Page 12 of Fighting Mr. Knight

“Where the fuck am I staying?” Nisha asks. “I’m not sure I want to sleep by myself.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re being a tad dramatic, Nish.”

Kate stops outside one of the doors as her phone buzzes. “Nisha, this is your bedroom.” She glances down at her phone. “Oh, shit,it’s the caterer. I need to let them in downstairs.”

She waves an envelope at me.

“Call into Jack’s room and give this to him, will you?”

“Me?” I grimace.

“No,her.” She points to the woman in the black and white portrait staring down at us. “Yes, you, silly. What’s the problem?”

“Maybe you could give it to him later,” I suggest. “He might not like me interrupting him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffs, shoving the envelope in my hand. “He won’t mind. Go. He’s in the last room at the end of the South wing called ‘Knight’s Tale.’ You’re in the one right next door.”

Fitting.

Max’s voice fills my head.Be the best version of yourself. You’re representing Bradshaw Brown.What does Max expect me to do? Askthe priest to deliver subliminal messaging through prayer?

I nod and leave them, following on down the eerie hallway. My footsteps echo as I try to avoid eye contact with the ancestry of whatever knight beheaded everyone.

What’s the best version of myself?

An intelligent, accomplished architect who keeps up with world affairs and can engage in witty and dynamic conversation with a brooding asshole billionaire.

I’m half expecting the girl twins fromThe Shiningas I turn the corner to the South wing.

“Jack?” I say loudly as I knock on his door. No answer.

I knock louder.

A muffled voice responds to me, telling me to come in. I think.

Turning the handle, I peer into the room. Room is an understatement. It’s a studio with a separate lounge area the size of my rented London flat.

Scattered evidence confirms Jack’s presence—expensive watch, wallet, beard oil, his trademark gold necklace, skipping rope. I divert my eyes quickly from his boxers on the sofa.

Where is he?

“Jack?” I call out tentatively. Maybe he’s in the bedroom.

I take a few steps forward as the bathroom door swings slightly ajar and I glance through the door crack.

Fuck. Me.

Jack stands in the steam with nothing but a flimsy towel resting dangerously low around the most mouth-watering body I’ve ever seen. His tousled waves are slicked back and black from wetness, like a feral ovary-whispering Italian Tarzan.

I stare, slack-jawed, as he runs long strokes of the blade down the angular curve of his jaw.

I don’t know how to breathe. Pheromones have blocked my nose.

Wearing wireless earphones, hetalks, or more accurately,growls, into thin air.

Pierced nipple.

I wasn’t expecting that. Or the adrenaline pumping through me at the sight of it.

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