The King's Surprise Bride: A Royal Wedding Novella (Royal Weddings Book 2)

by Vivien Vale

  “We can totally find you someone,” Jenna bellows.

  “Uh, not really something I can write down, but, thanks?”

  “The guy that cleans our pool—Jack.” I see a familiar, dreamy look in Katheryn’s eyes. “I could hook you up with him. He’s hot!”

  “Ten inches,” Sarah says pointedly.

  “What?” Okay, this is getting crazy. Are they actually giving me pointers on that?

  “Whoever it is, make sure he’s well-hung.” Sarah points at my notepad. “Write this down: he must have a ten-inch dick, at least.”

  Oh, well. I do as she says, scribbling frantically, unwilling to incite the wrath of a pregnant woman.

  “And he must be six feet―no, cross that out―over six feet tall,” Katheryn adds.

  “If you’re going to have a baby, you’re going to need money―lots of it,” Katheryn pipes up while I’m still scrawling down the height requirements. “Whoever it is, make sure he’s loaded with tons―and I mean tons of cash. Don’t settle for anything less.”

  “And he better be sexy as hell, don’t forget that,” Katheryn adds excitedly.

  “Oh, and with a really nice apartment,” states Jenna.

  I compile the list as my cousins dictate requirements, drawing empty checkboxes next to each item.

  Well…this is totally unconventional advice about having a baby. I mean I wasn’t exactly thinking along the lines of how…tall my sperm donor should be, but now that I’m getting their advice…it doesn’t sound half bad.

  Having a baby with someone who can tick off each of these checkboxes is sounding like a very nice idea indeed.

  I don’t know who that could be, or if he even exists, but as the list grows, I’m getting more and more eager to find out.

  Daniel

  I can’t fucking tear my eyes away as the sexy girl over the next table bids farewell to her friends. They’re like clucking hens or some shit―loud, friendly, and full of excited chatter.

  I smile to myself as the place quiets down somewhat, following the departure of two of them. The noise fades significantly after that whirlwind of fun I’ve been listening in on for the last half hour.

  A sudden urge hits me to use any excuse I can find to flirt with the girl. She’s too goddamn cute, and I need to meet her. I overheard her friends say that her name is Rose, which is quite the fitting name, if you ask me.

  One of her cousins is still there, helping her clean up and talking animatedly with an almost electric buzz.

  I study Rose as she moves around the table, skirting to the other side to pick up the bill.

  There’s my chance.

  I fucking take it, ready to swoop in and make contact with her for the first time. Make a fucking impression. Engage her in a charming way that’s totally my style, diving right fucking in.

  Letting a charismatic, sexy smile settle on my face, I flash her my perfect pearly whites.

  “Excuse me, miss?” I stare right at her, unleashing the full force of my trademark charm.

  She turns to face me, blushes, and then glances at her last remaining friend. The friend shakes her head and shrugs, as if to let her know that she has no fucking clue why I’m talking to her.

  Then she turns back to face me. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, in fact, you can. Do you mind if I steal the sugar off your table for a second? I promise I’ll give it right back.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. That’s fine with me.” She smiles and waves a hand dismissively, as if to let me know it’s no trouble. “We’re done with it anyway. Most of our party has left, and we’re just finishing up.”

  “Lucky me,” I say with a wink.

  Her boisterous friend laughs as she watches the interaction. Her cackles practically fucking bellow through the small tea shop.

  “Oooooh, honey,” she says and dances around in a circle, her rounded pregnant belly leading the way. “We’ll give you all the sugar you want.”

  Rose blushes and covers her face with her hands like she’s trying to physically shield herself from the embarrassment.

  “I’m sorry,” she mouths to me in a whisper and shakes her head, walking away to pay the tab at the bar.

  I just grin wider and chuckle, taking it all in stride. If I’m gonna be bold and daring enough to put myself out there and break the ice, surely I’ve got the balls to allow myself to become the brunt of some playful flirting.

  Especially when there’s a hot girl involved.

  I do have to confess that I have a bit of an ulterior motive for distracting the hot girl, though: I want to swipe that little list she made, the one about what she looks for in a guy and how she wants to find one to father a baby for her.

  Because let’s be real―it’s a pretty fucking crazy idea, right?

  But what can I say? She’s piqued my curiosity. I need to see that list.

  Grabbing the list is a crazy idea, too, I know, and I’ll probably get caught, but the risk is part of the fun, after all.

  As soon as she has her back turned to me, I grab the sugar and pick up the list in one smooth move, subtly placing it in my pocket while the remaining girl goes to retrieve her purse off the backs of the seats.

  I watch as she struts over to Rose and says goodbye. They’re too far away from me now, over by the bar, so I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I stand back and watch as they say goodbye and hug.

  The girl waves to Rose and then winks as she passes me again. I lift my hand in a small wave, watching her walk out onto the bustling, always busy New York City streets to hail a taxi.

  I spin back around, directing my attention to Rose as she talks with the bartender as she pays the bill.

  I have to respect a woman who’s willing to go so far to foot an entire bill like that for her friends. I like how she kept her cool under pressure from them, too.

  I quickly give the list an once-over, laughing at the boxes I can check off so fucking easily, and then I shove it back in my pocket.

  A few seconds later, Rose appears again, but she’s seemingly forgotten all about the sexy stranger: the dream hunk sitting right across from her at the next table. Huh.

  She begins shuffling things around on the table, packing up and tidying some of the dishes to stack neatly on top of each other.

  I wonder if she’s been in the restaurant business before because of the way she’s deliberately trying to make the serving staff’s lives a little bit easier. Or maybe she’s just nice?

  She fumbles around, and almost instantly, she looks panicked. Her cheeks flush red as she picks up items randomly and places them back on the table.

  “Looking for this?” I pitch my voice low, sauntering closer to her. I pull out her beloved little list and wave it in front of her.

  Her face flashes with horror, and she turns as white as a sheet.

  “Give that back,” she orders. “Now.”

  I merely grin and size her up. I want to keep playing the game. Playing with Rose.

  She reaches over to grab it from my hands, but I’m too quick for her. I swat her away playfully and keep the list out of her reach.

  With amusement, I run through the list again in my head while laughing…and then I debate whether I should read through the rather unusual criteria out loud or not.

  I mull it over for a second or two, then decide for my new acquaintance’s benefit that I’ll just keep the requirements listed here to myself. It is, after all, a fine dining establishment.

  I glance down at the paper again and grin devilishly as an idea pops into my head. I give her a saucy wink as she continues to stare at me in horror, as if she wishes there were some way for her to melt to the floor.

  I pull a fountain pen out of the breast pocket of my jacket and click it on, my eyes never leaving hers.

  “Um…what are you doing?” Rose fake-laughs with obvious anxiety and apprehension.

  I glance at the list then back up at her. “I’m helping you out, of course.”

  What else would a
gentleman do?

  I look at the first item on the list.

  Must have thick cock…like, ten inches at least.

  I smile oh-so-slowly at Rose, knowing I look as fucking charming as ever, before writing down a check mark with a dramatic flourish.

  Rose places her head in her hands, covering her eyes, and groans. “Oh god, this isn’t happening to me.”

  I peer down at the next item up for debate.

  Must have fat stacks of cash.

  Done and done…I check that one off the list and wink at her.

  I deliberately power through the rest of them, making sure to be as ridiculously over-the-top sexy as possible—whether to make her laugh or to make her swoon, I don’t know—although I think for now, she’s simply humiliated. Perhaps when she has time to reflect on the situation alone at home later, she’ll come around.

  Must be over six feet tall…check.

  Must have a really nice apartment…check.

  Must be sexy as hell…well, I don’t mean to brag but…check.

  Each time I check an item off her list, I make sure to give her an enthusiastic grin, as if there’s nothing more important to me in the entire world right now than fulfilling the items on her wish list.

  “Are you finished yet?”

  She puts on a brave front, but her cheeks give her away with a flush of embarrassment. I’m totally fucking getting to her.

  “Not quite,” I tell her as another fresh idea comes to me. “Very close, though,” I say teasingly.

  “Well, good, because now I need to begin planning my funeral for next week,” Rose mutters.

  Ah, so she has a sense of humor about this after all. I like it. A whole fucking lot.

  “Oh, come on,” I retort. “I think your list is very reasonable. Practical, even. This day and age, you need to make sure you get what you want before you seal a deal.”

  She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Whatever. It’s not like I’m buying a couch.” She attempts to play it nonchalantly, but she’s too fucking adorable to pull it off.

  Ignoring her, I jot down my name and phone number in my neatest handwriting at the end of the list.

  Standing up, I finally relent, much to her relief, and hand her back the beloved piece of paper. “Call me if you ever want to talk more or make any negotiations.”

  She stares up at me blankly. “Huh?”

  I point to my name and number and she blushes again.

  “Oh…okay…” She trails off and continues to stare at the paper.

  I throw some cash on the table to pay my bill and walk out, back to the loud streets outside. I can’t help but smile as I climb into the waiting town car.

  At the very least, I’ve extended a mode of direct communication―a lifeline that won’t exactly guarantee that I’ll ever see her again, but that gives me hopes she’ll take up my offer and give me a call.

  At the most…well.

  The truth is, it’s not like I really need a heir―but at the same time, it’s not a bad idea to keep my options open, either.

  Much as I hate to admit that my mother is right, I’d rather have a child to raise as my own heir to the company than pass the torch begrudgingly to one of my wild siblings—no way will Prada or Fendi or Chanel take care of the family fortune like they should.

  Jesus, just the thought of their names and passing the torch in the same sentence makes me want to tell my driver to turn the car around, just so I can jump that girl right there in the shop and bang her brains out on the table—all for an heir, of course.

  So yeah, okay, I gave her my number―so what?

  Just like Rose, I’d rather keep my options wide open, too.

  Rose

  So yeah, I’m still trying to process exactly what happened at the tea shop. I didn’t dream that shit up, did I?

  Throwing my Fendi clutch down on my kitchen counter, I smile like a kid in a candy store because for once in my life, things look like they could be going my way.

  No, wait.

  Ugh.

  Okay, Rose, it’s time to climb back down from the clouds to your regular, boring, single life, I scold myself.

  I can’t seriously be taking that guy for real, right? That list was made in fun, but oh my god, when he started making those checks next to every item…I mean ten inches? Really?

  My mouth is suddenly dry, and my body feels on fire in a way I’m totally unfamiliar with.

  Walking over to the window, I pull open the shades. The afternoon sun is warm and inviting. I live in a trendy, up-and-coming district by Battery Park, and if I can attest to anything magical in my life, it’s this view of the Hudson and East Rivers right from my twenty-second-floor apartment.

  Daniel…

  My laugh stuns even me, but I can’t help myself. Who the hell does that guy think he is?

  Sure, he’s sexy in an obvious kind of way. Sure, he seems charming enough. But looks can be deceiving.

  I mean, he could be part of some type of sex trafficking ring or something, sent on a very important and secret mission to abduct me in plain sight, while I remain in my giddy, foolishly delusional, and clouded mind. I’ve seen Dateline reports on that shit!

  Or worse, what if he’s a serial killer? Or a member of the mafia?

  I had a friend once who had a friend of a friend whose brother’s uncle’s nephew was in the mafia. I’m totally not making that up, either.

  Am I that naïve? I should be scoffing at the idea of even thinking I could have a relationship with a stranger. Especially thinking of letting him knock me up.

  I must be crazy.

  Of course he’s in the mafia. I’m staring out at the East River right now, and the universe couldn’t hit me in the face with a brick to be more obvious about that fact.

  Well, okay, there I go again, rationalizing things until they become outlandish and blown out of proportion.

  He really fucking hot, though…and I’m lonely…and I want a baby now more than I ever realized. Seeing my cousins today really drove that home. It’s like I’m clearly seeing for the first time what’s been missing in my life.

  I take a deep breath and skirt away from the window, running a hand through my hair. I plop down on the couch and grab the remote, but thinking better of it, I reach for my laptop instead.

  Thanks to the wonderful array of information up for display on the fine tool we call the internet, there are a million ways I can research this guy and find out who he truly is. Then I’ll know just how crazy I am for even entertaining this idea.

  I’m sure I’ll find a huge picture of him on Google or something wearing a Bruce Wayne tuxedo while he smiles deliciously with six-foot-tall gorgeous models and blonde celebrities crooked under each arm.

  I gulp when I my worst fears come true, and he is all over fucking social media. Daniel practically owns the damn thing. His name is sprawled out everywhere for the world―and, unfortunately, me―to see.

  I laugh as I scroll through blogs, forums, and even Twitter, quickly becoming addicted to learning more about him.

  Seriously though…this is the guy who wants to knock me up? This can’t be real. Is there a team with cameras going to pop out of my closet and say ‘Gotcha!’ any minute now?

  Yeah, this is the kind of shit you only see on hidden camera shows.

  Daniel appears to have quite a selection of notable yet creepy admirers. Some hoe-bag on a forum actually says that his hair is insured for four million dollars.

  What the fuck?

  I scroll through pages and pages of evidence of past relationships that he’s had and can’t believe this is splashed out there for public viewing pleasure.

  Apparently, he has an ex-girlfriend named Maggie, and, well, let me tell you, she’s wildly unpopular on most of these websites.

  Of course, hate is a strong word, so let’s go with loathe instead.

  To me, though, it’s all comically suitable reading material, and I’m entertained, to say the very least. Hey, it’s gotte
n me to stop wallowing in my own lonely, barren-uterus abyss of self-pity, hasn’t it?

  I shut my laptop and take a deep breath. What the hell am I getting myself into? Am I actually considering this?

  He seemed so mellow, so…I don’t know…down-to-earth in the tea shop, like he would never be the player type.

  Ha! That sentence alone should never be uttered. Of course, all men are players to a certain extent.

  They want the pussy when they want it, and nothing is going to stand in their way.

  What makes this guy any different?

  He seemed so sweet and charming, though…in a crazy sexy kind of way that has me suddenly fanning myself.

  Here I go again, playing devil’s advocate with my own mind. I’m starting to wonder if I should look into therapy or something.

  I walk back over to my Fendi bag and pull out the phone number that’s scribbled on my outrageous list of baby daddy criteria.

  I grin from ear to ear, giddy at the thought of this gorgeous, mysterious stranger.

  I pick up my cell phone and punch his number in, then quickly delete it and forcefully place the phone back down on the counter.

  Then I do what any other reasonable woman facing a dilemma would do. I toss my phone on top of my armoire―out of reach so that I can’t easily access it.

  You know, just in case I decide to do something crazy like actually call the guy.

  I’m frustrated with myself as I groan and pull over a chair to climb up and retrieve my phone off the top of the armoire.

  God, I’m ridiculous. I’m acting totally insane right now.

  It’s just a phone call. I know how to talk to people, right?

  Well, I guess only time will tell―if he actually answers the phone.

  Telling myself not to do it while simultaneously tapping the number out again on my phone, I bite my lip.

  I hope he doesn’t answer.

  I mean, I hope he does.

  I don’t know what I want, to be honest. Maybe this could be a fantastic little experiment I can test out on myself to see how far I’ll go. I mean, what if it is a good idea?

  It’s not like I have to marry the guy tomorrow, or at all, but it would be nice to have some male companionship for once in my life. And if we can have a little baby-making fun in the process? Even better.