Dark Sexy Knight (A Modern Fairytale) (7 page)

“Me too, Ryan,” said Joe. “You ever work with horses?”

“Yessir. I worked with mules and horses on my daddy’s pecan farm on Strawberry Road.”

“What’d you do for those mules and horses?” asked Joe.

“I mucked their stalls and changed their hay. And I fed ’em feed. Watered ’em. I can’t shoe ’em, but I can rub their noses when they’s scared. And when my daddy says yes, I can give ’em carrots, but not cabbage. And sometimes I sneak ’em an apple when they’s—”

Joe chuckled with glee, giving Ryan a firm pat on the arm before lowering his hand. “We’re gonna to get along like peanut butter and jelly, Ryan. Yes, sir.”

Verity watched this exchange with her heart in her throat, barely allowing herself to believe that they’d finally found jobs in a place where they’d both be accepted, where they could fit in and make a life for themselves. Over Joe’s head, she found Colton’s face, his eyes fixed on hers.

Thank you
, she mouthed.

Slowly, without dropping her eyes, he nodded once.

“So are you family?” asked Daphne from beside her. “You and Colt?”

“No.”

“Family friends?”

Verity turned to the very pretty, very busty woman, who was at least a head taller than she was. “Something like that.”

“Colt don’t have many friends,” said Marty, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed. “Sorta a loner.”

“We look, but we don’t touch,” said Daphne, checking out Colton with hot eyes before grinning at Verity like the Cheshire cat. “You have to admit, he’s got a mighty fine bod.”

Her cheeks flushed pink because she knew that Colton, who was talking to Joe about the horses, could probably hear their conversation. “He’s . . . in good shape.”

“‘Good shape’? He’s not handsome, but he is
hot
,” said Marty, licking her lips. She spoke just a touch too loudly, so that Colton would hear her. “Built like a Mack truck. Probably hung like a stallion.”

Verity’s cheeks went from pink to red, and she reached up to press her hands against them. “I don’t . . . I mean . . .”

“Oh, you two aren’t together
like that
?” asked Marty.

“We’re just . . .” She turned her head to look at Colton, who was staring at her with hawkish eyes, then back at Marty and Daphne, who waited for an answer.

What should she say? That since the moment she met him, he’d been her very own knight in shining armor? That his kindness to her had led to a wild crush that showed no signs of dying?  That they weren’t together
like that
but that she could barely sleep last night, thinking about him in the bedroom downstairs—his hard body, his hooded eyes, and the rugged scars on his face that she longed to press her lips to? And finally, that he was so far out of her league, she couldn’t imagine a scenario in which he’d choose her over curvy, confident, baggage-free women like Daphne and Marty?

Thankfully she was saved from answering by a rolling murmur that rose up in the room as the double doors that led to the arena opened and a man stood between them, arms spread to hold the doors wide open. He was as tall as Colton, though not as broad, his legs were long in ripped jeans, and his chest rippled with muscles under a tight white T-shirt. His hair was gelled into a runway-ready style, and aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes.

“Artie!” said Daphne, chuckling affectionately. “He loves making an entrance on Monday mornings.”

“And he knows fucking how,” said Marty, giggling like a schoolgirl.

“Sex on a stick,” sighed Daphne. She nudged Verity in the hip. “That’s Artie Kingston. Head Knight.”

“Oh,” she said, watching as he swaggered into the hall.

Flicking her eyes to Colton, she noted that his expression was more thunderous and annoyed than usual as he trained his eyes on Artie, who swanned from group to group, saying good morning, even though it was past noon. When he reached them, he slapped Colton on the back.

“Hail, fellow! Well met!” he exclaimed. “Viking Knight of the Northmen, how fare thee today?” Colton slanted his eyes toward Artie, and Artie chortled. “Eh, fuckin’ Colt. You’re too serious, man. Lighten up.”

Colton shrugged Artie’s arm off his shoulder. “After the meeting, we need to run through the fight—”

“Well, well, well,” said Artie, ignoring Colton as he reached up and removed his sunglasses, showcasing a pair of handsome blue eyes. “Who do we have here?”

“Verity Gwynn and her brother, Ryan,” said Joe, grinning at Artie’s antics like an indulgent uncle. “Merchant. Stablehand.”

“Verde,” said Artie, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips. They were soft and warm and sent a small tremor up her arm. “Like the color?”

“Verity,” said Colt, who looked like he wanted to kill someone. “Like the truth.”

“Verity,” said Artie, kissing her hand again. “Verity.” And again. “Make me the happiest knight in Camelot and tell me you’re single.”

She laughed at Artie’s easy grin. He was so impishly charming, it was almost impossible not to be taken by him.

“Me and Ver’ty live at Colton’s house,” said Ryan from behind her.

Artie looked over her shoulder, his face screwing up for a moment as he assessed Ryan. “And who might you be?”

“Ryan,” repeated Joe. “New stablehand.”

“My brother,” said Verity.

Artie’s smile slipped a touch as he stared at Ryan, but it was back in place as soon as he cut his eyes to Verity. “You live with Colt?”

“For now,” she said.

“Indefinitely,” said Colton at the same time, who stepped forward to stand beside her, his hip brushing hers.

And in that close proximity, she felt it again—that lightning bolt of electricity from Colton’s body to hers, and it blew Artie’s adorableness straight to kingdom come. She was so struck by the differences between the two men, it took a moment for what Colton had said to register.

Indefinitely.

Indefinitely, meaning they didn’t have to leave by tomorrow night, meaning they could stay in Colton’s neat, tidy, welcoming little house, where she woke up to violet wallpaper and Ryan watched the sunset surrounded by a family of rabbits. Indefinitely, meaning she could save up some money for a decent apartment, so that they didn’t have to stay in another disgusting motel. Indefinitely, meaning she’d see Colton at breakfast every morning, hear him turn on the shower downstairs, and know that he was sleeping beneath her.
Indefinitely.
It was suddenly the sweetest word in all the world.

But did he mean it? Oh God, could he possibly have meant it?

Her hand slipped from Artie’s as she turned to face Colton, and she saw the earnestness of his eyes, gray and clear, kind and soft as he stared back at her.

“Indefinitely,” he said again, the word a whisper, meant only for her.

Without looking away, she reached for his hand—his warm, strong, rough hand—and laced her fingers through his, curling them until the pads of her fingertips landed on the back of his hand, and waiting for him to do the same. He stared at her in surprise, but his fingers didn’t curl, didn’t grasp onto hers. Rigidly threaded through hers, they remained motionless until she straightened hers and pulled them away, feeling foolish and forward.

“Thank you,” she murmured, and he nodded in his usual taciturn way, then turned his attention to Lynette, who stood up at a podium and welcomed the cast of “TL’o C” to the Monday meeting.

“Sit in the blue section tonight,” said Artie, who bent his neck to whisper near her ear.

“I’m sitting in yellow,” she responded without looking at him, though it occurred to her that she
should
go sit in blue after Colton had just gently, but firmly, rejected her.

“You’re different,” said Artie, the low rumble of his voice amused.

“How so?”

He chuckled softly as Lynette reminded cast members to write their names on anything they put in the employee refrigerator.

“Most girls say yes.”

“I’m not most girls.”

“Like I said, different.”

She turned to look at him. “I’m not looking for anything.”

“Fair enough.” Artie’s eyes darted meaningfully to her hand, then back to her face. “But you two obviously aren’t . . .
together
.”

Verity raised her chin, cocking her head to the side. “So what?”

“So I like a challenge,” said Artie, running the tip of his index finger down her bare arm with a cocky grin. “Game on.”

Titanium clashed against titanium, Colt’s sword creating sparks every time it collided with Artie’s. Artie had already defeated him in jousting—Colt had fallen to the sand on the second joust—and Jerry Rodgers, who played the King, had ordered the French Knight (Artie, in chain mail and traditional knight helmet) to best the Viking Knight (Colt, in a faux fur stole and horned helmet) on foot.

At first Artie picked up a mace, slamming it against Colt’s sword until Colt managed to wield it away (which really consisted of Artie throwing it behind him at an opportune time), but his squire had quickly stepped forward with the titanium sword, and the battle scene was now at its peak, with Artie and Colt doing their choreographed moves on the sand:

Artie lunges.

Colt jumps back.

Artie does a tuck and roll.

Colt spins, kicking up sand.

On and on, like a dance. Moves that the two men had perfected in rehearsals and performances for years. At eight out of eleven performances, Artie won. At the Thursday and Friday matinees, the Gaelic Knight, Shawn, won. And once a week—at the Sunday matinee—Colt won.

He had caught a glimpse of Verity and Ryan in the half-f stands. They sat in the top row, away from the patrons who sat in the first two rows, and he couldn’t help turning his eyes to her at every free moment. She clapped and shouted, smiled and laughed, stared with wonder when Ginger made her flight around the arena, and cheered when it looked like Colt had a chance of winning.

Alas, tonight was Monday.

“Quit hitting me so hard,” griped Artie when they were in a sword lock, face-to-face.

“Stop being a pussy,” said Colt, pushing the other man away with a touch too much force.

It was silly, he knew, but he wished he could win tonight. He wished he could pretend to throw the red rose crown to a woman in the second row, but have it somehow end up high in the fourth, where Verity could grab it and place it on her blonde head, and bring it home tonight as a trophy from his victory.

Clash.

Clang.

Sparks!

“I said fucking quit it, Colt!”

“How’s your vagina?” he asked, putting Artie into an improvised headlock before shoving him down hard on the sand.

“Asshole!”

Artie leaped up, his eyes narrowed, coming at Colt with strike after strike that wasn’t in the choreography, but Colt felt his blood alight with excitement as he struck back.

Spark! Spark! Spark!

The crowd was wilder than usual—sensing the intensity between the knights, perhaps—on their feet as Artie kept coming.

Colt knew what was supposed to happen next. He was supposed to let Artie knock the sword out of his hand, fall back on the sand, and let Artie pretend to stab him in the heart. For just a moment, he considered fighting back, rolling on the sand and grabbing his sword so they could keep fighting. He looked up at Verity, at her bright eyes and wide smile, her small fists in the air as she cheered him on, and damn it, he wished that he could do it, but another woman’s face slipped into his mind at the last minute, and Colt let Artie smack the sword out of his hand.

He fell to his knees as planned because, no matter how much Verity needed him, the other woman needed him more.

The crowd hushed as Artie drew back his sword, then the blue section cheered wildly as he lunged forward and “stabbed” Colt in the heart.

Colt fell back, dead on the sand as the arena erupted in chants of “French Knight! French Knight!”

Artie stood in the center with his sword held high in victory and a spotlight on his chest while the rest of the arena went pitch-dark. Colt sprang up in the blackness and trudged through the sand to the side door, slipping into a back hallway as the King offered the French Knight the protection and keeping of the Princess.

But the words “And now our Knight must honor a lady of the court!” made Colt turn and speed through the hallways to the equestrian entrance to the arena, where he stood against the wall in the tunnel where they staged the horses, and peeked around the corner just as the Princess placed the red rose crown on Artie’s lance.

With narrowed eyes, Colt watched as Artie kicked Éclair into a canter. He circled the arena once, then twice, passing by the blue area, where he was supposed to choose a lady, and stopping in Colt’s area: yellow. Scowling mightily, Colt held his breath as Artie waved to a woman in the second row, then threw the crown to Verity in the rafters. Crossing his arms over his chest, Colt sneered as she caught the crown and did a small curtsy, placing it on her head and beaming down at Artie.

Fuck.

Artie stole his move.

Fuck Artie Kingston anyway.

Without waiting to see the tail end of the show, when the five remaining knights paraded around the arena behind Artie, Colt turned and headed back down the hallway to the Knights’ dressing room, where he slammed the door behind him. Stripping off his cape and costume, he hung it up in his locker and placed the helmet in the overhead cubby. He unzipped his boots and placed them on the floor. Someone would be by tomorrow morning to shine the boots and dust off the costume.

Standing in his black boxer-briefs, he stretched his arms over his head and reached behind his neck to loosen the rubber band that held back his shoulder-length dark blond hair. He shook it free, drew back his fist, and punched the locker door with all his might, denting it badly and bruising his knuckles. He’d have to pay for it. He didn’t give two shits.

He reached for his jeans and T-shirt, stepped into the pants, and shrugged the shirt over his head. Generally, after a show, he headed to the stables to say good night to Thor and Joe, and possibly allow himself to be used by a decent-looking patron on the prowl, but not tonight. He was in a bad mood. Tonight he just wanted to go the fuck home.

He grabbed his keys and wallet from his locker and shoved them into his back pockets, then headed out the dressing room door, anxious to be gone before he ran into someone. He’d just as soon be sitting in his car than see Verity gush all over Artie when the show was over. Fuck Artie. Fuck everything.

He pushed open the door to the parking lot with too much force, listening as it slammed into the cement wall, and kept his head down as he strode over to his car. She’d be out in a few minutes with the fucking rose crown on her head, maybe with Artie’s arm around her shoulder. Maybe she’d ask Colt to give Ryan a ride home because Artie asked her out for dinner. And he’d say yes because he was a fucking fool, and he’d lie there in the dark, waiting to hear Artie’s truck pull up in his driveway. He’d tell himself not to run to the window to see if Artie pulled her up against him, to see if she let Artie kiss her, but he wouldn’t be able to help himself. He’d watch. He’d fucking watch as Artie—

“Great show!”

Wait, what? He stopped in his tracks, jerking his head up to see Verity and Ryan leaning side by side against his car. Her cheeks were still flushed with excitement.

“You were terrific!”

He looked back at the castle, where patrons were just starting to file out into the parking lot. “How’d you . . .?”

“Get here so fast?” She shrugged. “I figured the show was pretty much over when you were done, so . . .”

She wasn’t wearing the crown on her head, nor holding it in her hands. “Where’s your crown?”

“My . . .? Oh, the rose crown? I gave it to a little girl I passed on the way out. She was wearing a princess dress with no crown. I figured she had more right to it than me.” Her brows furrowed. “Oh, gosh. Is that okay? Should I have kept it?”

That was the moment he felt it. Deep inside. So deep, it was scary, like maybe it was a lock that had been there all along, but Verity Gwynn somehow held the key. His anger. His volatile fucking rage. He
felt
it diffuse. He could feel it turning from bright, hot red . . . to dark pink . . . to pink . . . to almost white as the soothing music of her sweet voice quelled the fury of the beast inside. And when he drew breath, it didn’t jerk and burn. It was deep and sound, filling his lungs. And when he exhaled, any residual anger caught a ride, spirited away.

Colt smiled . . . occasionally. No,
less
than occasionally. The reality was that there was only one person in the world who could make him smile, and he smiled for her because he always had and he always would. Because he’d promised her a long time ago, and he wasn’t one to break his promises.

But, in one blinding instant of rare happiness, a second name appeared on that short list of people who could make him smile. He felt his lips twitch up in an unfamiliar movement, a soft chuckle escaping from the back of his throat, as he stared down at Verity, whose upturned face split into a surprised, beaming smile, encouraging him to share his own. Shaking his head as he grinned at her, he inhaled deeply, relief washing over him like the light rain that had started to fall.

She’d given Artie’s crown to a little girl.

His pitiful heart took flight.

“It’s rainin’, Ver’ty. I’m gettin’ wet,” said Ryan.

Without looking away from her, Colt reached into his back pocket and pulled out his keys, pressing a button to unlock the car doors so that Ryan could get in the backseat.

“You’re
smiling
at me,” she said, her face filled with wonder.

“I guess I am.”

“No guessing about it,” she said, taking a step closer to him. “And I like it. So much.”

Raindrops sprinkled over her face, catching the glow of the parking lights overhead and turning into sparkles on her skin, making her face look like it was kissed with starlight.

“Why didn’t you keep the crown?” he asked, his voice husky.

“Because the right knight didn’t give it to me.”

His heart kicked into a gallop at the implication behind her words. He searched her eyes, knowing that he was about to do something very stupid, but totally unable to stop himself.

“You want to go out on a date sometime?”

She giggled softly and nodded at him. “Yeah.”

“You would?”

“Uh-huh.” Then her smile slipped, and she sighed, her eyebrows furrowing. “But . . . I don’t like leaving Ryan alone.”

Colt could understand this. Frankly he didn’t love the idea of leaving Ryan all alone at his house either.

“I’m off on Thursday,” he said. “How about I pick you two up after work and bring you home? After Ryan goes to bed, you can come downstairs and we’ll, you know, have a date.”

“At your house?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

“Okay,” she said, looking up at him, her smile shy but lovely. “He goes to bed at eight o’clock on the dot.”

Colt searched her eyes, ignoring every warning in his head that told him this was a very bad idea. All he could do was live for today. He had no idea what tomorrow would bring.

“I’ll be ready at 8:05.”

She giggled again. “It’s a date.”

“You’re getting soaked.”

“I don’t care.”

He scowled at her. “You’ll catch cold.”

“Maybe,” she said, reaching out to place her palm flat against his T-shirt, directly over his heart. “But you just smiled at me and asked me out on a date.”

“So what?” he growled, stepping toward her, closing the distance between them as he reached up and covered her hand with his.

She cocked her head to the side, her face slick with rainwater, her eyes soft and inviting. “So whatever happens next, it was worth it.”

***

Verity was a touchy-feely person.

Always had been.

Hugging someone or reaching out to touch someone’s arm or chest or cheek was second nature to her. But Colton had not yet reciprocated her touches. Aside from shaking her hand when they first met, he had endured her touch, but he hadn’t voluntarily touched her back.

So it surprised her when he reached up and covered her hand with his, pressing it flush against his chest and holding it there. She could feel the thunderous pounding of his heart beneath her palm, through the wall of muscle under his shirt.

Kiss me
, she thought, holding his eyes.
Kiss me now. Kiss me here in the rain, and let me know you’re starting to like me every bit as much as I’m starting to like you.

Verity knew she probably looked inexperienced, and compared with other women her age, perhaps she was, but she wasn’t a blushing virgin either. She’d had a boyfriend in high school and another after high school, when she worked as a waitress in a diner not far from Camilla.

But Tony, the high school quarterback, had dumped her for Chloe, the head of the dance squad. And Johnny, the short order cook, had really been more of a fling that fizzled out quickly when her parents passed away and she quit her job to take care of Ryan and the farm. She’d slept with both men and regretted neither, though she had yet to fall in love with someone, to give her heart to someone. And though she knew rationally that what she felt for Colton was not love but a wild crush brought on by his hot body coupled with his kindness, she couldn’t stop the intensity of it, or how badly she wanted to take it to a physical level.