Page 3 of Chivalry is Not Dead

Iwake up with a pounding headache and promise to never speak to Leah again. Which will last approximately fifteen minutes until she texts to make sure I’m alive.

I am alive, but only barely. And I’m definitely not happy about being awake this early, knowing I have to go into work today.

Rolling out of bed, I realize my entire sleep shirt has twisted in the night and one boob is currently hanging out of the arm hole. The guy who wanted more tit from my costume last night would have loved this, I think.

But not Sanders.

Actually, maybe he would enjoy it, but he would be a gentleman about it. That kiss on my hand? I don’t know that I’ve felt butterflies like that in… well, ever.

He must have just moved to Auraria because surely I would have run across him before. All of my Were friends always know the comings and goings of new people, and they haven’t once mentioned a tall, toned, English man with perfectly veiny hands.

Fixing my top, I start a pot of coffee and then jump in the shower to wash away the alcohol that seems to be dripping from my pores. I’ve got an entire cast of A Chorus Line that needs costumes ready to be fitted by the end of the week and two new Christmas carolers that will require their own period pieces before the holidays start, which means I’ll be working late nights for the foreseeable future.

Thirty minutes later, I lock my apartment and start the walk to my shop. The start of November is always my favorite time of year. The air is brisk this morning and does an amazing job of curing my hangover. I close my eyes and inhale the fresh fall air, knowing I could navigate myself to the shop in my sleep.

Using this time to ground myself in my magic, I tune into my senses. Feeling the chill cut through my thin cardigan, inhaling the black coffee in my hands, hearing the clanking of armor in the distance—wait.

My eyes snap open. The clanking of armor?

Across the street I spot Sanders, still in his full suit of armor. Did he stay out all night?

To be honest, I’m a little annoyed with him for just disappearing last night, so I duck my head and try to pass by without him seeing me. No such luck.

“Lady Penelope!” Shit.

I try to ignore him, hustling as fast as my legs will take me, but he obviously is not picking up on the social cues.

“Lady Penelope!” Clank clank clank. “‘Tis I, Sanders!”

Dammit. I give up the act and turn toward him. “Oh, hi! I didn’t see you there… still in your full suit of armor…”

He crosses the street toward me, helmet still firmly in place. When he speaks, his voice is frantic. “How came I to be in this place?”

“Uh… I’m not sure.” I keep walking toward the shop. “Where’d you go after the party last night?”

“I wandered about the town. I knew not whither to go.” His voice is sounding more and more distressed the longer we talk.

I look at him out of the corner of my eye, but his face is entirely covered so I can’t get a good read on him. When we arrive at the shop, he follows me in, assessing the chaotic area. There are bolts of fabric semi-organized on one wall, several dress forms, and my trusty sewing machine and work table taking up most of the space.

“You can sit if you want,” I say, gesturing toward the small fabric chair that I generally use for customers waiting for fittings.

He takes a seat, his large body barely fitting onto the chair. He looks supremely uncomfortable.

“It’s safe,” I call over my shoulder as I busy myself with clearing off the work table. “You can take your helmet off.”

There’s a clanging sound as he follows my instructions, and I’m almost scared to turn around and finally see this man.

“Lady Penelope, this is new unto me.” His words are clearer now that he’s removed his helmet.

I take a deep breath, preparing to turn around. “What is ne⁠—”

Ho. Ly. Shit.

Alisander the knight looks like he was chiseled from stone. Do the English believe in gods and goddesses? If so, I’m not convinced he’s not one.

His hair is a dirty blond, wavy and thick. He has striking blue eyes surrounded by lashes that any girl would be envious of. His nose—gods his nose—is slightly crooked, speaking to the fact that he’s probably been in a fist fight or two in his time. Plump lips are surrounded by scruff that would leave such a nice burn between my thighs.

Fuck.