Prince Baby Daddy - A Secret Baby Royal Romance

by Layla Valentine

  My mother looks at me, a curious kind of amusement in her eyes, completely buying her disguise. “I wish he had told me more about you. It seems he wanted to keep you a secret, though I can’t imagine why. You are lovely.”

  Jane-Ann looks over her shoulder at me, her eyes bright and shining. It nearly takes my breath away. I stop walking and just admire her. Somewhere down deep I know it is an act, but it feels so real. I want it to be real. I want Jane-Ann to look at me like this, and I want my family to be as enamored with her as I am.

  “I do not pretend to understand the inner workings of Christian’s mind,” Jane-Ann says, reaching out her hand to me.

  I place mine in hers and let her pull me to her side.

  She continues, “But I’m glad to be here with you all now.”

  The double doors open again, and my father steps out between two servants. His suit is crisp, and a Windsor knot is at his neck. He is in his day-to-day work attire, looking usual in every way except one. His smile.

  He is beaming at Jane-Ann, radiating a kind of pleasure I can’t recall ever seeing. Even Jane-Ann seems surprised by it and leans back into my arm for a moment as he approaches before realizing what she has done and standing tall. She curtsies again.

  “Your Majesty.”

  Father looks at me with an expression I almost don’t recognize until I realize it is approval. Jane-Ann addressed him properly, and for a man like my father who is obsessed with his image, that is all he could ever want.

  “Lady Ann,” he says, voice booming. “How was your flight?”

  “Fine, but not as fine as landing,” she says. “I’m so happy to be here meeting you all.”

  She curls her fingers more tightly around mine and presses herself against my side, any sense of coldness between us gone. She is so convincing, I have to remind myself it is a rouse every few seconds.

  My two youngest brothers step forward, bowing to her, Jane-Ann curtsying in response, and I introduce them.

  “I know who you both are,” Jane-Ann says with a twinkle. “Is Prince Erikson not here?”

  Father frowns for a moment and doesn’t turn to the door as he raises his voice. “Erikson, come greet our guest.”

  Seconds later, Erik walks through the doors and down the steps. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, and he stops just behind Jory and Niles. With his blond hair pushed to the side and his eyes downcast, he looks like every picture of me when I was his age.

  Mother clears her throat, and Erik nods and meets Jane-Ann’s eyes for only a second before looking back down at the ground.

  “Your Highness,” Jane-Ann says, bowing.

  Color rises in Erik’s cheeks, and I can’t blame him. Jane-Ann is gorgeous. She would have been too much for me to handle as a teenager. No wonder he was trying to hide inside.

  “Well, I’m sure you are exhausted from traveling,” Mother says, stepping aside to gesture to the doorway. “Christian can show you to one of the guest rooms, and we’ll see you both for dinner?”

  Jane-Ann nods and steps forward, but I grab her hand tightly and hold her in place. “Actually, I thought Lady Ann could stay in my residence. We will be back here for dinner, though.”

  I can tell by the thin set of Mother’s mouth that she doesn’t approve, but I know she won’t disagree with me in front of Jane-Ann. The rules of common decency would require Jane-Ann to stay in the palace since we are as yet unmarried, but nothing about my behavior has ever been decent, and this situation is far from common.

  Mother just nods and then smiles at us both. It is genuine. “You two make a lovely couple.”

  My apartment is just on the other side of the palace grounds, so the drive is short. Jane-Ann makes no effort to talk to me during the drive, and with the window down between us and the driver, I don’t want to risk either of us saying anything that would reveal our deception. So, I watch the familiar scenery of the palace pass outside my window.

  When we get to my house, I grab Jane-Ann’s luggage and lead her to the guest room on the first floor. It is just beneath my bedroom and has its own bathroom with a deep jacuzzi tub and a modern glass shower.

  “The clothes I had made for you are already here,” I say, pointing to the dark wood double doors that lead to the walk-in closet. “And everything else you may need should be in the bathroom, but don’t hesitate to ask. Unlike the palace, my house is small enough that I’m only a shout away.”

  Jane-Ann stands against the door, her hand on the knob, and nods. The ease from a few minutes before is gone, drained out of her like someone pulled a plug in her foot and let it all puddle out on the carpet. She looks exhausted and worn. Still, I can’t stop myself from trying to connect with her. For real, not pretend.

  “I meant what I said before. I am sorry about everything, but thank you for—”

  Before I can say anything else, the door slams in my face. A moment later, I hear the lock click into place.

  Chapter 23

  Jane-Ann

  The room is beyond gorgeous. Like a resort, but instead of folding your towel into a swan, the shower handle is solid gold and the crystal hand soap dispenser is nice enough that I feel like I need to wash my hands before I touch it, though I’m not sure how that would be possible.

  After giving the room a cursory once-over, I plop down on the edge of the bed and try to breathe. For the last half hour, I’ve barely been holding it together. Seeing Christian was worse than I thought it would be. So much worse. I’d hoped that over the two months we were apart, his looks would begin to fade. Maybe male pattern baldness would set in. But based on the King’s full head of hair, that didn’t seem likely.

  The King. I’d just met a king. And lied to him. To Christian’s entire family.

  Blakely and I spent hours and hours pouring over every piece of information we could find on Christian’s family and royal etiquette. I watched countless videos of women stepping out of cars and walking up stairs. Of them standing before the royal family’s entrance into a room, curtsying to the King and Queen consort, and smoothing down their skirts before sitting down in a chair. I spent the entire eight weeks walking around in heels until I not only didn’t wobble, but it felt strange to slip into my sneakers to take Tyler on his afternoon walk.

  Tyler.

  My heart aches at the thought of my baby. Along with my boobs. I need to pump.

  I was able to pump enough over the last two months to have a healthy store of breastmilk for Blakely and my mom to heat up for Tyler while I’m away, but between the pumping and his usual feedings, my boobs are making milk on overdrive. They’re full almost to bursting.

  Thoughts race through my head too fast to separate them into logical threads, and I can feel myself knotting up. So, I lean forward, my aching breasts smashed against my thighs, and take deep, even breaths. I can’t fall apart now.

  Things went well when I met his family outside the palace, and I have to keep it up at dinner tonight. I have a few hours to clean up, de-stress, and figure out how I’m going to get through the next two weeks with Christian by my side. Pretending to be his fiancée. Pretending to be in love with him. Or rather, pretending I am only pretending to be in love with him.

  I’m angry with him. For coming to Texas and making me want that kind of life with him. For buying me a house and taking care of us before turning around and leaving again. I’m angry with him for being perfect and unattainable. For making me an offer I couldn’t refuse to help him get out of an engagement so he could one day marry another woman. One he could really love.

  One that won’t be me.

  But I still want him. Or, at least, I want the way I feel with him to be the way I feel all the time. And so far, I haven’t been able to figure out how to get that feeling without him. And it sucks. What if I never find it?

  I have Tyler.

  I pull out my phone and see my mom’s sent a picture of him. He’s asleep in his swing, his wide lips parted. The wide lips he got from his father.


  I miss my baby. Seeing his picture doesn’t help. It just makes me want to drive right back to the airport and go home, but I’m trying to do what is best for him. Going home, getting away from Christian, that would be best for me. But staying and getting the money Christian promised, that will be best for Tyler.

  I’ll be able to ensure he gets into any school he wants. I’ll be able to secure a life for us. I won’t be another single mother struggling to pay the bills and keep food on the table. Two weeks of awkward encounters with Christian will ensure I can care for my son for life, and if that isn’t worth it, I don’t know what is.

  I take another deep breath and push myself to standing. I need to wash the travel smell off of me. The jacuzzi jets kick on as soon as the water level rises above them, and I hiss with pleasure as I slip into the steaming water. Maybe this trip won’t be all bad.

  Chapter 24

  Jane-Ann

  I can hear Christian moving through the house and walking down the hallway, but I still flinch when he knocks on my bedroom door. I hesitate, hand on the knob, while I straighten my spine and lift my chin. No matter what happens over the next two weeks, I’m going to stand tall. I’m going to be proud of who I am. Of Jane-Ann Callister. No matter what Christian said or what his family thinks, I’m good enough to be here. Fake accent or not.

  Feeling more confident, I pull open the door. Christian is dapper in a navy-blue suit that highlights every trim inch of him. The material stretches over his muscular thighs, and I hope my makeup hides the flush that creeps into my cheeks when I remember straddling those same thighs. His hair has been worked back into a perfectly messy coif that makes the squareness of his jaw and the cut of his cheekbones all the more prominent. He is gorgeous, and I hate that it is impossible not to stare.

  I’m redeemed, though, when I realize Christian is ogling me, as well. His blue eyes are wide as they roam down the length of me, no doubt observing his own handiwork. As soon as I’d opened the closet, I knew he’d personally selected every item in it. Or he’d given someone very explicit instructions to throw modesty out the window. The dresses were tight with high collars and a plunging back that revealed every inch of my spine or a plunging front that put my breastfeeding boobs on full display.

  “Hi,” he manages, the single word coming out tight and strained. He clears his throat and looks away. “I see the clothes fit.”

  I glance down at myself. “Barely.”

  I chose a navy-blue cocktail dress that hits just below my knee—I would have selected something different had I known Christian and I would arrive to dinner in matching navy outfits. The straps are thin and hold up a heart-shaped neckline that plunges low across my chest. It is the single most elegant thing I’ve ever worn. Underneath it, I’m wearing an obscene amount of spandex, but no one can tell that by looking at me. I know because I essentially did a yoga sequence in front of the mirror in the bathroom to be sure the King and Queen wouldn’t see any undergarment lines.

  “I’m producing a lot of milk,” I say in response to a question he didn’t ask but is written all over his face.

  “That,” Christian says, his eyes bouncing from one side of my chest to the other, “isn’t why I’m staring.”

  I raise an eyebrow, and he smirks. It is a serious blow against the armor I’ve built up to defend myself from his many charms.

  “Okay, it’s a little bit why I’m staring,” he admits, lips tipping dangerously upward. But then something in him changes. His brow lowers along with his voice. “You look beautiful, Jane-Ann.”

  My stomach flutters, and I smooth down the fabric along my thighs, though it doesn’t need it. The dress fits like a dream.

  “That’s Lady Callister to you,” I remind him. And myself.

  Christian keeps a safe distance as we leave his house, but as soon as we pull up in front of the palace, he opens my car door and offers me his elbow. I accept, ignoring the way his forearm flexes beneath my fingers and the way his cologne makes my senses fuzzy.

  Servants open the doors as we arrive, and Christian barely pays them any mind. It is strange to see him in this setting. In Austin, it was easy to forget his royal status, but here, among the white marble floors, ornate wood trim, and priceless artworks, he looks the part. Christian looks like he belongs.

  I only hope I look half as natural as he does.

  “Father favors people who know when to hold their tongue,” Christian whispers as we near what appears to be the dining room. It is the only room in the entire hallway with the doors thrown open and two guards standing patrol outside. “So, feel free to let me do most of the talking.”

  “So, business as usual?” I quip before I remember we aren’t on friendly terms.

  Christian chuckles. “That is the exact behavior you’ll want to rein in.”

  Because I’m not good enough. Because I’m an unfit match for the Prince of Sigmaran. Because I’m a common American with poor manners.

  The confidence I gathered in my room is fading quickly, and even though I want to be offended that Christian has essentially put a gag on me, I’m grateful for an excuse to sit and observe. If I want the next two weeks to be even slightly successful, I’ll need to pay close attention to everything. Every interaction and gesture, every greeting and departure. There are codes of conduct here I’ve never had to worry about, and I’m afraid the hours I spent watching videos online won’t be enough to save me.

  Christian must be able to sense my nerves because just before we turn to walk into the room and face his family, he slides his hand up and into mine, tangling our fingers together. I’m distracted enough with the trembling in my knees that I don’t resist.

  “Don’t lose it on me now, Jane-Ann. You look too good not to show off.”

  The doubt inside of me eases ever so slightly. If all else fails, at least I look the part.

  Christian’s family are sitting at the table when we arrive, and despite the lavishness of the room and their dress, I’m surprised by how ordinary they look. His youngest brother, Niles, is kicking his feet against the table, which probably costs more than my car, and his mother is pointing to her middle son, Jory, telling him to adjust the collar of his button down. He does so, but with a grimace.

  Erikson is the first one to look up as we enter, but his eyes dart down to his plate as soon as our eyes meet. He looks so much like what I imagine Christian must have looked like at his age. Tousled hair, pouty scowl, the roundness of his face beginning to give way to what would become hard edges and lines. He will grow up to be a heartbreaker like his brother, there is no doubt.

  “Family,” Christian says in a very casual greeting.

  I was prepared to curtsy again and greet them all individually, but Christian leads me to my chair and pulls it out for me, letting me know that won’t be necessary.

  “Sorry we are late,” I say in the accent I picked up from a lifetime of old Hollywood movies. “It was my fault.”

  “Now, Lady Ann,” the King says, leaning forward on his elbows. “Has Christian already convinced you to begin lying for him?”

  Panic grips my chest, and I feel like I can’t breathe. I know my mouth is gaping like I’m a suffocating fish, but I can’t stop it. What does he mean? What does he know? Is this my opportunity to confess?

  Before I can completely unravel, the King continues. “I don’t believe Christian has ever been on time a day in his life. He was born two weeks late, and he has been late ever since.”

  I sag with relief, and Christian reaches under the table and grips my knee.

  “Perhaps that is why Ann and I make such a good pair,” Christian says. “We both like to be fashionably late.”

  “You’ll have to educate me on this new fashion,” his father says with a smile that reminds me of a cat showing an enemy its teeth. “I came from an era where it was more important to be polite and punctual.”

  The tone is light, but the delivery is pointed. Christian had mentioned on a few occasions that his relati
onship with his family is strained, but I’d assumed it was in the same way that my relationship with my family is strained. Like how, politically, I lean left of center while my parents lean right. It creates a bit of tension on holidays when the topic comes up, but otherwise we are fine. The tension between Christian and his father seems to go beyond political ideology.

  “What Christian lacks in timeliness, he makes up for in charm,” I say quickly, smiling up at Christian fondly.

  He raises one eyebrow, and I can tell he is remarking on my acting ability. I vow to never tell him I didn’t have to act at all.

  “You’re right there,” his mother says, clearly relieved to have avoided the potential land mine. “Christian has always had the ability to work a room. From an early age, people simply flocked to him. It is what will make him a good leader.”

  “Leadership is more than likability,” the King says. “You have to be able to make the tough decisions. To make enemies from time to time. You can’t run away any time things get serious.”

  The Queen furrows her brow at her husband in warning, and he shrugs as if to ask what he did wrong. As if he doesn’t already know.

  “Things are serious between us, aren’t they, dear?” I ask, leaning into Christian, my lips pushed out in an exaggerated pout. “Are you going to run away?”

  He leans forward and presses his nose to mine. It is a move that would elicit a groan from me if I’d seen it happen in a movie, but in real life, with his lips so close and his eyes boring into mine, it takes every bit of strength not to close the gap between us.

  “Never, darling,” he says with an intensity I didn’t expect. “I’m afraid you are stuck with me.”

  “You two are adorable,” the Queen says, resting her chin on her folded hands. “How did you meet again?”