She folds her hands in front of her on the table and then lowers them to her lap. And then places them back on the table. Blakely is nervous…of me. Which has never happened before. It means she knows she really crossed a line, and I want to be angry with her for doing it, but I also see her point.
I would have checked the mail religiously. I would have spent every day hoping for a letter from him and then been crushed when it didn’t come. And Blakely sent her letter two months ago. Eight weeks. That is a long time to ride that kind of emotional rollercoaster.
“Please don’t be mad at me,” Blakely says, lunging across the space between us and wrapping her arms around my very large middle. “I know I did something kind of shitty, but I did it with really good intentions, and I think that counts for something.”
I pat her back and laugh, despite it all. When she hears my laugh, Blakely sits up, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Have you cracked under the pressure or are you somehow finding the humor in all of this?”
“Can it be both?” I shrug. “It sucks that Christian didn’t write back, but at least now I know how he feels about the pregnancy. While I don’t completely condone your methods, you have cleared my conscience. Where Christian Åström is concerned, I have closure.”
She lets out a sigh of relief and stands up, pacing off her excess energy. “Thank goodness. Also, your prince is a total creep, so if you want to list me as the baby’s father, I’m fine with it.”
I throw my head back and laugh harder than I have in eight months. Screw bed rest and Blakely’s crazy over-protectiveness. I need to give my best friend a hug.
It takes three separate maneuvers to lift myself out of the chair, but when I’m finally on my feet, I stop Blakely mid-pace and pull her in for a hug. She has to angle her body awkwardly to avoid my bump, but she rests her head on my shoulder, and I pat her hair.
Then, something inside of my body audibly pops, and I stumble back a few steps, pushing Blakely away from me. She shrieks and looks around like she expects to see a burglar or a ghost standing in the doorway.
“What is it?” she asks, moving closer. She takes two steps before her shoe slips on the linoleum.
We both look down. The floor is wet.
“Is that…” Blakely looks from the floor to me and back again, horror sliding across her features.
Now that the shock is starting to fade, I can feel the warmth down the insides of my thighs. “My water just broke.”
Chapter 16
Christian
The ring box sits in the back corner of my bottom desk drawer, tucked away as far from my line of sight as possible, but it still bothers me. Taunts me, even. Like a siren luring men to their doom, the ring lures me to misery. Every time I remember it’s there, frustration grips my spine. I worry I’m going to be permanently hunched because of the tension I’ve been holding in my shoulders.
I’ve been courting Lady Freyja for eight months. Eight extremely long, extraordinarily boring months. We’ve gone to galas, state dinners, balls, gallery openings, the opera, and anywhere else Freyja believed we would be seen and talked about. That is all that ever matters to her. She doesn’t care about galleries because of the art, but because of who will be in attendance. She only knows which opera we are going to see because she knows all of the press will be gathered there for the premiere show.
I offered up a few date ideas early on in hopes of finding some common ground with her, but she physically winced when I asked if she wanted to play a round of golf with me. Her hand flew to her throat like she’d been attacked when I suggested we have a weekend away from all distractions—no cell phones, no media, no internet.
She didn’t say it, but the message came through loud and clear: what was the point of being with me if no one was around to see us?
I feel like a prop in a miserable play, passed from actor to actor with no say in the story. Inherently I know I can end things with Freyja anytime I want, but the ramifications are bigger than me. My brothers have made that clear enough. The longer I’ve stayed with Freyja, the happier they all seem. We’ve managed to get through several family meals without a single cross word being shared.
Even my father has seemed a bit more chipper. As chipper as is possible for him, anyway. He doesn’t openly scowl when I come into the room, and that is all a son could ask for really.
I would be happier without Freyja in my life, but no one else would be.
And even if I do leave Freyja, there are no other prospects. Not a single other woman I am even remotely interested in. Not since Jane-Ann.
I’ve done my best over the last several months not to think of her. Because when I do, I want to call Freyja immediately and end things. Not necessarily because I want to be with Jane-Ann, but because when I think of her, I’m reminded of how it felt between us. Of how it could one day feel with a woman who isn’t Freyja. Jane-Ann is my symbol of hope, and hope does not belong in the same place as the dark power that seems to emanate from the ring my mother gave me several weeks ago.
It is a family heirloom and absolutely enormous. The diamond could double as the anchor for a ship, which I know Freyja will adore. But the idea of giving it to her makes me feel sick and heavy, like my lungs are full of sea water.
Father expects the engagement to happen soon. He has even begun prepping the formal announcement for the press. The train is moving forward against my will, and if I want any chance of getting off, it has to be soon. But I’m not sure how.
I grab a stack of correspondence from the corner of my desk and drop it in front of me with a thud. My personal life is out of my hands, but I can control my work. Letters from friends and familiar diplomats from around the world tend to collect dust on my desk for months at a time before I respond to them.
I know what they will all say. The letters open with a few planned compliments about me and my family before launching into a “catch-up” paragraph that outlines what the writer has been doing both personally and professionally since we last spoke. Then, the last paragraph is the heart of the letter. The purpose. The request for support during a time of reelection or for continued aid and diplomacy. Reading them is monotonous, and I like to push the task to the bottom of my to-do list until I can’t avoid it anymore.
I skim letters, sorting them into three categories: do not respond, share with advisors, respond immediately. A few letters I’m able to categorize without opening due to the sender’s history of asking for ridiculous amounts of aid or sending letters with no useful or noteworthy content. But the others require enough of my attention that I forget about Freyja and the ring in the bottom drawer for a few minutes.
The stack, once teetering, becomes more manageable within the hour, and I’m nearing the end when a vibrant blue envelope catches my attention. It stands out from the plain white letters in an obvious way, but even when I pick it up, I see the American flag stamps in the top right corner, and I feel my chest tighten.
I turn it over looking for a return address, and I find one written in loopy handwriting, but there is no name. Just an address. In Austin, Texas.
I tear into the envelope without breathing, my lip pinched between my teeth as I nearly rip the letter trying to free it.
When it is smoothed out in front of me, I flash to the end of the letter first to see her name. To confirm what my beating heart is trying to tell me. This letter is from Jane-Ann. She contacted me. She is reaching out.
But I’m wrong. The loopy cursive handwriting belongs to a woman named Blakely who draws a tiny heart at the end of her signature.
Disappointment and confusion mingling in my stomach, I take a deep breath and go back to the top of the letter to start again.
His Royal Highness Prince Christian,
Sorry. We don’t have a royal family in America, so I’m not sure how to address you and the internet wasn’t very clear on the matter. I hope you don’t get offended and stop reading because I have something important to say.
; You are going to be a dad.
My best friend is Jane-Ann Callister. You may remember her as the woman you slept with in August. Well, she found out she was pregnant in October, and you are the only possible father.
You probably have a lot of questions, but it isn’t my job to answer them. That is between you and Jane-Ann. I’m only writing you now because I think you deserve to know, and even though Jane-Ann decided not to tell you, I’m her best friend in the world, and I know she’ll regret it one day.
Don’t be angry with her. You ditched her seconds after sleeping with her, so she deduced you didn’t have much of an interest in pursuing a relationship or in the responsibilities involved with having a child. Plus, the fact that you are royalty scared her away from contacting you. But again, these are all things J-A should tell you. Should you decide to contact her. Which you should. Because she is incredible.
Anyway, you’re going to be a dad. She’s living with me now, so write back at this address or use the phone number I provided. It’s mine, but I’ll make sure Jane-Ann gets your message.
Make the right choice.
Blakely
I read the letter three times before I can grasp any meaning aside from “You are going to be a dad.” A dad. A father. I was going to have a child.
With Jane-Ann. That realization came more slowly.
It had been one night. Twice, but only one night. I knew it was possible, but it still felt unlikely. We’d used protection, right? Eight months is a long time to remember a detail like that, but it is a critical detail. And even though we were both veering towards drunkenness, I feel confident we were safe. Years of drunken hook-ups, especially with women who knew I was heir to the throne and wouldn’t mind producing another heir, have made me cautious.
As soon as the reality starts to sink in, I want to believe she is lying. After I left, Jane-Ann looked me up online and realized I was a prince like I’d claimed. The wheels began to turn, and she created a false pregnancy story in an attempt to get some money off of me. It all makes sense.
Except, it doesn’t.
Jane-Ann and I were together eight months ago. Why would she wait so long to come forward with this story? Actually, she hadn’t come forward at all. Her friend wrote the letter, against Jane-Ann’s wishes it seems like.
The final phase of understanding hits me. She wasn’t going to tell me. Jane-Ann is pregnant—had been pregnant for over eight months—and she had decided not to tell me.
I want to be offended and angry. I want to hate her for making that decision, but I can’t summon the energy. It makes sense. I left her naked in bed and told her several times my family would never approve of her. Essentially, I called her common trash and then left. Why would she want to tell that guy she was having his baby? Nothing I’d done would lead her to believe I am interested in a relationship or in being a father.
Not to mention, having a baby with a member of the royal family is no small deal. It is the very making of a royal scandal, and from the little I know of Jane-Ann, she didn’t seem like the type of woman who was interested in scandal.
I read the letter a fourth time and then lean back in my chair and stare up at the ceiling. Texas feels a lifetime away.
It seems impossible that Jane-Ann and I can even be on the same planet. I haven’t seen her for over eight months, and until Blakely mentioned it in her letter, I didn’t even know Jane-Ann’s last name was Callister. If she’d told me the night we met at the honky-tonk, I hadn’t bothered to remember it.
I flip the envelope over and see the letter is postmarked for February, meaning it sat on the corner of my desk for two months. This bombshell had just been sitting right under my nose.
I think back to all the days I sat around fiddling with the engagement ring my family wanted me to give Freyja, wondering how my life had become so complicated, having no idea that half a foot away was information that would change everything. Or, if not change anything, at least make it much more complicated.
Because, what am I going to do?
I mentally crunch the numbers twice before settling on the insane reality that Jane-Ann is over eight months pregnant. She is going to give birth any day, so the months I should have had to plan for this event have become days. A week or two, maybe. The time I should have had to decide how I’m going to handle it, how and if I’m going to explain it to the press, and how I’m going to break the news of yet another scandal—this one bigger than ever before—to my mother and father has dwindled away without my realizing it.
Now there are only a few specks of sand left in the hourglass. Time is almost up.
Blakely’s number is practically flashing at the bottom of the letter, but calling about something this momentous seems insufficient. Especially since I waited two months to respond. Blakely probably thinks I’ve decided to ignore the news, and if Jane-Ann has found out Blakely sent the letter in the first place, she probably thinks I’m every bit the prick I was when I left her apartment that day over eight months ago.
I drop the note on my desk and grab my phone. It only rings twice before a familiar voice answers.
“Prince Christian. May I help you?”
“Hey, Gunner,” I say, sounding much more casual than my driver. “Can I have you pick me up as soon as possible?”
“Of course. Do you know your destination?”
I open my center desk drawer while he’s talking, rifling through the contents until I find my passport buried under a stack of sticky notes. I tuck it into the inside pocket of my suit jacket along with Blakely’s letter. I have no idea how I’ll explain any of this to my family or Jane-Ann, but I can’t worry about any of that. Right now, only one thing is important.
“Yes,” I said, flipping off the light in my office and going to the hall closet where I keep my luggage. “I’m going to the airport.”
Chapter 17
Jane-Ann
The hours between my water breaking and now are a blur. A painful, sweaty blur.
Blakely ran around the house gathering the few baby supplies I had managed to buy and some baby shower gifts, shoving them into a backpack along with a change of clothes for me, a toothbrush, and my makeup bag.
“Makeup isn’t a very high priority,” I groaned as the dull ache in my lower back that had been bothering me all day became worse and worse with each passing second.
“First impressions are important,” Blakely shouted back.
In the end, I met my son with a bare, sweaty face, but the biggest smile in the world. He was perfect.
Before seeing him, I worried I wouldn’t be maternal enough. Because I hadn’t planned for the pregnancy or intended to have children before at least having a serious boyfriend. I worried I would view him as a burden. But as soon as I saw his face, I knew all of those fears had been baseless.
His round chubby cheeks were perfect for kissing, and he had a bright burst of golden hair that stuck up in every direction. I was a bald baby, so I assumed he got that from Christian, but I couldn’t know for sure. Probably would never know.
Christian’s absence doesn’t sink in until the baby falls asleep, and I am left alone with my thoughts. Blakely left to shower and pick up a few more things, and since it was after midnight, my parents went home to sleep and promised to come back in the morning. So, it is just my son and me. Alone.
Nurses come in and out to check his temperature, give me pain medication, and massage my stomach to make sure my uterus is contracting back to normal size. Otherwise, I’m wholly responsible for the tiny life snoozing next to me. And the immensity of it is almost overwhelming.
Blakely has sworn over and over again that she will help however she can, and even though I plan to abuse her kindness for babysitting, I can’t rely on her to help me with middle-of-the-night wake-ups and diaper blowouts. I can’t expect her to sit in the emergency room with me when he gets sick or help me comb over the pros and cons of different daycares and preschools.
I know Blakely will be an inc
redible help, but she won’t be a parent. She won’t be his father. She can’t be.
I swallow back my rising emotions and focus on my son’s tiny face. I hope that by studying his features, I’ll not only convince myself I can handle this but also think of the perfect name for him. The nurse assured me there is no rush, but I don’t want to call him “baby” anymore. He is going to be the most important person in my life, and I want to know who he is going to be.
My baby naming brainstorming session is cut short by an unplanned nap. One moment, I’m staring at my son’s face, the next I’m opening my bleary eyes and unleashing an epic yawn that seems to come from my very soul.
“Tired?” a deep voice asks.
In my half-asleep state, I think I recognize the baritone voice, but before I can even summon the name, I bat the idea away. It can’t be him.
“I can’t imagine why. You haven’t done much today.”
The person speaks again in deep, honeyed tones that, along with the cool sarcasm, force my heavy eyelids open. I know this voice.
When I see him standing over the baby’s bassinet, looking down at him, his blond hair too long and hanging over his eyes, I just enjoy the view. When I wake up from this dream, I’ll want to sink back into it, but that never works. So, I better enjoy the sight of Christian standing next to our son while I can because it won’t last long.
He turns to me, and I smile at him, all of his past sins forgiven. Because, even if it is only in my dream, he came. Even if it is two months late, he came. Christian came to see our son and that is all that matters to me.
Dream Christian smiles back, but quirks his head away, one eyebrow raised. “Are you on drugs or something?”
I frown and glance up at the saline bag hanging next to my bed. “I don’t know.”
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