The Playboy Prince's Baby

by Sparks, Ana

  And breaking rules for a guy? That was one more of my personal guidelines that I was evidently throwing to the wind over a set of molten-hot brown eyes and tussled curls.

  Chapter 3

  Erika

  I sat the guy down on the one and only stool in the kitchen—where we didn’t generally keep stools, since people weren’t supposed to be hanging out in there—and got to work with the cooking.

  “What’ll it be?” I asked. “Fried eggs or scrambled? Bacon or sausage?”

  To his credit, the guy didn’t act disinterested anymore. In fact, he looked… intrigued. Like he was actually getting into this idea of greasy food.

  “If we’re doing hash browns, then eggs scrambled,” he said promptly. “And sausage, every time. Bacon is overrated.”

  I grinned at that. “A man after my own tastes,” I told him. “I know people are infatuated with bacon these days, but can you really beat good sausage? The spices get me every time.”

  He rolled his eyes in ecstasy. “And it goes in anything. Honestly. Soup? Add sausage and make it better. Spaghetti? Sausage in the sauce, please and thank you. Breakfast? Sausage, every time.”

  “Sandwiches, too,” I told him quickly, and when he threw me a confused glance, I shrugged. “Can you actually beat a good breakfast sandwich? I don’t think so. Or a breakfast burrito. Sausage, eggs, cheese, salsa, and French fries. Yum.”

  At that, he started looking at me like I’d gone crazy, and I laughed.

  “I take it that in your travels, you’ve never been to Southern California, where Mexican food is king and they have their own very specific—and very delicious—version of it.”

  He began laughing, but shook his head. “I haven’t made it to Southern California yet, but I have a feeling it needs to go on my list. Is that where you’re from?”

  And that started it. Before long I was dividing my attention evenly between the cooking and the conversation that we’d started, and to my surprise, the guy was not only insanely hot but also incredibly intelligent. I mean, not that hot guys can’t be intelligent—that would be a really stupid thing to believe. No, it was something else entirely. Mainly to do with the fact that guys who were both intelligent and hot didn’t come into my bar all that often. We weren’t on the right side of Chicago for that, and we weren’t the right type of bar.

  I hadn’t been able to land a job in one of those smooth, themed bars where the hipsters went and the conversation tended toward literature and politics. Where everyone came from an Ivy League school—or pretended they had—and held highbrow jobs like ‘portfolio consultant’ and ‘art dealer.’

  No, I worked in a dive bar, and that meant lowbrow, all the way. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but it tended to stifle the conversation a little bit.

  “Where exactly are you from?” I asked, after the guy had started telling a story about the time when he accidentally stole someone else’s yacht. “And also, what’s your name?”

  He cocked his head like he hadn’t even realized that names were important, and then grinned at me. “Francisco. And you are?”

  “Erika,” I said, sliding food quickly onto two plates and motioning with my head. “Come on, back out to the bar. This kitchen only has the one seat, and I don’t believe in eating while standing up.”

  * * *

  Once we’d settled in and tucked into our food—which Francisco moaned over like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted in his entire life—he started telling me about the country he was from.

  “Tarana,” he said, rolling the ‘r’ like the place was too fancy to have a regular pronunciation.

  “Never heard of it,” I told him, feeling a little bit bad about raining on his parade.

  He just shrugged, though. “Not surprising. It’s a very small place, off the coast of Spain. An island nation.”

  Spain. Well, that explained the accent. And the dark, brooding good looks.

  When I asked what he was doing in the US, though, he slid right past the question, like it was one that he had no intention of answering. And though I wondered at that—because people don’t usually refuse to answer questions without a good reason—I let it pass. Partially because he’d asked about my own upbringing.

  “I grew up poor,” I told him frankly. “On the wrong side of the tracks, here in Chicago. But I decided early on that I wasn’t going to let it keep me down. And it never did.”

  And that right there was the truth. I’d been from the wrong side of town and hadn’t ever had enough money growing up. But my parents had done everything they could to make sure I didn’t miss out on anything, and when it turned out that I was gifted at music, they’d found a way to get me my own guitar, and the music lessons that came along with it.

  When I started dreaming of a career as singer-songwriter, they’d started dreaming right alongside me. And when I found out that I got into the University of Chicago, on a music major—with a bit of a scholarship to start me off—they’d been so excited that they’d popped a bottle of champagne and poured me a glass.

  Francisco pressed his lips together and frowned at the end of that particular story. “And yet you’re working in a bar rather than playing music. Why?”

  “The American dream,” I said sarcastically. “Or rather, the curse of student loans. High interest, high payments, and no way to do it.”

  That was only part of the problem, of course. It had turned out that the music industry wasn’t impressed with my education, being more comfortable functioning on a who-do-you-know basis. And since I hadn’t known anyone, and hadn’t been able to luck my way into a break, I’d ended up working at the bar. And my parents had backed right out of my dream. I hadn’t talked to them in a year, actually, just because they’d been so disappointed in me, and hadn’t been shy about telling me so.

  And when I said that, Francisco’s face had gone through a fairly alarming transition. He’d gone from listening to me with calm interest to actually angry, and then right to thoughtful.

  Which was, I thought, a kind of weird reaction to hearing that the girl you’d just met didn’t talk to her parents.

  “What?” I asked, confused. “Lots of people don’t talk to their parents.”

  He gave me a long, considering look, but then shrugged. “Let’s just say I understand what it’s like. Having family that doesn’t… get you.”

  “What do you—”

  “Finished,” he interrupted, shoving his plate away from him.

  And though I could see that he was, in fact, finished with his food, I couldn’t help wondering whether he’d decided on that precise moment just to keep me from asking what he’d meant with that family comment. Because that made two questions he’d either evaded or blocked, now: One about why he was in the US, and one about his family.

  I didn’t like conspiracy theories, generally. I thought a stone was a stone, and I thought it was a waste of time to make it anything more than that. But there was something off about this guy. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

  Look, bartenders are supposed to know how to ask questions, okay? We’re supposed to flirt with the patrons, get them talking, keep them company. And I was pretty freaking good at it. Over the last year, it had also made me really good at reading people. Listening to what they said—and didn’t say—and figuring out what made them tick. But it wasn’t working with this guy, who managed to evade the important questions but stay so smooth that you hardly noticed.

  There was something different there. Something I hadn’t seen before. And it was getting under my skin and making me itch.

  “The food,” he said suddenly, “was delicious.”

  I grinned. “Well, I can’t take all the credit for that. The truth is, Chicago has some of the most delicious food in the world. People just don’t realize it because New York makes so much noise.”

  He tipped his head, lifting his eyebrows in doubt. “But New York cheesecake…”

  “Chicago deep-dish pizza,” I
countered.

  “New York pizza.”

  “Chicago barbecue.”

  “Clam chowder.”

  I cocked my head at that one. “Is that really something New York is famous for?”

  He cocked his head back. “I suppose that depends on how much you like clam chowder.”

  I shrugged. “Jibarito sandwich.”

  Now he looked really confused. “You could just admit that you lost. You don’t have to make things up.”

  I gasped in genuine shock. “You’ve never had a jibarito?”

  He leaned toward me, all smooth charm and smolder, and shook his head. “I haven’t,” he said huskily. “Is it something I should try?”

  I leaned in as well, feeling a tingle through my entire body as I got close enough to feel the heat coming off his own skin. “If you haven’t had a jibarito, then you haven’t lived,” I told him in the same tone.

  “Then I guess I’m going to have to get you to take me to experience one.”

  I laughed, and before I knew it, I was grabbing his hand and hustling toward the door, my phone in my hand to let my boss know that I wasn’t feeling well and wasn’t going to be able to finish cleaning the bar today.

  No, that wasn’t something I did often.

  Then again, neither was letting a guy sleep in the bar, then cooking him breakfast, and, as it turned out, agreeing to take him to get jibaritos when I didn’t even know his last name.

  But there was something about this particular guy. Something that made me want to break the rules for the first time in my life—and refuse to think about the consequences until later.

  Chapter 4

  Erika

  Of course, we didn’t go get jibaritos immediately. That would have been stupid, when Guy Whose Last Name I Didn’t Yet Know had just had an enormous breakfast of potatoes, eggs, and sausage.

  Also, he was still definitely nursing a hangover. And I’d had a jibarito on a hungover stomach. Once. It wasn’t a good experience—which meant that it was my sacred duty as a bartender never to inflict it on anyone else.

  “Coffee,” I told him.

  When he looked at me doubtfully, I just shrugged.

  “One, you have a hangover, and coffee always helps that. Two, I’ve been up all night working rather than laid out at one of our best tables, sleeping.” I gave him a meaningful look, and he had the grace to look somewhat sheepish at that before I continued. “If I’m going to keep going, I need caffeine. Immediately. Pumped right into my veins, if it’s at all possible.”

  Now it was his turn to give me a doubtful look. “I don’t believe that’s possible. Or healthy. If it was something humans could do, I would have figured it out by now and done it.”

  I caught myself mid-step, wondering what the hell that meant. Was he some kind of adrenaline junkie who did things like actually trying to shoot coffee right into his veins? Because I was pretty sure he was right, and that it was a Very Bad Idea, but that didn’t mean people hadn’t tried it.

  I was sure people had. I was also hoping that the guy with the hot eyes, messy curls, and face that was either perfectly angelic or heartbreakingly devilish—depending on how you were looking at him—wasn’t one of them.

  Then I decided that I didn’t really care if he was. After all, this was just some sort of fling. It wasn’t even that! I was just showing a hungover tourist the wonders of Chicago. It didn’t have to mean a damn thing—and that should mean that I didn’t have to care whether the guy had actually tried coffee intravenously or not.

  So instead of asking, I reached out, grabbed him by the elbow (noting the strength of the connected bicep, holy smokes), and tugged him toward my favorite coffee shop on the corner. The one where the baristas knew me and always got my coffee made without me needing to specify what I wanted—a half-caf latte, since I was almost always on my way home from the bar and headed straight for bed.

  * * *

  “I need it full-strength today,” I told the girl behind the counter—Camila—who was wearing her usual look of fifties pin-up girl, complete with the enormous curl on her head.

  I could never in a million years figure out how exactly she did it—or why she bothered so early in the morning, when almost no one was going to see her. And let’s face it, the people who did see her this early in the morning weren’t looking at her hair. They were too starved for caffeine, too angry about being out of bed, or too hungover from the night before to bother with what their barista looked like.

  Though, I supposed that if you had a look, you went out of your way to accomplish it every time you went out. Maybe it was like a habit you built, and if you let yourself slip even once, you got lazy and stopped trying so hard.

  Camila lifted her thick, dark eyebrows at me. “Full-strength? You sure?”

  I let my eyes slide over toward the guy with me, and then gave her a grin. “I’ve promised this man a jibarito. I can’t afford to fall asleep in the middle of his first experience.”

  At that, her expression changed, going from doubtful to understanding, and she nodded firmly. “Got it. The best place doesn’t open until ten, though, so you’ve got some time for a… nap.” Her eyebrows went up again on that last word, and I shook my head quickly.

  That was not where this was heading. Though I couldn’t help the curl of my lips at the suggestion.

  * * *

  “Where are we going next?” Francisco asked as we walked out of the coffee shop, coffees steaming in the early morning chill.

  I took a moment to admire the sun rising up over Lake Michigan, which I could just see through the alley in front of us, and then sighed. At some point, I’d get to see a sunrise like a normal person—namely, from my own apartment, with a coffee in hand and pajamas still on my body. After having slept a full night. And not having just cleaned up a bar.

  “Bartender?” Francisco asked, bumping his shoulder into mine.

  Oh, right. I had a guest. And he’d asked me a question.

  I turned to him, trying to figure out what sort of answer I actually wanted to give him. Because the truth was, I hadn’t really thought this through.

  “Your choice,” I said. “It’s still too early for jibaritos, and I need at least some sleep before I jump into tour-guide mode. So I’m going home. As for you…”

  He didn’t even pause. He just threaded his arm through mine and started walking in the direction we’d been facing.

  “If you’re going home, then I will walk you there,” he said bluntly.

  I was surprised at that. Touched—because what girl isn’t touched when a guy says he’s going to walk her home?—but mostly surprised. The guy didn’t even know me. He’d just called me ‘bartender,’ for God’s sake—probably because he’d already forgotten my name. And yet he was going to walk me home.

  It was so charming and old-fashioned that for a moment, I couldn’t even think up a response.

  Then I realized that him walking me home might lead to a whole host of other things—none of which I was ready for.

  “Hold the phone, buddy,” I said, drawing us to a sharp stop—only partially because we were headed in the wrong direction. “I don’t remember inviting you to my house. And even if you do come to my house, I’m telling you, the only thing I want to do there is sleep. Get some shut-eye. Pass out.”

  He raised one eyebrow with such practiced ease that I wondered if he’d actually come out of the womb with the skill. “I hear you loud and clear, Bartender Lady. I could use some sleep, myself. But as it turns out, I don’t remember how to get to my hotel. So I was thinking…”

  I laughed. Of course he didn’t remember how to get to his hotel. He’d fired his… bodyguard (?) last night, if he was to be believed. And given what I knew of him already, I was doubting he’d bothered to keep a copy of the key—or even jot down what hotel he was staying at.

  I couldn’t believe I’d even thought any of that, given how ridiculous it all was. And I definitely couldn’t believe I was thinking about let
ting him come home with me. But as long as we were going with this whole Erika-Is-Going-Through-Some-Sort-of-Crisis thing…

  “You were thinking I might have a couch that you could crash on?” I supplied for him.

  He had the grace to look sheepish once more, and nodded. “At least until I can figure out where I’m supposed to be going,” he confirmed. “Besides, you’re supposed to feed me this magical food. And I suppose that would be easier if I was within easy reach of you, no?”

  I couldn’t argue with him there. And no, it might not have the been the smartest idea I’d ever had, but it was on the Top Ten list of Most Exciting Things that have Happened to Erika this Year.

  I could count on one hand the number of times I’d taken a random guy back to my place. And this random guy in particular was not only smoking hot but smart, and apparently pretty polite.

  And that was worth something, right?

  * * *

  By the time we got to my apartment and I got into my bed, I actually knew what his full name was. Francisco de la Laros, he’d told me with a flourish that indicated that he’d said the name often, and that it was supposed to mean something to me.

  I’d never heard of him, though, so I told him the name was lost on me, but I was glad to have something to call him other than Guy Who’d Fallen Asleep in My Bar.

  He’d also told me a bit more about why he was in Chicago. This was his first time, it seemed, but he’d always dreamed of visiting the city and sampling its many pleasures.

  “I had not expected to find a personal tour guide for the journey, however,” he said, his eyes sparkling.

  I reached out and poked him in the shoulder. “And I haven’t yet promised anything of the sort,” I reminded him. “I only promised you a jibarito. But first, sleep.”

  I pulled out several blankets from my ottoman of extra bedding, as well as a few pillows. I wasn’t one to have guests often, but I was nothing if not prepared. And then I’d watched him flop down onto the couch—curling into a ball to fit his six-foot-something frame onto my double-seater—and fall immediately asleep.