Fighting Mr. Knight: A Billionaire Office Romance (The London Mister Series Book 3)
Fighting Mr. Knight: Chapter 2

“Just ask him who she is,” Nisha grumbles beside me. “I can’t handle this version of you.”

She’s right—I’m the worst version of myself today. Ever since Max’s little faux pas, I’m completely on edge. Like a caged lab rat forced into caffeine testing.

I spent most of today cyber-sleuthing Max, checking if there are any new blonde females in the background of his photos.

So far, across all his social media accounts and even his LinkedIn, he has no blonde friends called Danielle.

My eyes narrow on Max across the office, where he’s subtly applying aftershave at his desk. He looks good. He’s got that Clark Kent thing going on, well-kept hair, great jawline but never with stubble, overall attractive but a bit stiff looking.

Is the aftershave for Danielle?

It doesn’t escape me that Danielle and I could be sisters. Blonde. Blue eyes. Pale skin. Max has a type.

Last night my therapist asked, “Is your grief about losing Max or the loss of an old way of life?”

Who the fuck knows? All I want to feel is numb. Sometimes I wish I had the brain of a sociopath.

The internet says six months is a decent time frame to recover from the break-up of a long-term relationship, but my therapist won’t give me a timeline because she’s charging a hundred pounds a session. Time frames aren’t in her best interest.

Spotting me gawking at him, Max stands up and strolls right up to my desk.

“Bonnie.” He nods curtly. “I’m going out with the partners this evening. Some of the seniors at Lexington will be there.” He pauses. “It would be wise for you to be there rubbing shoulders with them.”

I wanted a night out with Bradshaw and Brown as much as I wanted to suck a bag of flaccid dicks, but I need to land this promotion. Bradshaw is a tits person and Brown is a bum person, meaning I’ll get sleazed on from all angles.

Both knew about our relationship and were invited to the doomed wedding. You would think it would be awkward now, but Max project-managed the split perfectly.

According to Max, our bond had naturally transitioned into a caring friendship, and we were starting afresh on different paths. I keep meaning to find out what website he stole that blurb from.

Before his side of the bed got cold, he had wrapped the whole thing up, sold our flat, notified HR, cancelled the wedding and announced the decoupling to all of our friends, family and colleagues.

I was a mere spectator in the meticulous execution.

I crack a strained smile. “Sure. That sounds great.”

At least the aftershave is for the two little partner cretins rather than Danielle.

My phone buzzes, and I get it out.

Oh, God.

Three missed calls from The White Horse pub.

Dad.

My stomach heaves. I always fear the worst.

I hold a finger up. “Give me a minute, Max. The White Horse has been calling.”

He makes a snorting sound. “I don’t have all day, Bonnie—they’re going now.”

I eye him with a flicker of annoyance as I hit redial.

Max has always been snobby about Dad.

No answer. Now my stomach really twists.

His brows slant in heavy disapproval. “He’s an adult, stop babysitting him.”

Max is right. I have an entry into the big boys’ club. I can’t walk away from this opportunity but…he’s my dad.

Cursing under my breath, I lock eyes with Max in an unspoken exchange.

“Priorities, Bonnie.” He shakes his head and walks away, probably taking my chances of promotion with him.

***

Call me overly cautious, but when a guy is being hauled out of a bar by two bartenders, barefoot and slurring absolute shit before dinner time, it’s probably time to reassess your local boozer.

Especially if the guy ejected is your dad.

Dad’s not leaving without a fight. One foot sticks stubbornly in the doorway in protest.

Now he has everyone’s attention. It’s exactly the time when every office worker across East London spills out of the office and into the pubs.

He has the red bulbous nose of an older man, and I wonder if all men’s noses eventually go like this over time. That’s why personality is so important.

I sigh audibly.

Fuck my life.

Had it been past the watershed hour, he would have attracted a smaller crowd, but when you’re the only one completely annihilated in broad daylight, all eyes are on you.

My first instinct is to turn around, sprint back down the street, and spare myself a bucketload of cringe. There’s still time.

But pangs of guilt keep me rooted to the spot.

Besides, Uncle Pat has already clocked me.

“Dad,” I address him sharply as the doormen deposit him against a wall. “Dad,” I repeat loudly when both his eyes refuse to focus on me.

The stench of whiskey sends me into a coughing fit.

“He’s barred for tonight, Bonnie,” Gerry, the doorman I’ve met a few times this year tells me. Sometimes I wish they weren’t nice enough to call me when Dad decides to have one of his sessions.

“Just tonight?” I mutter.

Gerry shrugs and walks away.

“There’s my Bonnie,” Dad mumbles as his head tilts down. I’m shocked he can even identify me. “My girl’s an architect,” he roars to a group of guys in the beer garden, who look like estate agents, and I die a little inside.

I turn to Uncle Pat, who thankfully doesn’t seem to be on the same level of shit-faced.  “What the hell? How did he get so smashed?”

Pat looks at me wearily. “Tonight’s your parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary.”

Except it’s not.

I let out a heavy breath. “I’ll help you get him home.”

I never realised the date. I don’t even think Mum did either, but then again, she’s living her best life with my stepdad, Phil.

Dad never found anyone else after Mum. He seemed to get stuck in time.

Dad shuffles along beside me, mumbling something about the state of the country and the Conservative Party and other ramblings I have to listen to on a frequent basis.

My cheeks fill with shame as people avert their gaze.

Shame. I’m ashamed of my dad.

After all he’s done for me and all he’s been through.

Dad pats my shoulder softly. “I love my girl.”

I hate how he gets emotional when he’s had a drop. I should be back-slapping and ass-licking Bradshaw and Brown. Max will be deducting points from my promotion board for this.

I smile stiffly, feeling like the worst daughter in the world for hating my dad right now.

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