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

by Vivien Vale

  I’m not falling for the tricks of any woman.

  No contract, no fuck.

  Of course, shutting the door hasn’t really done anything to appease my cock. It still is thirsty for a good fuck. I’m seriously debating a cold shower, but that would involve having to go home, and I don’t want to leave June in my office when I’m not here.

  I’m going to make the most of her here today.

  With my brain preoccupied and my cock in charge, I take a moment to pace the length of my office like a caged tiger. I’m not sure if I should be worried she hasn’t signed the contract yet. What more does she want?

  I would’ve thought the promise of ten million dollars would have been enough incentive for anyone to jump at the chance to have my child.

  Not June, though—she said she had to think about it

  I can’t understand what there is to think about. It’s simple: have my baby and then marry me to receive the money.

  A knock on the door interrupts my pacing and navel-gazing.

  “Come in,” I bark, wondering who it is.

  June pushes through the office door sideways. I’m too stunned to do or say anything. She’s carrying huge bundles of papers in both arms; she must’ve used her elbow to push the door handle.

  Her face is half hidden by the papers. “Where do you want these?”

  At first, I want to ask what she thinks she’s doing, but then I remember the photocopying I asked her to do.

  Fifteen minutes. Not bad.

  “Over there,” I thrust my chin in the general direction of the back of my office.

  Those babies are for the board and senior management. They’re my pride and joy, setting out past achievements, current trends, and visions for the company that I have.

  Without a word, June struggles to put the pile of papers on the floor. As she does so, her skirt rides up a little towards that cute ass. Again, my cock springs to life.

  Fuck.

  She turns around and walks out without so much as giving me another glance or acknowledging my presence in any shape or form.

  “June.” I can’t help myself.

  “Yes, Mr. Abrahams?” She half-turns towards me.

  Her shirt has been unbuttoned an extra button. I stare at the hint of her tits.

  “Was there something else?” she asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Could you organize some coffee and lunch for me?”

  I know this isn’t fair. I should tell her how to go about this.

  But I want to test her. If she’s not going to jump at the chance of signing the contract, she’ll have to be put through the paces.

  This time, I set the timer on my watch.

  With my mind preoccupied, I don’t seem to be able to do any fucking work.

  I slump into my high-backed black leather office chair and put my feet on my desk. Then I call the old man.

  “What do you want?” he barks into the receiver.

  “I’m fine today, thank you. And how are you?”

  You’d think the old bastard could at least play the game and engage in pretend pleasantries.

  “Time’s money, sunshine. I assume you didn’t call to ask about my health. And no, I’m not about to drop dead, and yes, my lawyer has been made aware of the new rules, so don’t get ahead of yourself.”

  “It’s Carter,” I protest—and then stop.

  Fucking asshole.

  “I just called to tell you I’ve chosen my wi—I mean, the woman who’s going to have my child and then become my wife.”

  No need to burden the old man with too much information. She’s going to sign the contract. No woman would refuse ten million dollars

  Okay, so I’m beginning to realize June is like no other woman I know, but still, I would bet another ten million that she’ll sign the contract.

  “About time,” growls my father. He hangs up.

  I stare at the phone and wonder how he does it. How does he manage to make me feel so small and insignificant?

  And how come I continue to long for his approval?

  Any further thoughts on the matter are cut short when the phone buzzes.

  “This is Carter,” I answer.

  “So, you went for love at first sight, you fool.” Lawrence laughs. It’s a disgusting, fake laugh that leaves me with goosebumps down my neck and back.

  “Fuck off.”

  More laughter.

  “You know dad didn’t say you had to fall in love. He just said you had to choose someone to have your child.”

  For some reason, my brother’s comments offend me.

  “What do you want, Lawrence?”

  Even before the words are out, I realize how much I sound like our father.

  “I want to see how the lovesick puppy is faring.”

  When I don’t answer, he continues. “And I also want to tell you I’ve also chosen my wife-to-be, too.”

  Silence.

  There are multiple responses on the tip of my tongue, but I keep them all to myself. I don’t want to get into a fight with Lawrence about this.

  “May the best man win—which will be me—because I’m not fucking in love with the woman I chose.”

  He hangs up before I can throw a sharp retort back at him. The door opens, and June comes in with a hot cup of coffee and a brown paper bag.

  She puts both on my desk and turns to leave without another word.

  The thank you dies on my lips when she comes back, this time with the messed-up documents—except they’re not messed up anymore.

  “Paginated and ordered, just like you asked for. And put into a folder.”

  I stare at the folder and then at her. Without thinking, I pick up the paper bag and zero in on its contents.

  A bagel sandwich and a cinnamon roll for dessert.

  Is there anything this girl can’t do?

  “If there’s nothing else, I’ve still got to finish the expense report.”

  By the time it’s five o’clock, June looks worn out. There are dark rings under her eyes, and her step is definitely slower than it was earlier in the day. She’s photocopying the expense report for me.

  I walk over to her. Instead of looking at me, she keeps her eyes on the documents popping out of the copier. Suddenly, the machine goes crazy and starts spitting out hundreds of copies insanely fast.

  June shrieks. Pieces of paper are flying through the air.

  At first, I’m frozen to the spot, but soon I jump into action. I pull the power cord out of the socket, and the machine instantly dies.

  With a sigh, June bends down and begins picking up the papers scattered everywhere. Seeing how tired she looks, I bend down and help. We’re working towards each other, and June only looks up when we nearly collide our heads.

  We’re so close, I can feel her warm breath on my cheek. Our hands touch as we reach for the same piece of paper at exactly the same time.

  A silent tug-of-war ensues. She seems determined not to let go, and for some reason, I don’t want to give up, either. And so we stay kneeling on the floor, eyes locked, our fingers nearly touching.

  The air is electrified.

  Time seems to stand still.

  Almost involuntarily, my face moves closer to hers. We’re now only inches apart. I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but her lips seem to part a little in anticipation of my lips coming down on them.

  There’s a discreet cough, and we both move apart as if we were just caught doing something wrong.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, Carter,” Lawrence calls from the door and is gone before I can say something to him.

  Quickly, I get to my feet. June finishes clearing the floor.

  “It’s been a long day. Let me take you home,” I offer.

  June shakes her head. “I’ve got to finish these,” she points at the papers. “And I’m fine, thank you. I can look after myself.”

  I frown. Is she really going to refuse a ride?

  June

  The moment I step outs
ide the Abraham Fertility building, I realize just how freaking bad my shoes fit me. I’ve been on my feet pretty much all day—since when Carter Abraham says jump, I have to do it in high heels—and the blisters on the backs of my ankles sting with every step.

  But I’ve got my advance check in hand and a plan in my head.

  Get to the bank. Open an account.

  Call a locksmith. Get my truck unlocked.

  Check into a hotel for a day or two, then get an apartment here. Doesn’t have to be nice, just needs to be livable. I don’t even care if there’s a cockroach or two—even if the thought of just one cockroach makes my skin crawl, anyway.

  But outside the building, the wind blasts me in the face so hard it yanks my hair out of the ponytail I’ve pulled it into. The city breeze smells like pizza and urine and wet garbage, and as it smacks me in the face with my own chestnut brown locks, it snatches my advance check right out from between my fingers.

  Shoot. No!

  The thin piece of paper flies and flips through the air like a feather. Everything about my future, from tonight’s dinner to my first home in the city, is being literally carried away on the breeze.

  There are so many people on the sidewalk, walking quickly, aggressively, and completely uncaring about my entire future floating chaotically over the sidewalk. It’s getting away from me fast, and it’s fluttering way in front of me, going in and out of view.

  There’s a wall of people ahead of me, blocking me from my future. Screw it, I can’t afford to be nice right now.

  First, I throw my arms up in the air—not in frustration, but in preparation for my next move. Next, I swing my arms down. Look, I’m being careful that I don’t hit anyone, but I need to create a no-go zone in front of me, which’ll help me make a clear path so I can see where I’m headed.

  Okay, this is probably not the best way to go about it. But I cannot let my future get away.

  With my arms-extended force field in front of me, I start on a healthy trot down the sidewalk. After trotting for half a block, I still don’t see that darn check—which means it’s time for the trot to turn into a gallop.

  Galloping at a healthy clip, people seem to have a natural understanding to move out of my path. This city doesn’t smell great, and it’s crowded, but everyone appears to have some sort of psychic ability to stay out of each other’s way.

  And there’s my future!

  My check is flitting around in the heartless wind, a few inches off the curb and above the stupid street.

  And it’s landing. My future is landing on the ground.

  Finally.

  Forget trotting, or galloping, or holding my arms out in front of me in a makeshift force field, it’s time to sprint at a speed that would make Bolt look slow. The check’s landing in the street, but close enough to the sidewalk that I can just run and grab it.

  Paying no mind to whatever’s in front of me, I dash down the block and straight into the street.

  “Hey, watch where you’re going, lady! What’re ya, crazy?”

  By the time I hear the voice yelling, I don’t even know where it’s coming from anymore. Possibly from that man on the bicycle with the giant messenger bag slung across his back. He’s already speeding away—where could he be off to in such a hurry?

  Never mind that, my future has finally landed…

  In a puddle.

  And it hasn’t even been raining recently. What’s up with that? My check’s now sitting in a gross, dirty puddle just off the curb.

  Another messenger bag-equipped man on a bicycle swerves around me as I bend over to inspect the damage. The check is floating face up on the surface of the puddle—my name, the amount, and the bank account numbers are all still intact. All I need to do to save my future is reach down to claim my check from the disgusting, muddy abyss.

  With a deep breath, and without thinking too hard about it, I scoop up the check with my fingers and immediately, instinctually begin shaking it off. I don’t want to speak too soon, but it doesn’t seem that bad—I might still be able to endorse it.

  For now, I just fold it and put it in my purse. That’s enough adventure for this month.

  Enough unpleasant adventure, at least.

  Thanks to the surprisingly not-that-soggy check now in my purse, a more fun adventure is within my reach.

  All I need to do is get to the bank, pronto.

  The banks here are open pretty late, right? My thoughts drift to my truck.

  It could probably be considered a bad habit at this point, but I’m still attached to my truck. It feels like I abandoned it on a cold, apathetic New York street.

  Poor thing.

  The bank could take a while with a deposit this size. My truck has already been sitting alone for so long, I should check on it at least.

  Then I’ll go to the bank.

  Although I’ve ventured about a block away in pursuit of my errant future, my truck is still sitting there, in my sight, the moment I turn around.

  Darn, I have to stop myself from running to it.

  Acting cool, hard and aloof like all of these other people, I stride to my prized possession as casual as I please.

  Or as casually as I can.

  Naturally, the windshield is already festooned with parking tickets. I’ll look at those after my financial future is secure—within the next hour, if all goes as planned.

  Now, all I need to do is get the driver’s side door open. That shouldn’t be a problem, all I need is a wedge or a steel rod of some kind. You’d think that in this city, you’d see that type of garbage lying around everywhere.

  Gosh darn it, despite scanning the sidewalk intensely on my way to the car, I’m not seeing any appropriate tools. When I reach the door, my only move is to grab the handle and give it a good tug.

  The door stays closed. Because it’s locked.

  Duh.

  There’s no explaining why, but I try again with another vigorous tug. Of course the frigging door stays closed—why wouldn’t it?

  All I can do now is stand in the street and sigh. Maybe I’m turning into a city woman already.

  “You’re not trying to break into that pickup, are you?”

  It takes me a second to place the voice behind me.

  I know I heard it somewhere recently. Very recently.

  Oh. Once again: duh.

  “Mr. Abraham…Carter,” I greet my new boss while spinning around.

  He’s just standing in the middle of the street like traffic doesn’t exist.

  And he’s smiling.

  Man, that smile is distracting. For a moment, I forget that traffic exists myself.

  And that scent. I don’t know if it’s aftershave or what, but for a brief, shining second, it neutralizes the smell of urine, cheap pizza and trash that fills the city air.

  Wait. Is he following me?

  “Did I forget something, Carter? Or…did you have more questions or something?”

  “That was my next question. Why are you trying to get into that pickup truck? Are you okay?”

  “Oh.” My cheeks flush mildly, but I have nothing to be ashamed of. “This is my truck. It’s kind of embarrassing, but I locked the keys inside.”

  “You drove this here?”

  “Well, I didn’t push it. How else would I get it here?”

  Carter laughs, looking genuinely caught off-guard. “Did you drive in from the suburbs somewhere, or…” Carter’s eyes scan me up and down once again, a slow realization dawning as he does. “Where did you drive from? And where have you been sleeping?”

  Carter just manages to step out of the way of a speeding taxi. His calm demeanor does not waver.

  “And why don’t we talk on the sidewalk?” Carter asks. Okay, so maybe he’s not completely fearless.

  We squeeze around the front of my truck, and Carter gives a good, hard look at my parking ticket-infested windshield along the way. He may be looking inside the truck’s cabin, as well.

  “Where are you stayin
g?” Carter asks the second we’re on the sidewalk.

  It feels like too personal a question at first. I’ve never been asked anything like that during or after a job interview.

  But I understand that this is no normal job.

  “I’m off to find an apartment right now…or, tonight, anyway.” That’s my sidestepping answer. I haven’t signed the contract yet, and Carter doesn’t need to know everything.

  “Where?” Er, good question. “Do you have an appointment with a broker?”

  “No.” All I can do is answer honestly…and look down at the sidewalk.

  “At this time of year, June, the waiting list for any livable apartment can be weeks long. Or months, realistically.”

  What’s Carter’s idea of livable, anyway? It’s not like I’m some sort of snob.

  But, cockroaches.

  Shudder.

  He may have a point.

  “I need to get to the bank to deposit this check.” There, that should get him off my back, at least.

  “All the banks are closed by now, June. Where are you staying?”

  If the banks really are closed, and I can’t even get a hotel room, then the only answer I have is in my truck.

  Heck, I’m used to it, and I don’t need to explain myself to anyone. If only I could figure out a way to get that stupid door open.

  “I’ve got plenty of room at my place, June. You can’t sleep in your pickup.”

  “No, thanks.”

  There. I don’t need to explain myself, so I don’t.

  “June, don’t be ridiculous. Come on, I’ve got an incredible penthouse with tons of spare room. Beats sleeping in a truck, I promise.”

  I shake my head once more, but barely. I don’t know what to say.

  Carter

  “And there you have it,” I say, holding my arms out and welcoming June to everything my penthouse has to offer. “Home sweet home.”

  “It looks like a set from a movie,” June breathes, staring wide-eyed as she takes it all in. “You actually live here?”

  I shrug. “I spend a lot of my time at the office.”

  I can see June’s shoulders slump forward, as if being here in my apartment makes her physically uncomfortable.