Page 3 of Keeping Knight

“Ooh, what kind of movie?” I’ve lived in Manhattan for close to ten years, and I still get a little thrill whenever I spot a movie or television show being filmed. Plenty of New Yorkers don’t blink an eye at the sight of a famous actor shooting a scene right out on the street, but it still hasn’t gotten old to me.

He thinks for a second. “Not action. Maybe a romance? But it seemed sad. He was running after her, shouting her name and crying.”

“Hmm. I’m more the rom-com type myself,” I reply. “I’ll take a pass on the running and shouting and crying.”

“Same.” After a beat, he smiles. “Well. I could take a pass on the romance entirely. I’m more into action and fantasy.”

“I like fantasy,” I tell him. “I used to watch it with my dad. Labyrinth and The Dark Crystal were his favorites.”

Micah nods in approval. “You can’t go wrong with those.”

I’m just about to ask him about his favorite fantasy movie—I’m guessing Lord of the Rings—when Chef Philip claps his hands loudly. “Alright. Let’s get started.”

Tucking away the question for later, I fix my attention on our instructor. Even though I’d honestly rather keep talking to Micah than listen to Chef, the work ethic my parents instilled in me is impossible to ignore. Class is for learning, my dad always told me. Not for socializing. Save that for later. When you’re in class, you should give all your attention to your teacher.

Given that my dad was a neurosurgeon and my mom a dentist, it wasn’t surprising the value they placed on education. Most of the time, I didn’t mind. I liked school. I wanted to get good grades. And as a natural introvert, it was kind of a relief to have an excuse not to talk to my classmates.

“Are you ready?” Micah whispers. “No weapons or fires this time.”

I flash him a quick smile. “Just edible food. So you can take some chili home to enjoy.”

“That went a lot better than I expected.”

Micah looks over at me with a pleased smile. “I really thought the cornbread would get me this time,” he continues. “But I think it actually came out pretty well.”

“It did,” I agree. “Really well. Even Chef Philip said so.”

“He did, didn’t he?” Micah’s smile expands. “The best cornbread of anyone’s. Did you see Teacher’s Pet when Chef said that?”

“I did. And he didn’t look happy.”

“Nope.” Micah bumps my arm with his. “He sure didn’t.” He pauses. “Is it weird that I’m so invested in this? I mean, it doesn’t matter. It’s just a cooking class. Not like we’re getting paid or trying to get a promotion.”

“It’s the principle of it,” I reply. “I don’t really care about being better than anyone else. But when someone gets all braggy…” I shake my head. “Maybe it’s just me being stubborn. But I was the same way back in school. As soon as some know-it-all started acting like they were the smartest one in the class, it motivated me to study even harder.”

“So you were the teacher’s pet?” he teases.

“Oh, no. I didn’t talk in class unless I had to. And I never bragged about my grades. It was more just… proving to myself that I could do it.”

We go quiet for a moment as we push through the double doors that lead to the sidewalk. A sharp blast of cold hits me, and I shiver. It’s not unseasonably cold for a night in early October—maybe fifty degrees or so—but after spending the last two and a half hours in a commercial kitchen, the change in temperature is jarring.

I try to wedge my to-go container under one arm so I can zip up my jacket, but I’ve only made one unsuccessful swipe at the zipper before Micah takes the container and stacks it on top of his. “I’ll carry it,” he says. “Sorry. I should have offered when we were leaving the kitchen.”

“It’s fine.” With both hands free, I make quick work of the zipper. “It’s not like the container is heavy. I’m perfectly capable of carrying it myself.”

“Still.” Micah’s expression is stubbornly set. “It’s good manners.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” I reply with a chuckle. “You’re far more polite than most guys I’ve known.”

It’s the truth. I might not know Micah well, but I’ve seen enough to know how well-mannered he is. He always holds the door for a woman, even if she’s a good twenty feet away. If he’s waiting for something and a woman gets in line behind him, he’ll offer to swap places with her. He walks me home from cooking class every week, even though I told him it wasn’t necessary, and he makes sure to walk on the outside of the sidewalk to protect me from traffic.

When I was with my ex, Liam, I was lucky if he ever held the door for me. “I’d think you’d want to open the door yourself,” Liam retorted when I asked him about it. “Being an independent woman and all. Why would you need me to open the door for you?”

In hindsight, I should have taken that as a sign we weren’t meant for each other. Because I like ‌chivalrous gestures. They remind me of my dad. And just because I can open a door for myself doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate when someone else does it for me.

Displeasure moves across Micah’s face, but as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone again.

Annoyance that I mentioned his manners, I wonder? Is he unhappy that I haven’t known many men who’ve been as polite as him? Or is it just a reaction to the cold, and I’m reading far more into his expression than I should be?