being desired. Held. But if I give in, do this once, who knows where it might lead. Might as well transfer every quarterly bonus to him.

“What?” My tone is almost accusing as I realize he’s still watching me. Watching me digest his meaning.

“I didn’t say anything.” Amusement lingers in the delectable quirk of his lips.

“But you’re staring.”

“Am I? I think you’ll find this is more a case of mooning.”

“Mooning?” He does say the cutest things. It could be his accent, though.

“Not the one with the bare arse, obviously.”

“Bare—yeah, don’t do that.” Cute and irreverent.

“Says the woman who was all about me slapping my cock to the table a few minutes ago.”

“Let’s try and elevate the conversation, shall we?” I reply, like I wasn’t just imagining making it rain fifties à la Lil Wayne while demanding he peel off my panties. With his teeth. Sounds like the sort of thing you might pay an escort to do.

Lady’s choice.

I wonder what a night with him would cost.

Stop thinking about it! His offer isn’t something that requires examination. Or an answer, for that matter. I can just gloss over it. No need to dwell on the fact that he’s into me. Or why else offer? Unless I got it wrong, and lady’s choice means I still have to cough up.

Enough already! It’s not as though I’m not gonna ask him for clarification!

“I’d just like to point out,” he says, pulling me from my thoughts, “you’re the one who dragged the conversation into the gutter in the first place. Not that there’s anything wrong with the gutter from time to time.”

I bet he doesn’t do it in gutters. I bet his job is mostly hotel based. Thousand-count linens and fancy champagne cooling in a bucket by the bed. Caribbean islands. Yachts. Six-star hotels, sunscreen, and tiny shorts.

“Now you’re doing it,” he says.

“Do what now?”

“Mooning. You’re pretty good at it.”

“Ha.” My retort comes out as just a breath.

I’ve gotta pull myself together. “The time and place for a gutter isn’t now.

Or here.” And I should know, given I’ve spent my adult life crawling out of that place.

That girl from North Carolina is long dead.

No more y’all or yonder or fixin’ to do anything.

I coached myself out of all that a long time ago.

“What should we do instead?” So much suggestion in that tone of his.

“For the purposes of this evening, what couples do, I guess.”

“This couple.” He motions a finger between us. “I sense they would canoodle.”

“Sounds like something senior citizens might do.”

“Second base. Sometimes third?” He pulls back as though something has just occurred to him. “Are you trying to entice me into the gutter again?”

“Maybe our relationship is more a meeting of minds. Maybe we’re a couple that talks about art and philosophy.”

“Do you know much about art? Because I don’t.”

“You’re meant to. Well, Nate is. But no one here will ask you questions about art. Unless it’s art as a means of tax avoidance. In that case—”

“I should rely on interpretive dance to confuse them?”

“Maybe feign laryngitis.” My smile dissipates as my gaze drifts across the table, to where the glasses have been mostly cleared.

“You’re worried about them, aren’t you?” he says, following my gaze.

How weird. For a little while, I forgot the reason I’m here. “I just want to get it over with.”

“Do they intimidate you?”

“I can handle them just fine.” Mostly handle them. Or handle most of them. Most of them but one. “I just don’t want to get caught out in a stupid lie. Though most lies are stupid, by my reckoning.”

“That’s some very black-and-white thinking. Some lies are told for valid reasons.”

“Well, I have valid reasons for doing this—for going to these lengths. As the only woman on the trading floor, I have to be okay with the frat-house office mentality. I can take the daily shit throwing, but that’s where the line ends.

” I learned the hard way that trying to laugh off or ignore inappropriate behavior only comes back to bite you in the ass.

Some men seem to think no is open to interpretation.

They can’t help but test those waters, and if you’re soft . .. God help you.

So I take no shit. And while the guys wear chinos or business slacks and Patagonia vests, I adhere to the dictums of Coco Chanel and dress like I’m about to meet my worst enemy every day. In other words, my office persona is Miranda Priestly. On crack.

My makeup is on point, my hair is pulled back, and I wear my glasses, not my contact lenses. It’s my armor, and it very clearly states: You’d better be talking to my face . And it’s always worked—the ballbuster version of me has always made them toe the line.

Until it didn’t anymore. Which is why I’ve had to recruit some help tonight. Someone big and strong and male to help me get my point across. Which is kind of galling in itself.

I inhale deeply, not quite sure how much I’m ready to tell Matt. But I need to tell him something before they get back.

“Once upon a time, everything in the office was fine. I had a boyfriend, and my colleagues mostly treated me as though I was one of the guys. Not ideal, but I could deal with their lame jokes and zone out during their embellished tales of who they banged the night before. Fast-forward a little, and now I no longer have a boyfriend but an office nemesis, though Pete pretends that only one of us is affected by our split.” Bull. Shit.

“And since the split, the office banter, if you like, has taken a turn. The kind of turn that some people would describe as sexist.” It’s me. I’m some people. I rub my lips together, not wanting to sound like that girl—the one who needs a man to fix things for her. “They’re mostly harmless—”

“Even with the bet they’ve got going?” he demands.

“It sounds worse than it is. The issue isn’t so much them as a collective as it is one of them.”

“What’s his name?”

“Brandon.” My lips curl. “For reasons clear only to himself, he’s under the impression it’s his turn now.”

“His turn?” Matt demands, his gaze flinty.

“Now that Pete’s done with me, I guess.”

“Fuck.” Matt swipes his hand across his mouth as though tasting something offensive.

“He asked me out, and I turned him down,” I rush on, wanting to be done with this. “And it’s like that’s made me some kind of challenge.” It’s gone from crude comments when he thinks no one else is paying attention to straight-up abuse.

“That’s fucked up.”

“It is, but it’s a reality for more than just me.

I was being harassed long before I could spell the word.

I learned early on that I needed to harden the hell up and get used to being called a bitch—and worse—in the workplace.

You get hit on, you turn them down, you get labeled a bitch, fine.

But if you call them out, suddenly you’re difficult.

“And before you say I should make an official complaint, it would be no use. He’s too popular with the C-suite. His numbers are good,” I add with a weak shrug. “But the fact that I faked a boyfriend in the first place is down to him.”

“That’s not surprising.”

“It was to me,” I say with an unhappy huff of a laugh. “At least, in the moment.”

“What happened?”

“We were having drinks after work to christen the new guy’s first week at work.” I swallow and slide my hair behind my ears. “He’d survived that baptism of fire, and you’ve got to be a team player, right?”

Matt smiles, and I hate that I see pity there.

“An hour in, and I was getting ready to leave. I visited the restroom only to find Brandon lounging in the dim hallway on my way out.”

Matt’s smile falls, his expression a mixture of concern and trepidation.

“ Come on ,” Brandon had said, all hands and beer breath. “ The more you fight it, the more I want it. It’s gonna happen between us. ”

Shock had washed through me like a tsunami. Fear, if I’m being honest. He wore such a feral look in his eyes.

“Nothing bad happened,” I say. “I just pushed him out of the way as I uttered that lame phrase every girl whips out when she’s not interested. ‘I have a boyfriend.’”

“Hanging around dark hallways. Making you push him. Fucking hell, Ryan. That’s the behavior of a predator.”

I wave his words away. “I decided I might as well run with that story. Embellish it, even. So I began weaving my tale. I’d met a guy on vacation. An artist from Madrid.” With my hand, I indicate him. “Interesting, glamorous, and not on the same continent. A perfect creation, really.”

“ Long distance? ” I hear Brandon scoff. “ Never gonna last. ”

“ Fun while it does, though ” was my retort.

He didn’t like the idea of that.