The Rock Star’s Baby Bargain

by Lili Valente

  “An excuse for cake?”

  “An excuse for all the cake,” she corrects, kissing my cheek before adding with a smile, “and all the icing.”

  “Then let’s jet, woman.” I pat her ass. “License, then rings, then cake, then phone calls?”

  “License, then cake,” she says. “We can get married without rings if we have to, but there’s no way I’m getting hitched if I don’t have cake to feed you after.”

  Laughing and making plans while shooing away more curious seagulls, we gather our beach supplies and head to the car.

  Three hours later, the ring is being sized, the cake has been ordered, the marriage license procured, and Colette is popping into the hair salon to see if they have time to fit her in first thing tomorrow. Meanwhile, I duck into the liquor store across the street to buy a case of champagne and arrange for it to be delivered to Kirby’s house for the barbecue/wedding reception.

  Then I step outside and call Gram, my pulse beating faster as I cross my fingers that she’ll take the news okay. Nothing is going to stop me from marrying Colette tomorrow, but I’d love to have my grandparents’ approval. They’ve been the most important people in my life since I was a kid, and I want us to stay close as I move forward and start a family of my own.

  “Well, it took you long enough,” Gram says when she answers, without so much as a “hello.” “I got a call from Yumi half an hour ago.”

  Yumi. The clerk at the courthouse, who’s also in the Botanical Society.

  Shit. I should have seen this coming and headed it off at the pass.

  “I’m sorry.” I drag a hand through my hair. “We just—”

  “What are you sorry for?” Gram asks with a laugh. “Your grandfather and I are over the moon! We knew Colette was the one the first night you brought her for dinner. The moment you two left, I turned to him and said, ‘that’s the girl Zack’s going to marry,’ and he said, ‘I sure as hell hope so.’ I mean, neither of us expected it to be quite this soon, but why waste time when you know it’s right?”

  Relief warming my chest, I start across the street. “Agreed. So can we count on you two to be at the courthouse at one p.m. tomorrow?”

  “Of course! Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll bring Colette a bouquet from the garden and something for your lapel. Tell her not to worry about store-bought flowers. They won’t be as fresh.”

  “She’ll love that,” I say, so grateful for the generous people in my life. “Thank you, Gram. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, baby. Gramps and I are so proud of the man you’ve become, and we know you’re going to be a wonderful husband to your sweet girl.”

  “Thanks,” I say again, shocked to find the back of my eyes beginning to sting. “Now I have to go before you make me cry in public.”

  Gram laughs. “Nothing wrong with crying in public! But go, get ready for your big day. We’ll see you soon to celebrate!”

  I end the call and step into the hair salon, but I’m barely through the door when the grinning woman behind the counter says, “Colette went next door. She told me to tell you. One of her friends is a nurse she wants to invite to the wedding.”

  Nodding, I reach behind me for the door handle. “Got it. Thanks.”

  “And congratulations!” the redhead squeals. “I’m so excited for you two!”

  “Me, too.” I grin as I push back out onto the street and head into the women’s clinic next door.

  The small waiting room is nearly empty this late in the afternoon—just one woman with a sleeping infant in her lap and a carrier at her feet, who a pigtailed nurse calls for just seconds after I step into the clinic.

  “Here, let me,” I say, hurrying to grab the carrier for her as she stands, struggling to hold the baby with one arm while she gathers her diaper bag and purse with the other.

  “Oh, thank you,” she says with a laugh. “I never seem to have enough hands lately.”

  “No worries at all.” I deliver the carrier to the nurse waiting by the door leading into the exam rooms. She takes it with a wink and says, “Thank you, sir. Colette will be right out if you want to take a seat.”

  Before I can reply, Colette calls out from behind her. “I’m here. Thank you so much, Sherry. See you tomorrow!”

  I step back as the nurse and the young mother move down the hallway, and Colette appears in front of me, breathing fast with tears flowing down her pink cheeks. I’m about to ask what’s wrong, but then she’s laughing and throwing her arms around my neck as she says, “We did it!”

  “We did it?” I echo, arms tightening around her.

  “We did it,” she says, sniffing and laughing as she pulls back to beam up at me. “Sherry just read the test. We did it. We’re pregnant. We’re going to have a baby!”

  I swoop her back up in my arms with a whoop, spinning her in a circle as my heart victory-punches my ribs.

  A baby. It’s happening.

  And I couldn’t be happier.

  Setting Colette back on her feet, I swipe the tears from her cheeks with my thumbs. “You’re going to see your doctor tomorrow,” I insist. “To make sure you stay safe through the entire pregnancy.”

  “Her office isn’t open on Saturdays,” she says with a grin. “But yes, I’ll make an appointment on Monday. I’ll call from Nashville as soon as we land.”

  I shake my head. “No, you’re staying here. I’ll stay, too, and figure out another place to—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, laughing. “I’m fine to fly. I doubt the doctor will even want me to come in for a few weeks. The pregnancy will only be high risk when I’m farther along.” She presses on tiptoe, kissing my cheek. “For now, we’re fine to honeymoon in Nashville while you record the best album ever.”

  I hug her closer. “A wedding, a honeymoon, and a baby.”

  “Too much?” she asks.

  “Not a chance. Just wondering what I did to get so lucky.”

  “Day drinking,” she says, seriously, before laughing at my confusion. “If you hadn’t been at Chippy’s that afternoon, you never would have heard Fernando being a jerk or come to check on me. As I see it, we owe all this good fortune to day drinking. As soon as the baby is born, I’m having mimosas to celebrate.”

  I grin. “Or we could just have orange juice and a nap. I have a hunch we might not feel much like day drinking with a newborn.”

  “True,” she says, wonder filling her eyes. “A newborn. We’re going to have one.”

  “We are,” I promise, refusing to let worry in through the door. The pregnancy will be high risk, but Colette has a great doctor monitoring her every step of the way. Our baby is going to be fine.

  And if by some terrible twist of fate, something goes wrong, we’ll get through that, too. Together.

  “Yes.” Colette nods as if she’s read my mind, which she probably has. “We’ve got this.”

  “We so do.”

  And we do.

  Our last-minute wedding goes off without a hitch, our honeymoon is busy but perfect, filled with nights lazing in our hotel bed, admiring the view of the Nashville skyline and recording sessions that feel like the best of my career. I’m so full of happiness and gratitude it comes pouring out of me in the work, and my new backup band of veteran musicians makes every take better than the last.

  By the time Genevieve Frances Halloran is born the following May, my solo album has already hit platinum, and my fifteen summer tour dates are sold out.

  My new manager, an amazing woman named Maggie, who stepped in and filled Chip’s shoes and then some, keeps begging me to add more, but I want to see how the three of us do on tour together before I agree to more time on the road.

  My family comes first. Today and always.

  “Up at two and ready to party, baby girl?” I ask, collecting our squawking two-month-old from her portable crib after the first performance in Bangor. “You’re a rock star already.”

  Colette hums beneath her breath as she sits up in bed, ge
tting ready to feed Genevieve after I change her diaper. “No partying. Just milk and then more sleep. We’ll party when we’ve caught up on our rest.”

  “In five years or so,” I say, settling the baby in Colette’s arms and lying down beside her to watch the baby nurse. It never gets old, the miracle of seeing our little one latch on and guzzle like the healthy girl she is.

  “Or ten,” Colette says with a smile as she reaches out, tousling my too-long hair with her free hand. “Go back to sleep. You have to perform tomorrow night. I just have to take naps with the baby between feedings. I’ll put her down when we’re done and get her the next time she cries.”

  “No way. I’m not tired,” I lie. I am tired, but it’s a good tired, and since I can’t help with breastfeeding, fetching Gen from her crib and changing diapers seems like the least I can do. “Let’s adopt a dozen more.”

  Colette laughs softly. “Don’t be ridiculous. Half a dozen. Tops.”

  I take her hand, threading my fingers through hers. “Sounds like a plan.”

  “And a hope and a wish,” she says, looking down at the baby before turning the same loving gaze my way. “But if it’s just the three of us, that’s good, too. So much better than good.”

  “It’s everything,” I agree, kissing the back of her hand.

  And it is—everything I’ll ever need. Success and cheering fans and hearing my songs on the radio are all wonderful, but they can’t compare to the ordinary miracle of my girls here with me.

  The words prick at the back of my brain, but I don’t reach for the pen and paper I keep beside the bed for song lyrics that come in the night.

  This isn’t something I’m going to forget.

  Hungry for more FEEL GOOD romance? “He looks gorgeous. Expensive. And royal as heck. Prince Andrew is even hotter in person and I loathe him for it…” A hot and hilarious, enemies-to-lovers Royal Rom Com. Keep reading for a sneak peek. Available Now!

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  ROYAL PACKAGE

  Available Now!

  * * *

  The Royal Package is a legend in its own time, a pleasure-giving national treasure I’m far too generous to keep to myself.

  * * *

  But I have one rule: No good girls.

  * * *

  And they don’t get much nicer than sugar-and-spice Princess Elizabeth.

  * * *

  You’d think a woman who designs lingerie would be sexy and fun.

  * * *

  You would be wrong. My fiancée is a dreary little mouse, and I have no doubt we’ll make each other miserable if we go through with our arranged marriage.

  * * *

  But I can’t dishonor my grandfather’s dying wish.

  * * *

  Which leaves me one choice—make my sweet fiancée so miserable during our engagement festivities that she calls it quits.

  * * *

  Operation Prince Charmless will get her out of my hair. And then I'm back to Sexy Single Ruler business as usual.

  * * *

  Or that’s the plan…

  * * *

  But my fiancée is feistier than I remembered. Sexier, too. And she loves spur-of-the-moment adventures as much as I do. But did I mention that she hates my guts?

  * * *

  Looks like the Royal Package and I are in for more than we bargained for…

  * * *

  Excerpt

  Failure is not an option.

  Failure is not an option.

  Failure is NOT an option.

  No matter how much you want to set off a bomb in the middle of Elizabeth’s relationship with Andrew and watch the interpersonal fallout rain down from the sky, you can’t ruin this for her.

  Do you hear me, Self?

  You will be on your best Elizabeth-like behavior no matter what.

  I lecture myself the entire walk down the mountain

  Lizzy offered to drive me and my large, rolling suitcase to the helipad before she headed off on her “vacation as Sabrina.” Still, I insisted on going alone, the better to avoid a teary goodbye. Besides, the walk to the helipad at the edge of the village—used for the rare emergency airlift over the mountains to medical care—gives me a chance to get my head in the game.

  The drive to Gallantia’s capital city can take upward of six hours, and that’s when you don’t get behind a farmer towing a trailer full of sheep or a tourist bus slowing to a crawl at every curve to admire the mountain views. I would gladly have taken the drive—the longer it takes to get to my fake fiancé’s side, the better—but Elizabeth gets violently carsick. Andrew knows that, and I can’t afford to arouse suspicion before I arrive.

  I’m going to have enough trouble pulling this off as it is.

  In the tiny helipad waiting room, I tug my pink skirt lower on my hips and adjust my ruffled blouse, but I can’t seem to get comfortable. Elizabeth altered her clothes flawlessly to fit me—staying up until two in the morning to make sure I could zip every dress and squeeze into every skirt—but I’m not used to formal wear. I spend my life in comfy cotton and spandex appropriate for hiking and mountain biking and having adventures. I’m not suited to being a pretty princess any more than Elizabeth is suited to leading my nature hikes with the biologists.

  Luckily, my assistant, Bran, was able to take over for me while I’m gone. I have no doubt the beefy twenty-year-old will charm the ladies with his down-to-earth demeanor and superhero-sized muscles, but I’m the only one who can take over for Elizabeth.

  I’m the only one with my sister’s face.

  I pull my compact from my purse, swiping smeared mascara from under my eyes, so like Lizzy’s except for the tiny fleck of black near the iris on my right side. But Andrew hasn’t spent hours staring lovingly into my sister’s baby blues. He won’t notice that tiny difference. As long as I hit the major Lizzy-specific things, I should be fine.

  Shy and soft-spoken with strangers should be easy to fake—I don’t want to talk to any of the jerks involved in forcing my sister into a miserable marriage anyway—but the stutter will be harder. I tried practicing last night, but it felt awful, like I was making fun of Elizabeth the way the kids in the village did when one of our nannies took us into town to the playground and for shopping.

  Of course, those kids didn’t make fun of her for long. Zan and I taught them respect for the solidarity of triplets pretty darned quick.

  I’ve spent my life defending Lizzy. Protecting Lizzy.

  And that’s what I intend to keep doing, even if it makes me miserable every second of my month in Gallantia.

  As if summoned by my ominous thoughts, the womp-womp-womp of helicopter blades rumbles through the air. I turn to the window, watching the shiny, royal blue Gallantian helicopter alight on the pad like a terribly expensive dragonfly. A beat later, the side door slides open, and a man emerges, looking like a spy with his smart black suit and dark glasses.

  All right. This is it.

  Time to fake it until I make it.

  Chin up and heart pounding, I start for the waiting room exit, dragging my suitcase behind me, but stop dead as a second figure emerges behind the first.

  This one is taller, broader, and wearing dark gray suit pants and a greenish-gold button-down shirt that clings to his every sculpted muscle. His curly dark hair is swept off his forehead with an ease that belies what I’m sure is a five-hundred-dollar haircut, and his skin practically glows with health.

  He looks expensive.

  Beautiful.

  And royal as hell.

  Prince Andrew is even more handsome in person than he is on the internet, and I hate him for it. Instantly. Intensely.

  He isn’t supposed to be here!

  Lizzy said he was too busy to make the trip out to fetch her personally.

  Wat
ching him swagger across the tarmac, I decide to hate God a little, too. A human this gorgeous is unfair to the rest of us mortals. He can't help but assume he can do whatever he wants—put snakes in a little girl’s bed, post raunchy pictures of his butt on the internet, stop calling his fiancée because it interferes with his jet-setting, man-whore lifestyle—and get away with it.

  And he is going to get away with it.

  Exactly one month from today, Lizzy will marry him, and there’s nothing I can do to stop her. I have, in fact, sworn not to interfere in any way.

  I promised my sister I would be her loyal stand-in.

  But I underestimated how much I would want to punch Andrew in the gut. Or the face. Or the butt—I steal a better look at that fantastically shaped ass as he pauses to take in the view of the snow-dusted mountains that cradle our valley in their arms.

  See, even he isn’t immune to natural beauty. Maybe you two will have something in common, after all.

  I silence the inner voice with a hiss beneath my breath—I don’t want to have anything in common with Prince Punk-ass—and push through the door. As I cross to meet the two men, I do my best to stretch a timid, Lizzy-shaped smile across my lips and banish the hateful laser beams from my eyes.

  Zan is the undisputed queen of shooting hateful laser beams, but when I’m fired up, I can unleash a look that kills.

  But I can’t do that to Andrew.

  I have to be sweet.

  Be sweet, be sweet, be sweet, dammit!

  “Th-thank you,” I stammer to the man in the black suit as he takes my suitcase, but I'm drowned out by the blades still whirling above the copter.