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 incredible 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.”
He chuckles to himself and moves to sit down at the edge of my bed. I feel the weight of him sink into the mattress. Feel myself tilt toward him. It all seems so real. I can even feel the heat from his body through the blanket, warming my leg.
“If you’re smiling at me like that, they must have you on something powerful,” he says, his smile faltering slightly. “Sorry I’m a little late.”
“You’re right on time,” I say, reaching out to grab his hand.
As soon as his fingers are in mine, I’m shocked by the sensation. By the warmth and the smooth skin of his palm. It feels real. Too real.
He squeezes my fingers back, his eyes glassy with emotion, and I blink hard. I want to wake up now. The dream is too much. It is everything I could have and did hope for over the last seven months since I found out I was pregnant. And when I wake up and Christian is gone, I’ll be devastated all over again.
“I understand why you didn’t tell me,” he says, glancing over at our baby in his bassinet. “When I left you in August, I was…I was an ass, Jane-Ann. And I’m so sorry.”
I blink again and again, but I’m not waking up. The image isn’t growing hazy and distant. If anything, Christian is becoming more and more clear.
“I shouldn’t have left the way I did or said the things I did, but I was angry with my family and my life and myself, and on some level, I took it out on you. Probably because you were beautiful and fun, and I knew I’d never get to have you. So, I treated you like garbage, and it is no wonder you didn’t want to tell that guy you were pregnant. But I’m different now. I swear.”
Never get to have me? Christian wanted me? No, no, no. I need to wake up. Now.
“I need to wake up,” I say quietly, looking down at where our fingers are still tangled.
“What?” he asks, his voice low and concerned. “Are you okay, Jane-Ann?”
“I need to wake up,” I repeat, closing my eyes in hopes that not seeing Christian will make my subconscious wipe him from the dream.
But I can still feel his fingers against mine, and his other hand slides up my forearm to grab my elbow.
“Do you think you’re dreaming, Jane-Ann?” he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I’m flattered you think this could only be a dream, but I assure you I am very real. I have wrinkled pants from a ten-hour international flight to prove it.”
Slowly, I open my eyes again and peek up at him. “You’re really here?”
His lips twist to the side, and he nods.
“Why?”
“I just got Blakely’s letter yesterday,” he says, pulling a folded-up piece of paper out of the inside pocket of his jacket. “I came as soon as I read it. Though, I wish I’d read it when she first sent
it two months ago.”
I nod silently, afraid of what I’ll say or admit about my own feelings if I open my mouth. Christian runs a hand through his blond hair and continues.
“I followed the return address on the envelope and pulled up to your apartment just as Blakely arrived. She told me how your water broke and you’d just had the baby. She told me which room you were in, and I’m here.”
I mentally curse Blakely for not calling to warn me so I could brush my hair and put on some of the makeup she packed for me, but I can barely worry about that when he is in front of me. Real and present and as perfect as the first time I saw him from across the dancefloor at Jimmy’s.
“You’re here,” I say again, though this time it is a statement instead of a question. “Do you want to meet your son?”
Christian’s eyes widen, and he looks over at the bassinet. At the swaddled bundle that is our child.
“I was admiring him before you woke up, but if it’s okay…I’d love to hold him.”
“Of course, it’s okay,” I say, my voice thick.
I didn’t expect to be so emotional about this. In fact, I didn’t expect for this moment to ever happen. Perhaps that is where the tears are coming from. Pure shock and elation. My child has a father. A man who flew across the world to see him. A man who cares about him.
Christian moves toward the bassinet slowly, and his hands hover over the baby for a minute, unsure, before he slides his hands under the swaddle and lifts the baby out of the bassinet. Like a natural, he holds his son against his chest and presses his cheek to the little stockinged head.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived,” he whispers, bouncing slightly on his toes. “But I’m here now.”
I turn away so he won’t see the tears rolling down my cheeks. I wipe them away and pretend to fuss with my blankets.
“And everything is okay?” Christian asks. “He is healthy?”
I clear my throat. “So far, so good. He is a little early, but he is a healthy boy.”
Christian beams and whispers words I can’t hear to his son, and I lay back in the bed and let them have this time. Ten minutes later, Christian is still walking the baby around the room when a nurse arrives.
“It’s time for his hearing test,” she says to me. Then, she notices Christian in the corner and her eyes widen momentarily. I’m sure she doesn’t recognize him as the Prince of Sigmaran, but is just surprised by his good looks the same way I was when I first saw him.
Christian looks to me for the okay before he hands over our son, giving him one last kiss on the forehead. When the nurse wheels him away, Christian stands at the door watching them move down the hallway until he can’t see him anymore. Then, he reclaims his spot next to me on the bed.
“He’s perfect, Jane-Ann. Absolutely perfect.” Christian’s hand lands on my leg, and he smiles and shakes his head. “I still can’t believe this is real.”
“I’m sure it has been an interesting twenty-four hours for you,” I say, residual guilt at not telling Christian about the pregnancy earlier rearing its head.
He nods and then nudges me playfully in the shoulder. “But a good kind of interesting.”
I bite my lower lip and twist my fingers in the sheet nervously. “It is? Good, I mean? You aren’t upset?”
“What is there to be upset about? You didn’t plan this, so I can’t be mad at you. I guess I can shake my fist at the universe, but what good would that do? Plus, our son is gorgeous. I can’t be angry at that.” His brows pull together and he looks down at me. “What is his name?”
I wonder whether he is referring to his first name or his surname. Either way, the answer is the same. “He doesn’t have one yet.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
“Only one,” I admit. “I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about names. But my grandfather’s name was Tyler.”
“Tyler,” Christian says, brow furrowed in thought. He smiles. “I love it. That’s perfect.”
“You think so?” I ask, somewhat surprised. “I didn’t know if there was some royal tradition you’d want to follow.”
“There is no tradition with first names, but his middle name will have to be Eugene after my great uncle.”
My nose wrinkles before I can stop myself, and I turn to Christian to see him biting back a laugh. I roll my eyes and slap his arm.
“Not funny.”
“Kind of funny,” he says, shaking the bed with his laugh. “No, there are no traditions. You can name him whatever you’d like.”
“What about Tyler Christian?” I ask, looking at him out of the corner of my eye to gauge his reaction.
Christian’s mouth opens and closes, and I think he might be trying to think of something witty or sarcastic to say, but then he just reaches out and grabs my hand. His fingers are warm.
“I love that, Jane-Ann.”
I look away and nod. “Good.”
We are silent for a few minutes. The only movement is Christian’s thumb brushing over my knuckles and my attempts to slow the rapid rise and fall of my chest. But finally, Christian turns to me and breaks the quiet.
“I’m sorry for how much I missed. I know I’ll never be able to make up for it but—”
“I’m the one who kept it from you,” I argue.
Christian waves me away. “I’m the one who acted like a jerk and made you think I wouldn’t care. If I’d been decent, you would have told me.”
I open my mouth to argue, but I can’t. He’s right. Even after the way he acted before leaving, I still battled with wanting to tell him. If Christian had been this sweet that first night we met, he would have been the first person I called. I would have wanted his support.
“So, I know I can’t make the last nine months up to you,” he says. “But I’m here now, and I’d like to try. Can I stay with you and Tyler?”
“In the hospital?” I ask.
He nods and then smiles, his head tilting to the side in a question. “And at home.”
My heart clenches in my chest.
“I don’t want to intrude,” Christian adds. “I can get a hotel if I need to or—”
I shake my head. “No. You can stay with us.”
His shoulders relax, and he smiles, blinking and nodding like he can’t really believe it. Then, he sinks back against my pillows and continues massaging my fingers with his thumb.
“Thanks, Jane-Ann.”
My eyes once again fill with tears. I don’t know if it is my crazy hormones or the immense relief I feel now that my baby’s father is here and desperate to be involved. Either way, I’m overwhelmed in the best possible way.
“You’re welcome, Christian.”
Chapter 18
Christian
After landing in Austin, I’d gone straight to the address on the envelope and had been met by Blakely. I hadn’t gone in any further than the front door, but from what I could see of the apartment, it was small. Too small for two grown adults and a baby. And if I was going to stay with Jane-Ann and Tyler for a while, the apartment would feel even smaller.
When I asked Jane-Ann about why she’d given up her place, she told me about the complications. About passing out at work and being put on bed rest. About not being able to afford her rent and having to move in with Blakely. Every word felt like a weight tied to my ankle, pulling me down until I’d drown in guilt.
“I should have been there,” I said, leaning forward in the recliner and resting my elbows on my knees. “You shouldn’t have had to do that on your own.”
“Everything’s fine,” she insisted. “Blakely and I are going to make it work.”
I lived in a three-bedroom guest house on the palace grounds with a private garden in the back and two sitting rooms. I couldn’t stand by and let Jane-Ann and my son “make it work.” I had to make it right.
And I am. At this moment, Blakely and I are packing up Jane-Ann’s belongings to move to the new place I’ve found for her and the baby.
&n
bsp; “How have you had time to already find a place?” Blakely asks.
I look up as Blakely walks in the room carrying more boxes. Where Jane-Ann is innocent and light and soft, Blakely is sharp. Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek high ponytail that highlights her cheekbones, and she has eyeliner smeared under her eyes that might be purposeful—but might also be leftover from the night before.
“Not sleeping really gave me an edge,” I admit with a laugh.
I should have had more time. I should have had months to prepare for this, but I can’t dwell on that. I have to make good use of the time I do have.
“That explains the dark circles under your eyes that match mine,” she says, gesturing under her own eyes and wincing.
“I’m definitely not in Sigmaran anymore,” I say. “A comment like that would get someone sent to the dungeons.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Blakely go rigid and stare at me for a moment before shaking her head and dropping the boxes at the foot of Jane-Ann’s bed. I’m not sure she appreciated the joke.
“I packed up all of her stuff from the kitchen,” she says.
I eye the suspiciously small box.
“Your girl isn’t much of a cook,” she says in way of an explanation.
Your girl. I bite my lower lip to keep from smiling.
“Thanks for your help.”
“How did you find her a place of her own so fast?” she asks, flopping down on the bed, her ankles crossed.
“Being a prince has its perks.”
My phone rings and I dismiss the call instinctively. I know I should just turn my phone off, but I want to keep track of how many times they’re calling me. How desperate they are. When the calls stop, that’s when I’ll truly be worried.
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