Page 36 of Tempting Mr. Knightly

She picked up her backpack, stole Marco’s remaining oat milk latte, and retreated to the back room to study. On her way past the counter, she whispered to Marco, loud enough for Lucy to hear, “He’s not a firefighter.”

“Obviously not,” Marco whispered back. “The firefighter didn’t bring coffee.”

Lucy turned to Knox. He was watching her the way she’d learned was his default, like she was a number that hadn’t reconciled.

“Your sister is direct,” he said.

“That’s the polite word.”

“I liked her.”

“Everyone likes Jane. She’s the easy one. The rest of us take work.”

The afternoon light slanted through the front windows and caught the edge of his glasses. He was quiet, the real kind of quiet that came when someone ran out of strategy and operated on instinct.

“Can I ask you something?” Lucy said.

“Yes.”

“Your father. The truffles. You said he made them every Christmas, and they were the one thing he made with his hands instead of his signature.” She paused. “Do you still make them?”

Knox’s face changed, not dramatically. A stillness moved into his eyes, the involuntary flinch of someone touched in a place he’d forgotten was vulnerable.

“No,” he said. “I stopped after he died. I was twenty. I didn’t want anything of his.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m thirty-six. I’ve built an entire life on the principle that my father’s mistakes were the result of emotion overriding logic. I signed the Oath because I believed that discipline was the antidote to recklessness. I watched Ronan break it first, and I thought he’d lost his mind. Then Gabriel. And they’re both better than they were. Happier. More human.” He turned his empty cup slowly on the table, holding on to it because setting it down felt like leaving. “I spent fifteen years believing that my father’s truffles were a symptom. Now I think they might have been the only thing about him that was genuine.”

“Why?”

“Because he made them with his hands. Everything else he did was leverage. The fund, the woman, the lifestyle. All of it was about gaining and maintaining. The truffles were the one thing he did because he wanted to, not because he expected a return.” Knox’s voice was quiet. “I think I understand that better now than I did at twenty.”

Lucy reached across the table and placed her hand over his, brief and warm, not a gesture she planned and not one she could take back.

Knox’s eyes dropped to their hands. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t move at all. He sat with her palm against his knuckles and looked at the place where her skin met his like she’d left an imprint he could feel through the bone.

Lucy’s breath caught. She hadn’t expected him to go still. She’d expected deflection, a pivot, anything but this quiet holding of the space she’d stepped into.

“That’s what the grant has to be,” she said.

He raised his head. “What?”

“I’m accepting the investment proposal. For the wedding desserts.” She withdrew her hand and set it in her lap. “But the grant from your foundation, I’m applying on my own. Through the direct channel, like you offered. My application. My terms.”

“Understood.”

“And Knox.”

“Yes?”

“The coffee temperature.” She held up the cortado. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“I would never assume you missed a detail.”

“Good. Because I don’t.” She took a sip and held his gaze over the rim. “It’s perfect, by the way. But I’m not going to tell you that.”

“You don’t need to,” he said. “Your left eyebrow already did.”