“Of course, he does,” Father answers for me. “Why wouldn’t he? An evening spent in the company of two remarkable women.”
Mother winks at him, but I can barely keep down my dinner. I try for two never-ending seconds to stay quiet, but the words burst out of me before I can stop them. “Oh, are you inviting someone else aside from Freyja, Mother?”
Her forehead wrinkles, and she looks to my father, a question on her face.
Father sighs and tosses his napkin in his lap. “Your son is telling a joke, Mia.” His tone makes it obvious he did not find it funny. “Christian does not have a taste for suitable women, it seems.”
“Ranell,” Mother says, glancing at the three younger boys. It seems she may also be concerned about my father’s influence on the children’s behavior.
He ignores her and continues addressing the table. “Christian would rather spend his time with women he finds drunk in bars than a woman of good breeding who enjoys civilized society.”
Breeding. As if Freyja and all other women were livestock.
“The dinner table is hardly the place for this discussion,” Mother starts. “It can wait until—”
“No,” Father thunders. “It can’t wait. We have waited ten years too long already to put Christian on the right path, and now we are all paying the consequences.”
I snort. “What consequences are you paying? I’m so sorry I was photographed leaving a bar. It must have been hell for the two of you.”
“You joke, but your mother’s friends whisper behind her back.”
I turn to her, and the way she quickly looks away from me tells me it is true. Still, what concern is that to me? “Perhaps, Mother needs better friends, then.”
“Or a more respectable son.” Father pushes his chair away from the table and shakes his head. “This is no longer a discussion. If you want to continue receiving a stipend from me and living in the house on our property, you will take Lady Freyja wherever on this God’s green earth she would like to go. And you will do it with a smile on your face.”
I level a glare at him hot enough to melt the silverware, but he simply holds it for a second and leaves the room. He stomps down the hall and slams the sitting room door behind him. When I look up at my mother, her face is weary.
“You do not need to provoke him,” she says quietly.
It’s no use arguing with her or making any attempt to convince her I was the provoked, not the provoker. Years spent with my father have softened her to his point of view. And if he was right, and her friends are displeased with my actions, then she will be predisposed to agree with him anyway.
She takes a deep breath and pushes away from the table, stopping once to gesture to my younger brothers. “Finish your dinners and then find some productive way to occupy yourselves. Quietly,” she warns.
The two youngest boys nod. Erikson just takes another bite of his dinner.
As soon as she is gone, I relax back in my chair. It feels like I just spent the entire meal on a stage, and I can finally step backstage and remove the costume.
But the moment the sitting room door down the hallway opens and closes again, my younger brothers turn to me, eyes wide.
“Why do you even bother coming over?” Erikson snaps, throwing his fork on his plate so it clatters, spilling vegetables onto the tablecloth.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Excuse me?”
He groans and stands up, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You clearly don’t want to be here. So, why do you come? It always ends this way.”
“It’s not exactly my fault,” I argue, surprised by his anger. Especially being directed at me. Though my brothers and I are not extremely close, I still believed we had a common enemy in our parents.
He rolls his eyes. “It’s not our fault, either, but we are going to be the ones who have to deal with Dad for the next few days while he cools down.”
I bite my lip, ashamed that I hadn’t considered what it must be like for them all when I get my father riled up and then leave. His pent-up anger can’t find me, so does he target them instead?
Before I can ask, Erikson lowers his head like he doesn’t want to draw any undue attention and heads for the stairs.
Jory stands to join him. “See you later, Christian.”
I give him a tight wave and then look at my youngest brother. Niles is slouched in his chair, his chin resting on his chest.
“What about you, Ni?” I ask, elbowing his arm. “Are you mad at me, too?”
He shrugs but doesn’t say anything.
“It’s okay if you are.”
That isn’t exactly true. I’ve grown used to my parents’ anger, but experiencing it from my brothers is new. Especially from Niles. As a kid, I could sneak him a stuffed animal and immediately become his best friend. But now, I think he might be too old for that trick.
His blond hair is a mop on his head. Much too long to be considered proper, but Mother has always had a hard time cutting it. I don’t mind. As long as his shaggy hair is still hanging over his ears, he’s a little kid.
He swipes it across his forehead and out of his eyes before he looks up at me.
“Why don’t you just marry Lady Freyja?”
“What?” I ask, not because I didn’t hear him, but because he surprised me.
He bites the corner of his mouth. “You wouldn’t have to fight with Dad anymore, and she is nice. And pretty.”
Something in my chest breaks at the words. “It isn’t that simple, buddy.”
“Yes, it is,” he says more firmly, standing up, his small fists pressed to his legs. “Everyone thinks I’m too little to understand, but I’m not. Mum and Dad want you to marry Lady Freyja, but you don’t want to. And now, everyone is upset.”
“You’re right,” I say softly. “But there is more to it than that. Something between us is missing.”
His small chest rises and falls while he thinks. “Erikson thinks you’re being stubborn to prove a point. He thinks you’re being selfish and making things bad for the rest of us because you don’t want to be told what to do.”
From the mouths of babes.
Hearing Niles repeat the truth of what Erikson thinks about me stings worse than I expect, but I swallow down my pride and the instinct to defend myself and instead reach out to grab Niles’ elbow. I squeeze it with what I hope is affection.
“Erikson doesn’t understand everything, either. I know this is a big mess, but I’m going to take care of it, all right? You guys don’t need to worry about me.”
I know immediately my words have done little to soothe his worries, but he gives me a small smile before he, too, walks away.
Alone in the dining room, five half-eaten plates around me, I realize how bad things have become. How toxic. I manage a few more bites of the chicken, which has started going cold, before I slip out of the house without saying goodbye or receiving one.
I get in my car and head for the club district out of instinct more than anything else. I need a drink. Bad.
I knew things with my father were in rough shape, but I had no idea the stress I was putting on my younger brothers and, to some extent, my mother. With me against my dad, it was easy to believe I was in the right. To see that I had been wronged. But now, with five against one, I had to wonder whether I wasn’t the problem. Whether, on some level, I wasn’t making things worse for everyone.
Niles was young, but he was right. It certainly would be easier if I could love Freyja. But I don’t. Our relationship lacks something essential. It lacks a spark. A connection that is necessary to make any relationship work.
The kind of connection I had with Jane-Ann.
It’s been two months, and she still pops into my mind when I least expect it. I’ll be going about my day or out on the town with Freyja, and Jane-Ann’s long plaits appear in my mind’s eye. Or her heart-shaped face. Or her pouty lips. Occasionally, I see her lying naked in the bed as I’m pulling my clothes on. Not my finest moment, admittedly—considering
I was leaving her moments after round two—but she still looked incredible.
And more than that, we could talk to one another. We played and teased and smiled, and I have never had that kind of relationship with anyone before.
I turn down the main road, people milling along the sidewalks, walking from bar to bar. I can see my security in the car behind me, never too far away, and a few people turn to look and point. With a posse, I’m easily recognized wherever I go.
I wonder if Jane-Ann is out at the honky-tonk again. If she’s dancing with another man, taking him home to her bed. Jealousy flickers in my stomach, and I squash it down. It isn’t fair. Not to her or me. We were a quick fling. A one-night stand in the truest sense. It isn’t fair to turn it into more.
Though, the idea of contacting her suddenly sounds appealing. After my last unplanned trip to America, it will be a long while before I can manage it again—Father has increased security on me to make sure I can’t run—but I could still talk to her. Perhaps, we could become pen pals. Can pen pals sext? If not, maybe we’ll start a trend.
I smile at the idea. But just as quickly as the idea came, it leaves. After how we left things, there’s no way Jane-Ann would want to hear from me again. Plus, I’m not even sure I’d know how to get in touch with her. I might remember her address, but I could also be jumbling all of the numbers around. I was pretty drunk that night.
And most importantly, I need to forget about Jane-Ann.
Even if I did get in contact and realized we have more than just a spark and amazing sexual chemistry, my parents would never accept a blue-collar match. They would never let me marry a commoner. Let alone, an American commoner.
I park against the curb and take a shuddering breath. I’d just thought about marrying Jane-Ann…after we had a one-night stand. If that doesn’t say everything about my emotional state at the moment, then nothing does.
The good thing about Lady Freyja is that I am confident she feels just as little for me as I do for her. At the very least, no one is getting hurt. So, I need to put Jane-Ann out of my mind and recommit to courting Lady Freyja. For my sake…and my brothers’.
I get out of my car and walk into the nearest bar. I need a drink. Immediately.
Chapter 13
Jane-Ann
Three Months Later
I stand near the desk, a hand pressed to the baby bump now clearly visible to everyone, and hope the middle-aged couple who has carted me all over the store several times over will take the hint: Pregnant lady needs a break. They have questions about every item they see, asking for fabric options and discounts because of wear and tear. My feet ache from standing up all day, and even though I’m still only in the second trimester, my ankles are swollen.
“Excuse me, miss?” The woman waves a hand from the middle of the store, beckoning me.
I plaster on a fake smile and waddle over to her. I’ve told her several times to call me Jane-Ann, but she either can’t remember my name or prefers the more formal “miss.” Or, and this is the most likely option, she wants to shame me. As soon as she noticed my belly, she asked the sex of the baby and exclaimed that my husband and I must be thrilled. When I informed her I was unmarried, she corrected to boyfriend. When I informed her I did not have a boyfriend, she pursed her lips and gave me a good once over like she was searching for a “SLUT” tattoo to be proudly displayed somewhere.
I understand her reaction. I don’t like it or approve of it, but I understand it. Living in the South, it is how a lot of people feel. My parents included. Well, at first, anyway.
I waited to tell my mom until I was in the second trimester. Just in case. If I lost the baby, I still would have told my parents, but that would have been a different discussion. So, I waited. But as soon as the second trimester arrived, we had the discussion.
Mom cried, which I expected. Dad did, too. Which I didn’t. But by the time I left, they accepted it and promised they would be supportive. And they have been. Mom goes with me to every doctor’s appointment, and she texts every day to make sure I’ve taken my prenatal vitamins. Dad asks how I’m feeling and refuses to let me bend or lift or stretch for anything—though he has pointedly refrained from asking who the father is, unlike my mother who asks every chance she can get.
I haven’t told them. And I won’t. Until I have to.
Which honestly, may be never. I don’t foresee Christian being a large part of my life or the life of my child…our child. Blakely and I have seriously discussed it twice, weighing the pros and cons of telling him, and both times I have decided to keep it to myself. And Blakely, despite noticeable reluctance, agrees with me. I’m not sure if this is because she thinks this issue is too personal for her to disagree or if she just doesn’t want to rock the boat so soon after we’ve moved in together.
Between doctor bills and baby supplies, my slight raise at the sofa store wasn’t going to cut it long-term. So, I decided to look for a cheaper one-bedroom. I’d share a room with the baby for the first six months, and then move my bed into the dining room, treating the living space as a kind of studio apartment, while the bedroom became a nursery. I could stay there long enough to save up money for a down payment on a starter home. It would be perfect.
Except, Blakely went with me to tour two different one-bedroom apartments within my price range and was so shocked by the conditions, which she called “unsuitable for human habitation,” that she immediately asked me to move in with her.
It felt like an invasion of her space. Even if it had just been me moving in, I would have hesitated. But I came as a package deal with a baby. Who would scream at all hours of the night, poop and pee and vomit indiscriminately, and have an early bedtime that would prohibit all loud noise. None of which jived with the lifestyle of a single twenty-something.
Yet, Blakely insisted.
“We’ll be like two women in a sitcom. Single, fun, and hot, but also raising a baby. There will be laughs, tears, hijinks. It will be incredible.”
At the time, I didn’t ask what “hijinks” she thought we would get into, and it remains my single reservation about my decision to move in with her. Sleeping with Christian was a hijinks, and that has obviously put me in quite a pickle. I am all hijinksed out.
Doubts and fears aside, my family and friends have rallied around me and my baby, surrounding us with so much love and understanding that it has given me a kind of armor against judgmental old hags who look at me like I’m working a pole rather than selling them a sofa.
I’m slightly out of breath when I reach the couple—another reminder that I need to keep up with the exercise routines Blakely created for me and my growing bump—but my smile never falters, even as I wipe my forehead.
“How can I help?”
She points to the leather loveseat her husband is sitting on. It’s one of the most expensive items in the store, and I’d love to snag the commission on it. I’d put it directly into savings like a boring, responsible adult, but still, it would be nice.
“Does this come in black?”
The woman’s hair is dark and tapered around her neck, but she still shakes her head like she’s trying to flip it over her shoulder.
I wonder if the cut is new and it’s a habit she hasn’t been able to break yet, or if it’s a nervous tick. Nervous because we both know the information about custom fabrics and alterations is in the binder at the counter where I was just standing before walking all the way across the showroom. I’ve had to walk her and her husband across the store several times to look at it, and they could have just come to me with the request to save me the walk.
Still, I smile.
“I’ll have to check,” I tell her. “Come with me, and I’ll show you the available fabric swatches.”
“Great,” she says, waving for her husband to follow.
He shakes his bald head, choosing to remain on the leather loveseat. I understand his desire.
I make small talk with the woman as I waddle back to the desk. I didn’t
expect to already be so uncomfortable at the twenty-week mark. The idea of growing larger over the next twenty weeks makes me want to sit down and cry. But I’ll do that later.
For now, I’m putting on a pleasant show fit for the stage. Or politics. I am remaining unruffled even in the face of this woman’s obvious disdain and ridiculous requests. Perhaps, Christian was wrong about me. His family could learn to love me, and even if they didn’t, I could handle their dislike.
I push the thought down. Thinking about him is a waste of time. Not only do I not really know him; I’m not going to know him. There will be no further contact between us, which means spending my time obsessing over whether his parents would hate me or whether I could ever look the part of a royal is useless. Because it won’t ever matter.
Though, Blakely and I may have walked through my royal makeover once or twice. It would involve top-of-the-line skincare, weekly hair masks, and a completely new wardrobe. The people of Sigmaran wouldn’t know what hit them.
I sag against the counter when we get there, leaning on my elbows for a second while I try to catch my breath. I can’t remember the last time I was this out of shape. Maybe never?
“Are you okay, miss?” the woman asks.
Her thin eyebrows are creased with worry, and I’m surprised by the concern on her face. And after the way she has treated me all morning, I don’t want it.
“Fine,” I say, waving away her concern and grabbing the binder. I flip through the book page by page without seeing anything. I go to grab the next page and realize I’ve reached the end of the book.
I look up and the woman is staring at me and biting her lower lip. She glances around for one of my co-workers, wondering who she can ask for help.
I want to tell her that being pregnant with a bastard doesn’t at all hinder my ability to serve her and that she should take her antiquated views and shove them up her rear-end, but I swallow it all down and laugh.
“Feeling a little spacey today. Let’s try this again.”
Prince Baby Daddy - A Secret Baby Royal Romance Page 10
