Royally Pucked: A Royal / Hockey / Accidental Pregnancy Romantic Comedy

by Pippa Grant

  “They honestly wouldn’t run you out of town,” Joey says to me. “They’d blame it on your raising.”

  I growl.

  I can’t help it. Reading and math nearly killed me, and I might’ve had to turn to my backup plan to make a living, but I learned that if you smile pretty and bake sweet things, people like you despite your shortcomings and your relatives.

  “Although, if they ran you out here, you’d move to Huntsville with me.”

  She didn’t specifically say move in with me, but it’s implied, because I don’t have a job in Huntsville, and my Etsy businesses aren’t quite big enough to support me. And if I moved in with Joey, we’d kill each other. She has this anal-retentive side. I have this be free, laundry! Find your home and bask in the glow of living wherever you land until I have to clean you or go shopping! side.

  But she could probably also single-handedly deal with any ugly side effects of me carrying a prince’s baby.

  And now I’m wondering why she hasn’t asked who my baby’s father is.

  Ares saw me at Manning’s apartment. The guy never says much, and we haven’t hung out often because Joey and Zeus didn’t seriously hook up until hockey season started, but I assume he recognized me. And I know he texts Joey because sometimes when we’re together, she gets all what the fuck? and shows me gif texts from him of things like unicorn people with rainbows shooting out their hoohas or cats jumping away from cucumbers.

  I also don’t know what she might’ve done to him to coax the truth out.

  “You know, don’t you?” I say.

  Gah, now she’s using the poker face. The real poker face. She doesn’t know, but she suspects. And she’s going to stay silent until I blurt it out.

  “It’s Gomer’s duck,” I declare. “We’re having Gracelings.”

  She rubs her eyeballs with her palms. “Do I need to know?”

  “I can handle this.” Fuck, I hope I can handle this. I was going to look up child custody lawyers tonight. Or next week. Or soon. Since the lawyer Peach referred me to for all the mountain of legal disclaimers I needed on my Dickookie website doesn’t do family law stuff.

  My sister pins me with another look.

  Our mom left before I was old enough to have real memories of her. Joey’s all I’ve ever had in the way of a mother figure, which is probably the real reason everyone in Goat’s Tit is so tolerant of me. Poor thing, growing up with just her daddy and that strange little creature that God declared a girl. It’s not her fault she turned out this way, but it’s up to us to help her find some normal.

  But it also means Joey and I can read each other pretty well, and that look?

  Let’s just say she’s holding in some frustrated profanity of her own. Which is commendable. Truly.

  She usually just lets it fly.

  “Zeus has been a really good influence on your potty mouth,” I tell her.

  Aw, how cute. She’s trying for another of her badass pilot glares—and also, Zeus cusses like four times as much as Joey, which is impressive—but the mention of Zeus’s name is making her eyes go soft and gooey and her lips twitch up like she wants to smile.

  I always figured if she ever settled down and fell in love, it would be with some scrawny guy who wrote poetry and arranged flowers and was happy to let her wear the pants in their relationship.

  Instead, she’s dating a guy who’s tall as a giraffe, probably weighs as much as my car, has the attitude and presence to make him seem even bigger than he is, and who has the biggest—never mind.

  We agreed to never speak about what I walked into a few weeks back in her kitchen.

  “Would you rather talk to Zeus about this?” she asks.

  “Dog, no.”

  “He has a sister. He could handle it.”

  “First, poor woman. Second, are you trying to torture me or your boyfriend more?”

  Now she’s almost fully smiling. She finally sits on the edge of the desk. “I like to torture you both equally. How are you feeling? Honestly? The blog says you’re trying to set a world record for epic hiccups.”

  I grimace, because epic hiccups is putting it mildly. It’s been four days—two since I saw Manning, who’s still texting me approximately every four hours even if I haven’t texted him back because he’s freaking engaged—and I’ve had exactly one meal that hasn’t given me the monster hiccups. “I apparently need to make some changes to my diet, and I feel a little queasy for an hour or so when I first get up, but otherwise, I’m fine.”

  “And that royal guard outside has nothing to do with you?”

  All the blood drains from my face so fast, I go lightheaded. “That fucker. I told him—”

  Joey’s frown turns into something more sharknado-ish than displeased mother-ish, and I realize she has me.

  As if it matters.

  “That was low,” I tell her.

  She squeezes my shoulder. “Whatever you need—anything—I’m here. Okay?”

  Shit damn fuck hell. This would be easier if she started yelling and throwing things and calling me stupid, but that’s not Joey’s style. No matter what people think of her.

  She always has my back, even when we disagree about what I need. And since there’s no going back now, she’s just here. I’m going to cry again. “I’ve got this.”

  “I know.” She purses her lips together a moment. “Also…there’s no royal guard outside.”

  “Mother ducker. I am such an idiot.”

  She slides off the desk. “You are not. Ever. Up for pizza? My treat.”

  It’ll probably make me burp, and I have the weirdest craving for banana peppers, pineapple, and ground lamb.

  To the best of my knowledge, I’ve never had ground lamb in my life, and I don’t have the slightest clue what it even tastes like, but there you have it.

  “Sure. I’m heading out in an hour.”

  “Great,” she says. “I’ll be back then.”

  I eyeball her.

  She gives me the straight-faced, I’m not up to anything because I don’t do bullshit expression in reply—though she was pulling some bullshit with tricking me into basically admitting Manning is my baby’s father, the engaged bastard—before stepping back out of my secret lair.

  I don’t ask if everyone in town knows my hiccups mean I’m pregnant. I’ve heard of the town blog, but honestly, I get all my news from Ginny Jo Rasmussen, who’s in here every morning whispering about who’s dating who and whose pet goats fought with whose pet chickens and if Larry Dinkelbarger’s having hair replacement surgery down in Birmingham next month. Who needs the blog?

  With another sigh—I love Joey, I do, but she brings the sighs out of me every time—I grab my phone.

  I’ve ignored most of Manning’s texts since I left, mostly because I need to for my own piece of mind. I won’t be the other woman. I refuse. And I’m pissed as hell that he didn’t tell me he was engaged.

  Don’t give me any of that bullshit about it being different for royals either.

  Marriage is marriage is marriage.

  Still, if his life is in danger, he should know.

  “Honey badger, text Manning. Joey knows,” I tell my phone. Maybe he’ll see it for the threat I kinda want it to be.

  He fucking should’ve told me he was engaged.

  The phone voice assistant sends the text message. I gather up the boxes that need to go to the post office, open my door, and my phone dings. “Incoming message from Manning,” honey badger says. “Shall I read it?”

  “Yes,” I tell the voice assistant.

  “Pity. It’s been a good life,” honey badger says mechanically. “Don’t suppose you could spare one last night in the sack for a man sentenced to inevitable death? Though one could say that was already my sentence before I met you.”

  Nancy pauses just inside the kitchen and lifts her painted-on brows at me while I sputter at his nerve.

  “Audiobook,” I lie. “The hero’s a real asshole.”

  She smiles sweetly.
“It sounds like a good one. What’s it called?”

  “Incoming message from Manning,” honey badger announces. “Shall I read it?”

  “No,” I tell my phone. I turn to Nancy. “Can you make sure these boxes get out tonight?”

  “Gonna need more staff and space to keep up with just your Facookie business,” she says as she eyes the stacks of boxes. “What did you say that book was called?”

  “Oh, gosh, I can’t remember. You know me and titles. I’ll look it up later and text you. After I get everything cleaned up in here.”

  My phone rings, and we both look at it.

  Manning’s smiling face appears. My heart does a pitter-patter—yes, he’s handsome, and no, I’m not immune, even though I know he’s unavailable and there’s more than a little shame and fury burning in my gut—and Nancy purrs an appreciative hum.

  I hit the ignore button, shove my phone in my back pocket, and secretly wish he would sprout a few warts, then instantly regret the idea of being so mean to my baby’s father.

  Why can’t I be mean like a normal person?

  “So, the post office,” I say.

  “Mm,” she agrees. “The post office.”

  As if that’s the last I’ll hear on the subject.

  I’ll probably be on the blog again before bedtime.

  Fuck.

  10

  Gracie

  My bakery is still called Etta Jean’s after the previous owner, and while I wait for Joey to get back, I’m taking inventory of how many cookies, muffins, and tarts I have left and debating how early I need to get here in the morning. Saturdays are pie days, so probably pretty early.

  I hate pretty early.

  It’s been harder this week, because apparently getting pregnant immediately makes a woman revert back to needing more sleep than teenagers.

  But the hormones will be worth it.

  Because I’m having a baby. A little family of my own. I catch myself before I rub my tender lower belly, because if everyone doesn’t know yet, I’m not ready to tip them off.

  Not yet.

  Nancy’s refilling coffees for a group of regulars who pull second shift at the data center just outside town. Joey’s not back yet, but I know she will be, because she never breaks her promises or her threats. The normal Friday night gaming club is getting set up in the corner by Nancy’s daughter, Tammy. She’s pulling four-top tables together over the scarred wood floors to reserve the usual spot for the motley group of cut-throat gamers who play interesting games like Fluxx, Forbidden Island, and Pandemic, just like she has every Friday night for the last five years.

  I’ve worked at the bakery since I was old enough to pass for sixteen. When Etta Jean passed on three years ago, I waltzed a pineapple upside-down cake into the bank as my loan application to buy the bakery, along with my announcement that this town needed its bakery, and I needed a place to work. I’m not all that great with numbers, but I’m good with food and people.

  If I didn’t have the bakery in Goat’s Tit, I didn’t know what I’d do with my life.

  Now I have something bigger than Goat’s Tit. I have a baby on the way.

  And I can say I can do this on my own until I’m blue in the face, except the truth is, I won’t have to. Because I have Nancy. And Tammy. And Ginny Jo and Ted and everyone else in town who has been so, so good to me since Joey left for college and then more recently when Daddy passed away.

  I blink quickly and push aside the regret that my baby will never know her grandfather. Even though it’s been two years, I still picked up my phone to call him when I got home from Copper Valley. He wasn’t perfect, but who is? And he would’ve loved her with everything he had, because that was what Daddy did.

  He loved.

  Even when he knew he wouldn’t be loved back. Can’t make somebody love you back, he always told us. Joey would quit listening then, but I always stuck around for the last half. Doesn’t mean loving is ever a mistake.

  Sarah Gringbach steps in the door with her two little ones in tow. Ariel is four, and Greyson is six, and if I know the Gringbachs, they’re coming in for Friday afternoon cookies. “Hey, guys,” I say. “Who ate all their carrots at lunch today?”

  “I want a carrot cookie!” Ariel says.

  “I want a cinnamon roll with chocolate chips dipped in honey and milk! And I got a booboo,” Greyson announces.

  “A booboo?”

  He proudly holds out a bandaged finger. “There was almost blood,” he tells me solemnly.

  “I bet you got a kiss with that Band-Aid, didn’t you?”

  “And Mama says she hopes I learned not to stick my finger in my sister’s mouth, too.”

  Sarah herds them both to their usual table beside the game table. “I need a double café mocha and a slice of banana bread.”

  I pull out two milk cartons for the kids and bend over to grab the cookies and banana bread while the doorbell tinkles again. “Be right—oh, shi—itake mushrooms,” I gasp as a tingle of pleasure unfurls itself deep in my gut.

  Stupid backstabbing lust. We’re supposed to be furious with him.

  “Hoo-ly gator bait,” Tammy whispers.

  Sarah visibly chokes on her own tongue.

  The second shift guys all straighten in their seats as though they’re trying to be larger too, bless their hearts.

  And Manning strolls right up to the counter, while his guard—Viktor, I think, because it’s not Kristofer but he still looks familiar—casually settles into the two-person table beside the door, dark eyes alert, posture deceptively relaxed.

  I watched him snarl down Joey on a dark golf course about two months ago. And I wasn’t sure which one would walk away standing. Thankfully they both did, but she’s coming back.

  Probably within minutes.

  And she knows I’m pregnant with Manning’s baby.

  She probably doesn’t know he’s engaged to another woman though.

  Maybe.

  Hopefully.

  “Lovely town,” Manning says in that British-Viking accent. My nipples pucker and my thighs clench and I hiccup.

  His pale eyes light up, his smile spreads wider, and I wonder if he’s thinking about me, or about me carrying his child.

  Which he’d better not say a word about here, or I’ll take him down with a cake platter, because I am not ready for this conversation to happen in public.

  And I don’t care how down-to-earth and normal he looks in that gray Henley and those worn jeans that hug his long, muscular legs. Because he’s off-limits.

  Hot, worldly, athletic, and off-limits.

  I’m pissed at him. I am. And I’m working hard on being even more pissed, because of all the places in the world, he had to come to Goat’s Tit today?

  Shit damn fuck hell.

  “All out of scones,” I tell him while I grab the pastries for the Gringbachs, “but I have oatmeal raisin cookies and sweet tea. Give me two shakes, and I can have that boxed up to go lickety-split so you can get out of here as fast as you arrived.”

  “She’s all out of manners today, too, honey,” Nancy purrs. She fluffs her short, curly silver hair—dyed intentionally to go all-in on going gray—and offers him a hand while she leans against the glass case. “I’m Nancy. And I’m so sorry, shug, but I missed your name.”

  Shug. Short for sugar. Because she’s freaking flirting with him.

  “Manning,” he says, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

  She titters. “Oh, honey, y’all aren’t from ‘round here.”

  His smile warms, and I have to remind my traitorous hooha that he’s a taken man.

  “I am not, though it seems quite the pity,” he tells her.

  “What brings you to Goat’s Tit?”

  “Your lovely proprietress.”

  I think he means me, but I hate big words. Based on the way Nancy’s green eyes scuttle toward me while I carry the tray of cookies and milk to the Gringbachs, who are also openly staring, I think she thinks he mean
s me too.

  “Y’all know Gracie?” Nancy asks.

  “We met at that charity golf tournament Joey did a couple few months ago,” I tell the room at large.

  Because the room at large is listening.

  And now the women in the room are all zeroing in on Manning’s package, because we met at a golf tournament is apparently code for we got it on like bunny rabbits.

  Or possibly we met at a golf tournament and this man with this exotic accent and killer smile and hot as sin body tracked me down in little Goat’s Tit, Alabama is the full code for and we got it on like bunny rabbits.

  If all of Goat’s Tit knows I’m pregnant…dammit. I think one of the second shift data guys is googling Manning as we speak, which means it’s only a matter of time before everyone knows everything.

  That, or he’s playing one of his games on his phones. They do all kinds of Star Wars light saber battle games. I had to declare a no-light-saber-noises rule to keep from hearing the zoom shoom betang! noises in my sleep.

  “Don’t eat those cookies all in one bite,” I tell Ariel and Greyson. Greyson insists I inspect his bandage, which I declare perfectly wrapped around his finger that’s not nearly as short and chubby as it used to be, because kids grow up so stinking fast, and shit, now I’m going to cry again. I clear my throat. “Sarah, Nancy’s getting your mocha.”

  She’s not paying attention—no one is—because Manning’s talking again.

  “Lovely tournament. Played a round with Joey. Rather enjoyed a round on the links with such pleasant company.”

  Nancy clucks her tongue. Tammy and Sarah share a look, because Joey’s loved in her own strange way here, but no one overestimates her social skills. “Of course it was, if your company was Gracie here too,” Nancy says. I give her a pointed look and a head jerk toward the counter, and she sighs and moseys over to make Sarah’s mocha. But she keeps talking. “Did you know Gracie’s cheese grits win best in show every year at the Grits Festival?”

  “I did not.” Manning’s smiling broader now, and I wonder if he even knows what grits are.

  “That’s because she’s so modest. Fine quality in a pretty young lady, you ask me.”