Prince Baby Daddy - A Secret Baby Royal Romance

by Layla Valentine

  I wanted to reach out and swat his arm, but it felt too familiar.

  “Or something nicer,” he went on. “It isn’t possible to be over-dressed at this restaurant, so wear whatever you want.”

  My closet is full of tulle and silk and velvet, fabrics that aren’t part of my usual wardrobe back home. For the last two months, I’ve lived in leggings and cotton T-shirts. And for over twenty years before that, I lived in denim and cotton T-shirts. Silk and velvet have never been the norm, so I feel overwhelmed as I pull out the garments one by one.

  There is a black velvet jumpsuit with wide-flared legs and a deep V-neck that looks like it could plunge to my belly button. I return it to the closet and reach for a deep green silk gown with one cross-body strap and a hem that brushes the floor.

  I’m feeling pretty good about my post-baby body, especially since it has only been eight weeks, but I’m not ready to be sausaged into a skin-tight silk gown. It won’t be very forgiving to the new bumps and lumps I’ve acquired from growing a human being inside of me.

  Toward the back of the closet, I spot a fabric that looks like captured starlight and pull it out and lay it flat on the bed. The gown has two straps, a neckline that isn’t modest—nothing in this closet would be approved by my father—but doesn’t make me blush just looking at it, and is floor-length with a sensible slit up one side. When I put it on and turn to look in the mirror, I gasp.

  Blakely likes to watch a show where women try on and choose their wedding gowns. They try on countless dresses, but you always know when they’ve finally put on the one they are going to choose because the music changes to something slow and romantic, and when they see themselves in the mirror, they are so pleased with how they look that they seem to float.

  Right now, I’m floating.

  The material is forgiving around my hips and thighs, but clings to my waist and chest in a seductive way that makes me suspicious that I could be standing in front of a funhouse mirror. I’ve never felt so sexy, and I spend several minutes admiring the many shimmery angles of the gown. Finally, after I begin to feel vain for looking at myself so long, I go to the bathroom to fix my hair and touch up my makeup.

  I run a shine serum through my hair to tame the flyaways caused by the wind off the water. And then, to keep it simple, I twist all of it over one of my shoulders and douse it in a healthy coating of hairspray. My skin is tan from my daily afternoon walks with Tyler over the past two months, so I don’t need much in the way of makeup. Just a dab of blush on the apples of my cheeks, a streak of highlighter along my cheekbone, mascara, and a shimmery eyeshadow to match my dress. It’s a good thing too because I spent so much time admiring my gown that Christian shows up just as I’m finishing my mascara.

  When I open the door, Christian doesn’t say anything. He takes a stumbling step back like I’ve pushed him, and then he stares at me. His face is slack, bare of even his trademark smirk, and I bite back a smile. It shouldn’t matter to me that Christian finds me attractive, but it does.

  Then, I take a closer look at him, and I’m the one struggling to form a coherent thought.

  He is in a white button-down, the top button open to reveal a hint of his perfect pale chest, with a dark blue blazer thrown over. The jacket was made specifically for his body, I’m sure, and it does him wonders. He looks broad and tall and strong, and I could spend minutes and hours outlining the shape of his shoulders if it weren’t for his trousers. They are a gray wool with a crease down the leg, and I can see the evidence of every squat and lunge he has ever done.

  I’ve never been with a man who didn’t grumble about wearing a suit, but Christian looks made for them. Seeing him in sweat pants would be like hiding the Mona Lisa beneath a sheet.

  “Wow.” Christian’s voice draws my eyes upward, and I can see that his are still focused elsewhere. “You look…”

  Words seem to fail him again, and I tilt my chin down, embarrassed.

  “You look dashing,” I say.

  “Yes. You too. I mean.” He takes a deep breath and shakes his head like he is fed up with himself. “Thank you. You look gorgeous.”

  “Thank you.” I grab my clutch from the top of the dresser and step into the hallway. “Are we ready to go?”

  Christian straightens his back and extends an elbow. “My lady?”

  I roll my eyes, but I can’t help but smile as he leads me down the hallway like a woman in a Regency-era movie.

  The restaurant is tucked away in the hills of Sigmaran, perched precariously close to the edge of a cliff with a view looking across the fjord and out to sea. It is no larger than a gas station back home, but it is infinitely nicer. The servers are dressed in black tie, and the restaurant is lit with candles in the centers of the tables and gas lamps. If it weren’t for the shiny wooden floors, sleek concrete tables, and modern art dotting the walls, it would be easy to think we’d traveled back in time.

  The other diners don’t stir as Christian and I walk to our table at the back of the restaurant. He told me in the car no one would pay us any mind here, and he was right. I wonder how important every person I pass is that they don’t even blink as a prince saunters past them.

  Our table is tucked around a corner next to a large window with a picturesque view of the water. When Christian pulls out my chair and bows, my stomach flips. I hurry to sit so my knees won’t give out.

  This feels too much like a real date. Too much like what I imagined during the long months of my pregnancy. When I wondered whether Christian would reappear and whether he’d reach out to me again. When I thought he might choose me if he knew about the baby. When I thought I could beat whatever duty he felt he had to his country.

  Now that I know the truth, it hurts to see what could have been.

  “Have I said you look gorgeous?” he asks, taking my menu and stacking it with his on the edge of the table.

  “Several times.”

  He smirks. “And I’ve meant it every time.”

  I reach for the menu he took, and he stops my hand mid-motion, tangling his fingers around mine. “Trust me, you want the chef’s special. This is my favorite restaurant on the island. I get the chef’s special every time, and it has never served me wrong.”

  “Trust you?” I ask, an eyebrow raised.

  “Don’t you?” He leans forward, his lashes turning gold in the firelight.

  He knows I do. I admitted it to him while we were both still in Texas. Even while I was angry with him for planning to leave me and Tyler and for asking me to help him carry out this absurd plan, I still trusted him. I still left my eight-week-old son to follow him here. To help him.

  Despite everything, I trust Christian. I don’t know how to stop.

  I pull my hand back and tuck it in my lap. That is answer enough for both of us, and Christian leans back in his seat, a confident grin on his face.

  “Did you enjoy your tour today?”

  I want to remain aloof and mysterious, leave him guessing my true feelings, but as soon as I start to talk about Sigmaran, the truth comes rushing out.

  “Everywhere you look you can see the ocean,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. “And summer here is like winter in Texas. I could definitely get used to this temperature change. Even the people seem nicer. Happier, almost. Texas has a reputation for being friendly, but everyone smiled and waved at me while we walked through the city center.”

  “The men smiled and waved at you,” Christian corrects with a wink. “My people know beauty when they see it, and you are more beautiful than most.”

  I purse my lips and shake my head, not wanting to encourage the topic. Christian has been flirting with me all day, and I can no longer tell how much of it is for the cameras and how much is for his own benefit.

  “I love the island, but I’m excited to get home.”

  Christian’s smile slips, and he nods. “I’m sure Tyler misses you.”

  “Maybe,” I shrug. “I think he might be too small to even understand I’m gon
e. Which is all the more reason to get back. My mom made a few jokes about running away with him when I left him there. The longer I stay, the more likely that becomes.”

  “She really loves him, then?” Christian asks.

  I nod. “More than she loves me, I think. She told me she has been waiting her entire life to be a grandma. That seems like a weird thing to wait for, but she looks so happy when she holds him that I actually believe her.”

  Christian slides his finger down his water glass, making a line in the condensation. “My mom has mentioned me having kids a few times over the years. She doesn’t let too many of her emotions show, but I can tell she is excited. I think she would love Tyler.”

  I don’t know what to say. She would. Of course, she would. Tyler is adorable and healthy and perfect. But he is also illegitimate. A half-American heir to the Sigmaran throne. And a blight on their family’s reputation.

  My perfect baby might be seen as a mistake by Christian’s family, and it is that reality that is making him so solemn. That reality that has forced him to keep this momentous life change a secret.

  I reach across the table and lay my hand on his. “I know she would love him. It’s impossible not to.”

  He smiles up at me, and the defeat in his eyes nearly breaks my heart.

  “My mom sent me a few pictures of him today,” I say, pulling out my phone and sliding it across the table. All of the pictures are basically the same—Tyler laying on his back in various places around the house with a mess of toys around him that he could care less about. But still, Christian’s eyes light up, and he lingers over each picture.

  While he was away, and I was sending him brief daily updates, it was easy to convince myself that he didn’t care. Not in the same way I did. But seeing him study his baby’s face, I know Christian loves Tyler just as much as I do. And I see that he is in an impossible situation. One in which he has to choose between his family and the future he has planned for from the day he was born, and me and Tyler.

  Even though I know I want him to choose me, I can see there is no right or wrong answer. There is no clear choice. And Christian asked me to come here so he could take his best shot at having both. At being able to rule his country and make his family proud, while also being able to have a relationship with his son. A relationship he wouldn’t have been able to have had he married Lady Freyja. It isn’t the solution I want, but it is better than nothing.

  As we wait for our chef’s specials, Christian talks about his favorite childhood vacation to a ski lodge in Switzerland and how he plans to take Tyler there every season once he is coordinated enough to ski. We discuss child-raising philosophies, the benefits of cloth diapers versus disposable diapers, and when I’ll decide to stop breastfeeding. All topics I think about constantly these days but have no one to talk about with.

  My mom and Blakely do their best to be attentive, but Tyler is their adorable grandson and cute “nephew.” They don’t need to think about the tough parenting decisions or worry about how to discipline him. But Christian cares. He is invested.

  “You can call me anytime of the day or night,” he says. “Seriously. If he’s sick or you need help with something, just call me. I want to be there for you as much as I can be. I don’t want you to feel like you’re doing this on your own.”

  “Thanks,” I say, my voice quiet. I look down at my lap, so he won’t see the tears blurring my vision.

  “And I will pay for everything,” he continues. “I know you can take care of yourself and Tyler without my help, but you shouldn’t have to. I’ll pay for whatever school he wants to go to and whatever clubs or other activities he wants to be in.”

  “You are already going to be paying for everything,” I remind him. “One million dollars, remember?”

  Christian frowns. “That’s for you, Jane-Ann. For you and Tyler, too, obviously. But that money is not meant to be my child support. It is payment for your time and trouble. Use it however you want. Invest it, give it away, buy a second house. I don’t care. I’m still going to take care of whatever else Tyler needs.”

  A weight lifts off my shoulder at the idea that Christian will be such an active part of Tyler’s life. But the relief is overshadowed by the reminder that his participation will be from a distance. From across oceans and time zones.

  Will he and Tyler video-chat regularly? Will they talk on the phone? And even if they do, is that enough to rectify the fact that Tyler can’t hug his dad every day? That the only way Christian will be able to watch him play soccer or basketball or tennis is going to be through pictures and videos?

  When I look up, Christian is smiling at me, and I’m overwhelmed by the urge to ask him to choose me. Choose us. To come back to America and be a father to his son. To forget about his “people” and make a new life with me.

  The words are rising up to the surface—every barrier and filter I’d set into place to keep this kind of outburst from happening have been worn down by Christian’s relentless charm and kindness—when our waiter appears with a plate of French pastries and complimentary wine.

  “Your Highness. These are for you and your beautiful date.” The server bows deeply as he delivers the plate. He is a young man, no more than twenty-five, with a thin black mustache and a mop of black hair.

  “I come here too often to still be receiving this kind of special treatment,” Christian says, pulling the plate closer to him and examining it. He picks up one of the cream puffs and pops it into his mouth. His eyes flutter closed and he groans. “But I’m not complaining. These are incredible like always.”

  The server presses his palms together in thanks and bows again. “I’ll deliver your compliments to the chef. But no matter how familiar you become around here, we will never forget the kindness of our leaders. God bless.”

  Christian sits taller and tips his head toward the man, his wide mouth pulled back in an easy, comfortable smile. I can picture a crown on his head. A ceremonial robe around his shoulders. I can see Christian at his coronation, swearing his loyalty to his country and his people.

  He can’t leave them, and I could never ask him to.

  Christian opens my car door and holds my hand to help me into the limo. My dress is beautiful but restricting, so I cling to him as I lower myself in. I’m still adjusting the gown around my legs when he slides in from the other side of the backseat.

  On the way to the restaurant, we each stuck to our respective sides of the car. I was practically hugging my door the entire drive. Being in a confined space with Christian hurts. It’s like resisting a tractor beam; if I let myself relax at all, I’m at risk of being sucked in.

  But now, Christian is right next to me, his leg pressed against mine, which is exposed from mid-thigh down due to the slit in the dress. The fabric of his pants scratches against my skin and sends currents of electricity racing for my nervous system.

  “Ready,” he calls to the driver, rapping his knuckles on the roof. The car pulls away from the restaurant, and I watch as the tiny building disappears behind a row of beech trees.

  As Christian rolls the divider window up, separating us from the driver, I am achingly aware of how alone we are. All day, we’ve been alone, but in public. Witnesses and paparazzi were near enough that I never felt vulnerable being around Christian. Nothing would happen between us that couldn’t be caught on camera. But here? In the dark backseat of a limo? Anything could happen.

  Christian turns toward me, his knee sliding up my thigh as he twists his body. I know I should scoot away from him, but my body refuses to move.

  “We need to talk,” he says, voice low and deep. The rumble of it unsettles me and leaves me feeling breathless.

  “Are you breaking up with me?” I joke, too nervous to be serious.

  When I look up, his sea-glass eyes are devouring me. I can practically feel him mentally undressing me, and I don’t hate it. The realization that he is the last man I’ve slept with—the last man I’ve been with in almost a year—is alarmi
ng. Something like hunger settles low in my stomach, and I clench my legs tighter to try and dispel the thoughts Christian’s clenched jaw are stirring up.

  His mouth turns up in a smirk, and I begin planning my attack on him. Which clothes I’ll remove first, which body parts I’ll taste. Sensible Jane-Ann has left the building, allowing reckless Jane-Ann full authority over the controls.

  “Quite the opposite actually,” he says.

  I barely hear his words over the thrum of my heart and the blood in my veins. Who cares if this isn’t forever? It could be “for now.” And is that really so bad? I don’t think so.

  “There is a press conference tomorrow at the palace,” he says, his knee scratching against my thigh.

  I see it as a request for entry. I turn toward him until our knees are touching. Until it wouldn’t take more than a little friction for his leg to slide between mine. An invitation.

  “My entire family will be there, and I’d like you to join us.”

  I hum, intoxicated by what is about to happen. By his lemon and cedar scent. I’ll go wherever he wants as long as he—

  “Because I’ll be announcing our engagement to the people of Sigmaran.”

  The words crash over me like a bucket of ice water, and I freeze.

  Chapter 26

  Christian

  Jane-Ann blinks like she is waking up from a dream, and she tilts her head to the side slowly, studying me. “What?”

  I run my hands along my thighs, wiping the sweat from my palms, and I realize how close we are sitting. Jane-Ann’s knee is pressed against mine. Her body is turned toward me. It is the closest we’ve been since we were in Texas. Or, at least, the closest we’ve been in private.

  In front of my family and out in public, Jane-Ann plays the role of a smitten girlfriend. She smiles at me, holds my hand, brushes the hair from my forehead. But I remind myself it isn’t real. Constantly. Every minute.