Tangled Games (Dating Games)

by T. K. Leigh

  “That your uterus can press more weight than some bodybuilders.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. Apparently, the force of your contractions can equal up to 180 kilograms per square foot.”

  “And in U.S. terms, what’s 180 kilograms?”

  He scrunches his brows, doing the math in his head. “A little less than 400 pounds.”

  “Wow. My vagina deserves a medal.”

  His lips lift in a playful smirk. “Damn straight it does. Or maybe an award in the shape of my cock.”

  When he thrusts against me, I swat him, trying to fight my smile. It’s impossible, though, especially when he turns into the flirt he is now.

  “Okay then. What else did you learn?”

  His eyes darken as he brushes a finger against my nipple, then squeezes. It instantly hardens, sparks shooting through me. “In the third trimester, nipple stimulation can bring on labor.” He pushes me onto my back, covering a nipple with his mouth as he continues to tease the other one. “So, when you’re on the cusp of popping from carrying our baby for forty weeks, I’m your guy.” He circles my pert bud. “Hell, I’m your guy now.”

  I close my eyes, basking in the sensation. That’s all it takes for my libido to put out her cigarette and jump back into the fray, ready for round two. Or is it three?

  When he slips a finger back inside me, his mouth still on my chest, I murmur, “I think I can get on board with that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Anderson

  The scent of baby powder and lavender surrounds me as I approach the gardens near the edge of my estate. I could be blind and still know Nora’s out here. Thankfully I’m not. I may eventually need help walking, but at least I have my eyesight.

  At least I’ll always be able to appreciate Nora’s beauty.

  And right now, as she sits in a lounge chair, the sun warming her milky skin, a pile of letters stacked on the table beside her, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so beautiful. Because she’s also finally found her peace.

  Found her place in this world.

  Over the past few weeks, things have turned around quite a bit, especially for Nora. No longer is she kept out of the spotlight for fear she’ll do something wrong.

  Since I informed the palace PR team that I planned to do things my way from now on, the country has finally gotten a chance to know their future queen. During our public appearances together, Nora absolutely shines.

  Not only is she the picture of poise and grace, but she also takes time to talk to people. And not just about approved topics. Nora engages in meaningful conversations, a gift that continues to marvel me every day.

  But what really endeared her to the people of this country, as well as across the world, was the day we visited a pediatric oncology wing. Despite having another engagement immediately after, she insisted on staying to play dress-up with a few of the younger patients. Suffice it to say, the media remained behind to cover that story instead of a photo op I had to attend with my father and a few foreign dignitaries. Now, the press is much more interested in the future crown princess’ public appearances than anyone else’s.

  The royal household hates it.

  I love it.

  Once I stopped blindly following their advice simply because that was the way things had always been done, Nora began to soar, a caged bird no more.

  The people adore her, as evidenced by the hundreds upon hundreds of letters she receives every day not only from people in Belmont, but around the world. Little girls who see a real-life fairytale coming true. School-aged children who wish her good luck on her upcoming wedding. Even some older women who have also suffered a pregnancy loss, thanking her for bringing light to miscarriage and stillbirth, something that continues to carry a stigma, as ridiculous as that sounds.

  “I know you’re standing there watching me like a creeper,” she says, her eyes remaining focused on the palace stationary as she responds to another piece of fan mail, as I call it.

  Although the royal household hates that term. Hates the idea that Nora was able to accumulate adoring fans, despite all their efforts to the contrary.

  Initially, she had hoped to respond to each and every letter. However, that proved to be a challenge, particularly as the number of letters increased to the point where the staff now has to choose which ones they’ll give her.

  “What can I say?” I retort, taking slow steps toward her. “I like looking at you. Especially when you’re in it.”

  “In it?” She signs her name, another thing the royal household despises, since they view it as an autograph, which is against the rules. Then she glances over her shoulder. Brilliant blue eyes meet mine as joy radiates from her. Weeks ago, I didn’t think this level of happiness was possible. Instead, I was prepared for her to walk away from this world.

  But she hasn’t.

  Granted, it hasn’t all been unicorns and rainbows. There are still quite a few people who don’t like the idea of me marrying an American. But we’ve stopped caring what anyone else thinks, which was a huge feat for Nora, since she’s lived most of her life doing everything to live up to her mother’s impossible standards. Of always trying to be perfect in everyone’s eyes. She’s finally realized she’ll never make everyone happy, that there will always be someone critical of something she says, does, or wears.

  “In it,” I repeat as I slide into the chair beside her. “Like when you’re so immersed in what you’re doing that you forget there’s a world outside of it all. You’re in it.” I shrug. “It’s something my mother used to say whenever she noticed I was deep in thought.”

  She leans toward me and treats me to a kiss that leaves me wanting so much more. “I like it.” She lingers near my mouth for a beat, then pulls back, grabbing the next letter and unfolding it.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” she asks as she reads a letter I can only assume to be from another young girl, based on the disjointed writing. “I thought you’d be stuck in meetings the rest of the day.”

  I extend my legs in front of me and cross them at the ankles as I place my hands behind my head and lean back. “That’s the good thing about being in charge. I can reschedule if I want.”

  She gives me a playful look of disapproval before grabbing a fresh piece of stationary to respond to another letter. Just seeing her pile of responses makes my hand ache.

  “You’re not in charge yet. Your father isn’t officially going to abdicate until a few months after Little Pickle is born.” She pats her stomach.

  While it’s still not obvious she’s pregnant, I’m the lucky bastard who gets to share my life with her. Every night when I fall asleep with Nora in my arms, my hand always seems to find its way to her stomach, a little bump becoming more noticeable, at least to me. I can’t help but marvel that a tiny life we created grows within. I don’t want to rush the process, still enjoying this time with Nora when it’s just us, but I can’t wait to meet “Little Pickle”, as Nora has nicknamed him or her, after her latest craving. One I try to satisfy as much as possible by having her favorite New York treat of pastrami on rye and pickles flown in from Katz.

  “Then maybe I’ll head back to the palace and not take you to Paris for the weekend,” I say nonchalantly as I stand, resecuring the button on my suit jacket.

  “Paris?” she shrieks, scrambling to her feet, letters falling onto the ground around her. “Did you say you’re taking me to Paris?”

  “I was thinking about it. Ya know, give you an immersive experience after all your French lessons. But you’re right,” I continue in a forced serious tone. “I should absolutely go back to work.”

  “No!” She flings her arms around me, squeezing me tightly, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Take me to Paris!”

  I chuckle, placing my hand on her back and pulling her closer. “If that’s what you wish, my lady.”

  She looks at me, smiling brightly. “Oh, it is. It really, really is.”

  I lower my mouth to hers, our l
ips skimming. “Then let’s go to Paris.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Nora

  Paris. I’m in fucking Paris. Home of the Notre-Dame Cathedral, the Arc d’ Triumph, and the Eiffel Tower.

  Of croissants and eclairs.

  Of love.

  For as long as I can remember, this has been a dream of mine, but it always seemed so unattainable. Hunter and I had discussed coming here after our wedding. Then I got pregnant, so our Paris honeymoon was changed to something not so far away.

  When I met Jeremy, he promised to eventually take me, too, but something always came up. After we divorced, I considered coming here as part of my divor-cation, the term my friends and I used to refer to a honeymoon for a divorcée.

  Instead, they insisted I take the trip along Route 66 I was supposed to do with Hunter. Fulfill the promise I made his parents that I’d spread his ashes along the route. Which was where I met Anderson.

  It’s funny how life works sometimes. I may have foregone my trip to Paris to finally say goodbye to the ghosts of my past. But in doing so, I found my way to Paris anyway.

  “What do you think, ma chèrie?” Anderson asks as we stroll along the Seine, the setting sun casting a magical glow over the city that’s still alive with a mixture of locals and tourists.

  The Eiffel Tower reaches for the heavens before us, Notre-Dame Cathedral behind us, romance surrounding us. Artists sit along the river, hard at work at capturing whatever catches their eye. We even passed several couples dancing along the promenade. This city truly is romance personified.

  “It’s even more beautiful than I imagined. The perfect weekend getaway.”

  Since we arrived earlier today after a flight that lasted less than an hour, Anderson showed me a few of his favorite spots around the city.

  The Sacre-Coeur Basilica atop the hill in Montmartre, which has one of the most amazing views of Paris.

  Rue de la Paix, with all its exquisite shopping, where we struggled to resist the temptation whenever we saw anything baby related, since we still need to keep that a secret.

  The Pantheon, where some of the greatest French minds are buried — Rousseau, Voltaire, Dumas.

  And Pere Lachaise Cemetery, where we paid our respects to Héloïse and Abelard, the famous star-crossed lovers who were forced to carry out their love through letters.

  “There’s nothing like Paris,” he admits, his own eyes alight with a renewed energy.

  I wasn’t the only one who needed this little getaway. He did, too. While we’ve made an effort to spend more time with each other these past few weeks, Anderson rarely attending any engagements in the evening unless I’m with him, life behind the proverbial palace walls can still be exhausting, especially with the wedding in just two weeks.

  It’s been refreshing to be a normal couple. Granted, a few people have recognized us as we explored the city, a team of plain-clothes protective officers flanking us. But we haven’t been chased by the paparazzi, who seem to have become obsessed with capturing our every movement back home.

  “My dad always dreamed of coming here,” I murmur absentmindedly as a breeze wraps around me and kicks up a scent that can only be described as Paris — food, history, and love.

  “You were five when he died, correct?” Anderson asks, his voice hesitant.

  Throughout our relationship, I haven’t spoken of my dad in any detail. Doing that would inevitably lead to my mother, which is always a touchy subject.

  “I can’t remember much about him, especially since he was still active military and was on deployment quite a bit, but I do remember that. Promised that one day, when we had enough money, he’d take me.”

  “I’m sorry he was never able to.”

  “Don’t be.” I shrug. “My father taught me how to dream. Here was someone who came from nothing. Literally. He had no one.”

  He tilts his head, his interest piqued as I speak of this man who’s remained a mystery to him most of our relationship. “What do you mean?”

  “His parents were addicts. He was neglected a lot growing up. Most of the time, the only meal he ate during the day was the lunch the school provided. When school was on break, he either had to steal food or hope one of his teachers felt bad enough for him that they’d drop off something.”

  “Why didn’t the authorities get involved? If his parents weren’t feeding him, were neglecting him…”

  “I don’t know. I only learned this from my brothers and a few of the members in his unit who stayed in touch with us.”

  He nods. “And they’re all much older than you, correct? Your brothers, I mean.”

  “Charlie’s seven years older, Michael’s eight, and Joshua’s ten. Because of the age difference, I always felt like an only child.

  “Anyway, my dad could have very easily followed in his parents’ footsteps, started doing drugs, repeating the cycle.”

  “But he didn’t,” Anderson remarks.

  “No. Thanks to his French teacher.”

  His eyes widen. “His French teacher?”

  “Why does that surprise you?”

  “I could see a football coach getting him on the right path, but a French teacher? It’s just unusual.”

  “Well, his French teacher was also his wrestling coach, so you’re not totally off-base.” I wink. “My dad grew up in a small town in rural North Carolina that consisted of maybe 2,000 people, so culture wasn’t high on their list of priorities. Hell, most people in town had lived there since birth. Had probably never ventured too far away from the town line. So his French class was my father’s first exposure to a different culture. An eye-opening experience to a world outside the one he’d been living. That became his dream. His motivation to do whatever it took to get out of that small town and not repeat the cycle.”

  “So he joined the military.”

  “It was the only way out for him.”

  A silence passes between us. Then he glances my way. “How did he meet your mother?”

  I smile nostalgically. When I first heard their love story, I thought it was beautiful, the kind of story we all hope to have.

  Unfortunately, their happily ever after was short-lived.

  “At a funeral.”

  “A…funeral?”

  I nod. “When my father left town for boot camp, he swore he’d never come back. Until he learned his French teacher had passed away. So he requested leave and went home to pay his respects. His teacher’s name was James Harcourt. His daughter’s name is Elaine.”

  “Your mother…,” Anderson breathes.

  “Yes. My dad told his navy buddies it was love at first sight. Unfortunately, she had a boyfriend at the time. And three young boys.”

  “But they weren’t married? Your mother and this boyfriend?”

  “No.” I furrow my brows. “I never figured out why. One of my dad’s navy buddies thought my mom was a romantic at heart, at least back then. That she knew her boyfriend wasn’t her soul mate. But my father was. After the funeral, they stayed in touch. Sent letters to each other, which I find extremely romantic, especially nowadays when most couples send texts asking to hook-up. Over the course of a year and dozens of letters, they fell in love. My mom left her boyfriend, married my father, and three years later, I was born.” I give him a smile.

  “Wow…” Anderson blinks, seemingly surprised by this. “That sounds incredibly…sweet.”

  “You didn’t expect that?”

  “Based on what I know of your mother? No.”

  “She wasn’t always the way she is now. She used to be…nice. Loving. It wasn’t until my father passed away that she changed. When he died, a part of her did, too. She became a different person, someone I barely recognize. And it’s only gotten worse with every man she marries and realizes he isn’t my father. Will never be my father. I think that’s why…” I trail off.

  “Why what?” he presses.

  I shrug sheepishly. I haven’t told him about my most recent conversation with my mother
. I didn’t think it mattered. It still doesn’t.

  “Remember. No secrets.”

  I draw in a breath, slowly shifting my gaze toward his. “Why she accused me of doing the same thing with you after she learned of our engagement.”

  “When?”

  “She called me a few weeks ago.”

  He forces me to stop walking and peers at me with frantic eyes. “I’d left explicit instructions with your private secretary that she was not to get through to you. I—”

  I place my hand on his cheek, placating him. “She manipulated him. Made him think it was a call from the hospital about Chloe.”

  He takes a deep breath, then slowly lets it out. “What did she say?”

  “Other than being pissed about not receiving an invitation to our wedding, she claimed I’m only marrying you because of a shared traumatic experience.”

  He blows out a laugh. “That’s why you shouldn’t marry me.”

  “True. But the heart can’t be reasoned with. And despite it all, my heart still wants you.”

  He leans down, our lips meeting in a soft kiss. “My heart will always want you.”

  I link my fingers with his once more as we continue along the river, a comfortable silence between us. It reminds me of the miles we traveled together along Route 66, neither one of us saying anything, simply enjoying the serenity. I once hated silence, needed to fill it with conversation, particularly around someone I didn’t know well.

  But from the beginning, I didn’t feel that way around Anderson.

  He truly became the stranger I recognized, as a fortune teller predicted would be the man who owned my heart.

  “How about you?” I ask after a while. “How did your parents meet?”

  “My mum was jumping one of her horses at competition and my dad happened to have a polo match on the next field. When the match was over, he headed back to his car and saw my mum. Said he was mesmerized. Couldn’t look away. So he stayed. Then he found out her name and the rest of her competition dates. Made sure to be there. It was a slow-build romance, much like your parents. They started as friends, I suppose, although there was always something else there. But my father couldn’t date publicly without the media going crazy over it, even though he was second in line at the time.