Baby Surprises 7 Book Box Set

by Layla Valentine

  I think—I would swear—we lean in at the same moment.

  It’s been so long since I kissed someone like this, without agenda or obligation. For so long, kisses have either been functional overtures toward sex or else the way I’ve propelled bad dates toward the moment when the man will go home and leave me alone.

  This kiss is neither.

  This kiss, in and of itself, is better than, more than, any other I’ve ever had. I could lose myself in it. It’s kissing the way kissing was when that was all that was on the menu, when sex was still too adult and frightening to consider, and so kissing felt extreme and ultimate and like everything two people could do together.

  We break apart, and I’m pleased to see that he’s as lost for breath as I am.

  I slowly become aware of the fact that his hands are still on my body. Our hands are clasped together as if we never stopped dancing, our arms wrapped around each other. And, indeed, the next song has started to play, its slow melody driving people all around the room into each other’s arms, so maybe our dance really has continued, one merging seamlessly into the next.

  Then he pulls away from me.

  “I need a drink, I think,” he says, and his voice is huskier than I’ve heard it so far.

  Whatever’s going on, it’s affecting him as much as it is me. That much is unmistakable. I feel a faint sense of pride. It’s a nice feeling, unbalancing someone this much, having such a powerful impact on him.

  “Can I bring you anything?” he adds.

  “Another rum and cola?” I ask.

  “Sure.” He disappears into the crowd, leaving me alone with my thoughts, my racing heart, and my overheated blood.

  I decide to take the opportunity to retrieve my purse so as not to be caught without it again. The idea of approaching the table where people were gossiping about me just a short time ago should be unnerving, but thanks to Alex’s kiss, I still feel like I’m floating. I feel untouchable.

  I make my way over to the table, where Lizzie is still sitting. She doesn’t bother to hide her amazement as I bend over the back of my chair to scoop up my purse.

  “Who was that?” she demands. “He’s not a member of the crew.”

  “No, he’s not,” I agree. “He’s not from the show at all.”

  “So what is he doing here?”

  “I brought him.”

  “But I saw you arrive!” Lizzie says. “You didn’t have a date.”

  “I know that. I went out to the lobby a few minutes ago and met him there.”

  She screws up her face, a little bit of judgment showing through.

  “You just went out to the lobby and picked up a guy there?”

  “Are you questioning my taste?” I ask. I indicate Alex, who’s now up at the bar ordering drinks. “He’s gorgeous. And he’s sweet, too.”

  “Yeah, but I mean, just bringing any old guy you could find…”

  “I didn’t go out there looking for a date,” I say, exasperated. “I met a cute guy, and we hit it off. I can’t help that it happened in the lobby.”

  A hand grabs my arm. “Erica. Oh my God.”

  I turn. The hand belongs to Melissa, one of our makeup artists. She specializes in two things: gore—open wounds, blood, ugly scars, things of that nature—and gossip. She makes Lizzie look bush league by comparison. Lizzie’s form of gossip is like a group of water-cooler hens in an office, but Melissa is more like a tabloid. She likes to know everything, and she like to tell everyone.

  “What’s up, Melissa?” I say.

  Her eyes are wide. “How do you know Prince Alessandro?”

  “Prince who?” I ask. “Are you talking about Alex? The guy I was dancing with?”

  “Yes!”

  “I just met him,” I say. “Why are you calling him Prince Alessandro?”

  It occurs to me for a moment to wonder if he’s an actor after all, perhaps on a competing show.

  “You don’t know?” Melissa asks. “He’s the prince of Avaran.”

  “He’s what?” I stare at her. “No, he isn’t.”

  “Oh yes, he definitely is. Remember how during the last hiatus I was in Italy working on that location shoot?”

  I don’t remember that at all, actually. Melissa and I have never been close, and I have no idea where she goes during breaks. It’s very like her to assume that everyone is constantly aware of what she has going on at all times.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Well, he was in all the tabloids and gossip rags,” she says. “And I was buying everything I could get my hands on, because…well, honestly, I had a bit of a crush. I mean, look at him.”

  We all do. He’s on his way back now, carrying two cups in one massive hand.

  “That’s Prince Alessandro, all right,” Melissa punctuates this statement with a nod. “I can’t believe you didn’t know.”

  Lizzie turns to me, mouth agape. “What are you going to do?”

  I have no idea. But I need to figure it out because Alex—Prince Alessandro—is walking up to our table now, a smile on his face and a drink held outstretched for me.

  Chapter 4

  Since joining the cast of Royal Blue, I’ve been through plenty of awkward situations. I’ve had to answer every question under the sun about my situation, and I don’t feel qualified to speak on most of them at all.

  “What’s it like to be royalty?” I wouldn’t know, would I? I’m not really a princess.

  I try to answer this question with as much sincerity in my voice as possible, but I’m afraid I sound like I’m making fun of the person asking. People know I’m not a real princess, of course they do, and yet it feels like they expect me to have some insight into the world of royalty. I doubt the lives of real royals are anything like what I experience on the show.

  “What’s it like to be famous?” Another question I get all the time, and another that I feel woefully unqualified to answer, though in this case, I have little excuse.

  I’m famous, I know I am. My show airs worldwide and has won awards. My face has been on billboards and magazine covers. And yet, every time I’m asked this question, I feel like an imposter. “I’m not famous,” I want to say. “I’m just Erica from Ohio.”

  Then there are the questions about my personal life, maybe my least favorite of all. Eager fans want to know all about what’s going on with me, what it’s really like to be Erica Steadman. “Are you dating Chris Watson?” eager girls ask me as they reach the front of my autograph line. Their eyes flick from me to Chris, who usually sits next to me at these things, and I know they’re examining us for some secret sign that will indicate we’re together, some flicker of sexual tension.

  There’s nothing there. But more than half the time, I would say, the fans walk away with a knowing gleam in their eye, looking satisfied and sure that they were right all along.

  Then there are the journalists. They’re even worse, because their job is to make stories out of lives, and lives are not simple narratives. When they find out I’m single, they start looking for reasons. Did I suffer a tragic heartbreak? Am I pining for someone I can’t have? Or, perhaps, is it that I’m just too difficult, too unpleasant to be around, and I can’t keep a man because of it?

  The journalists don’t want to believe the truth, which is that as nice as dating sounds, I haven’t had the necessary time to devote to it since being cast on the show. Sure, I’ve been on a few dates here and there—Jay comes to mind—but the men who have sought me out for dates have invariably been either jerks or weirdos more interested in Princess Aeryn than they are in me, and I haven’t been able to look for men on my own.

  And now here I am standing opposite Alessandro—Prince Alessandro, if Melissa is to be believed. I can feel Lizzie’s eyes boring into me, her desperation to know what’s going on here ripening on the air.

  I take the drink held out to me and sip it, giving myself time to think. Do I confront him with what Melissa said? Do I put him on the spot right now, the way fans and reporter
s do to me? The way I hate?

  I have to know the truth. I have a right to know who I’m spending my time with. I’m not being nosy or intrusive. It’s a perfectly valid question.

  I don’t have to do it in front of the others, though. I can spare him that much.

  “Can you come with me, please?” I ask.

  “Where are you going?” Lizzie interrupts in consternation.

  “I’ll be back,” I tell her. “I just need to speak to—to Alex for a moment.”

  He looks mystified, but he follows me back out of the ballroom and down the hall toward the hotel bar.

  “I thought you wanted to go to that party?” he says. “I assumed we’d stay a little longer than that.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. I’m acutely aware that this is the second time I’ve walked out on Gary’s party tonight. “I really just wanted to put in an appearance,” I add. “Everyone’s seen me now. It’s an okay time to get away for a while.”

  Alex—or Alessandro—nods his head. “If you say so.”

  The booth we left at the bar is still empty, so I return to it. He takes a seat opposite me and watches me, evenly, calmly, waiting for me to say something. But what I have to say feels ridiculous out here in the open atmosphere of the bar, away from Melissa’s gossip. She can’t be right, can she?

  “You’re not a prince, are you?” I finally blurt out, feeling foolish.

  He raises his eyebrows. “What makes you ask that?”

  “My friend Melissa thinks she saw your face in the papers when she was in Italy.”

  He lowers his eyes. “She’s correct. You’ll have to congratulate her. Most people don’t recognize me when they see me. I’m used to traveling fairly unnoticed in this part of the world.”

  I’m boggled.

  “It’s true? You’re really a prince?”

  He takes a long sip of his drink. “Is it a problem for you?” he asks. “I mean…if we’re going to continue our evening together. Which I would like to.”

  I have to admit, I’m charmed. He seems so flustered, not taking my interest for granted at all. Still, I can’t let him off scot-free here.

  “I can’t believe you’re a prince and you weren’t going to say anything to me about it,” I say, shaking my head in mock disappointment.

  “But…I did say something,” he counters.

  “What? No, you didn’t!” I’m trying to be flirty and figure this guy out at the same time.

  “The very first thing I said to you,” he protests. “I introduced myself as Prince Alessandro, remember?”

  My cheeks flush as the memory comes flooding back. “You told me that was just a joke, though.”

  “I suppose I did do that,” he admits easily. “You didn’t seem very receptive to hearing I was a prince. And in a way, I was joking. Being a prince of Avaran isn’t quite the same as being a princess on Royal Blue.”

  “Right,” I say hotly. “Because one of them is real.”

  “No, no, that’s not what I mean,” he says. “Avaran is a small nation, one very few people are familiar with, and that means I can move through the world without the kind of attention that’s focused on you. I imagine it’s much more difficult to be in the position you’re in, where you’re recognized everywhere you go.”

  “That is hard,” I admit. “And…well, this is embarrassing, but you’re right to say people don’t know much about Avaran. I couldn’t really tell you much about it at all.”

  “You’re not alone,” he assures me.

  “I feel bad,” I say. “I’ve been talking about myself all evening, and I haven’t made any effort to learn more about you or where you’re from.”

  Our glasses are empty.

  “Would you like another drink?” he asks, starting to get up.

  “No thanks.” I want to keep a clear head. Tonight has had enough surprises already. “So what am I supposed to call you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean…well, do I address you by a title?”

  “No. Definitely not. I don’t want it to be like that. Besides, I’m not your prince,” he points out. “I’m not royalty in this country. And even if I was, I would only want you to call me by my name.”

  “Okay,” I say. “What is your name, though? Are you Prince Alessandro, or Alex?”

  God. I sound accusatory now. I’m sitting here and accusing a prince, a real prince, of setting out to deceive me. Of dishonesty. He’s been spending the evening with me, being nothing but kind and supportive, even accompanying me back to the party when there’s no reason he should want to be there, and I can’t seem to stop questioning him.

  But then, I have to have something to call him, don’t I? I’m feeling overwhelmed.

  “I will take that drink,” I say suddenly before he can answer my question.

  I’m expecting him to point that out, but to my surprise, he nods and rises gracefully, departing for the bar and leaving me alone to sort out the tangle of my thoughts.

  As soon as Alex, or Alessandro, or whatever I’m supposed to call him, is out of my immediate vicinity, I whip out my phone. I feel at such a disadvantage, and I’ll take any opportunity to gather a little information that will help me interact with him more appropriately

  Avaran. I’ve heard of it, of course, but it’s one of those little nations that have worked their way into my awareness without my being able to say exactly when or how it happened.

  It’s not as if I’ve ever met anyone from Avaran—until today, of course. I’ve never been there or dreamed of going there. I’ve never eaten at an Avaranian restaurant or studied Avaranian art. I couldn’t even point to it on a map.

  Deciding to start there, I quickly pull up a map. There it is, right on top of the boot cuff of Italy, tucked up under Slovenia like it’s actually trying to hide. It’s a tiny little place, smaller than any of the other countries around it, and suddenly it comes back to me where I first heard of it—a fifth-grade geography unit that had us memorize the largest and smallest countries on every continent.

  But seeing it doesn’t actually tell me anything about the place. There’s a feeling you get in your mind when you think about a country you’re familiar with, a sense of the national flavor, and I feel nothing here. What is Avaran like? What does it stand for? Are its people ruggedly independent to a fault like Americans? Are they cold and structured, like Russians, or more ‘live and let live’ like the French and Italians?

  And what might being the prince of Avaran consist of? Does the country have resources that need to be controlled and distributed carefully? Does it have allies that need to be placated or enemies that need to be guarded against?

  I look up at Alex getting our drinks from the bar. He’s so gorgeous my heart speeds up just looking at him.

  What is he doing here? The prince of a European nation…is he here for political reasons? Will he be meeting with world leaders, maybe in the conference room of this very hotel? It’s not impossible to imagine— this is a really nice place, and I know that Peter does rent the conference rooms out to important people for meetings. But why would anyone come to California to do politics? That part of it doesn’t make any sense.

  I set my questions aside. He’s on his way back now, drinks in hand, and the time he spent away from our table hasn’t brought me any closer to being ready to deal with the fact that I’m sitting opposite a prince. I should have done more internet searches, read more articles—but I don’t know what I would have been looking for. I’m completely out of my depth here.

  He sits down opposite me and slides me a drink. “It was a rum and cola, right?”

  “That’s right.” I take the drink and sip it to give myself a little more time to think. “Thank you.”

  “It’s no trouble at all. Are you feeling any better?”

  “What?”

  “Well, you looked a little dizzy when I stepped away. I had the feeling you were having trouble processing things.”

  Was I so transparen
t? I feel my face flush.

  “I’m fine,” I say, not troubling to confirm that he was correct in his assessment, that I was indeed rocked backward a bit by the news that he was a prince.

  He nods. “You wouldn’t be the first one to be thrown for a loop upon finding out who I really am,” he says. “Unfortunately, it happens more often than I’d like. People don’t know how to deal with royalty, how to talk to royalty. It’s just like I was saying before, really. It’s similar to what I’m sure you go through as a famous actress.”

  “The difference being that you knew I was an actress when you approached me,” I point out.

  “Bumped into you,” he corrects me easily.

  “Either way.” I tilt my head and laugh.

  “I understand your point,” he says. “I did know what I was getting into when I started talking to you. When I asked you to join me for a drink.”

  “I’m so glad you did, by the way. Ask me for a drink. But now I’m not sure how I’m supposed to be treating you,” I say.

  I’m a little embarrassed that all my insecurities about this situation are just pouring out, but I feel completely unglued—scattered—and I know I haven’t got a hope of keeping it together. It would be hard enough anyway, given how distractingly handsome he is. But then there’s the fact that I’ve never been around royalty before, and I have no idea how to act.

  “What do you mean, how you’re supposed to be treating me?” he asks, a shadow of a frown crossing his face.

  “Well, I just mean…” my face is burning. “I don’t know. Am I supposed to bow to you or something? I mean, curtsey? I mean—” My God, I am really making a mess of my words here. “I don’t want to disgrace the United States in the eyes of the ruler of Avaran or cause some kind of diplomatic incident or something. I just don’t know what’s appropriate in a situation like this.”

  A smile lights up his face. “You don’t need to curtsey.” His tone is warm and sincere, and his eyes hold mine. “We’re just having a drink together. Treat us as two regular people having a drink together.”

  “We’re definitely not that,” I say.