by Pippa Grant
And honestly?
I don’t believe Manning is an asshole.
Maybe I’m ignorant and naïve, but when he looked into my eyes and promised me last week that he was going to solve everything, I thought he meant so he could, at the very least, be a friend to me and a father to our baby. When he kissed me a few days before that and wouldn’t let me leave his apartment—condo, penthouse, rich person abode, whatever—I thought we fit like two missing puzzle pieces.
Apparently he meant I’m going to pay you enough that feelings won’t matter anymore.
“I’m getting some real clear ideas of what that man needs done to his testicles,” Peach declares.
There’s obviously something wrong with me, because now I’m pondering why I didn’t take the time to appreciate his testicles more that night in the locker room.
It’ll be a long time before I see testicles in person again. Or penises. Or a six-pack.
Joey straightens, pulls out her phone, thumbs over the screen, and holds it out to Peach while voices come from the speaker.
“Ares, what was going through your head tonight?” a male voice says on the video.
“Socks,” Ares answers.
“Come on, give us something else. You know more words,” the reporter taunts.
“Don’t mind him, Berger,” Manning’s voice interrupts. “He’s merely jealous he can’t play like that while he thinks of socks.”
Chuckles erupt from Joey’s phone. She shuts off the video.
“I don’t care how many teammates the man covers for if he can’t take fucking responsibility for getting Gracie pregnant,” Peach says. “I’m calling in the crew. We’re flying out there and dropping a load of shit on the top of his fancy-ass apartment building.”
Joey doesn’t answer, which is beginning to worry me.
Her life has always consisted of three things: flying, keeping anything with a penis at least fifty yards from me, and one-upping everything with a penis she’s ever encountered.
So, if you consider the shape of an airplane without its wings attached, basically, Joey’s life is about penises. And now I’m wondering if men ever wish their penises had wings.
But that’s not my point.
Since Zeus came into her life, and now that she’s clearly failed at keeping me a virgin until I’m past child-bearing years, I can actually see her adjusting her game plan on the fly.
My sister.
The impossible, know-it-all, my goal is to terrify all of humankind just by breathing, overprotective pain-in-my-ass is going with the flow.
I can’t decide if this means she has some secret deadly disease and wants my final memories of her to be fond, or if she’s actually giving serious consideration to accepting the idea that I’m an adult who’s made adult choices and is now seeking advice—not orders, mind you, advice—on a path forward.
She scrolls over her phone again and gives the screen a stab with her forefinger. Another video starts playing.
“I don’t give two fucks if you think you were waiting in this line first,” a horrifically and annoyingly familiar voice says. “Do you know who I am? No? Well, you’d better learn, because your good favor with the king will depend on it when I’m his daughter-in-law. Now get the fuck out of my way so I can get a goddamn cup of coffee.”
A chill slinks down my spine.
“Who’s the bitch?” Peach demands.
“Prince Manning’s betrothed,” Joey answers.
The chill is turning into full-out shivers.
Marrying Maleficent would be a horrible sentence for any man, but there’s no doubt in my mind that marriage to her will make him quit smiling.
Forever.
And that would be a crime against humanity.
“You think she sent the papers?” I ask. I hope.
I’m still so pissed at him I could yank his chest hairs out one by one and pour rubbing alcohol over my handiwork, but I can’t bring myself to believe he’s capable of the kind of heartless cruelty that leads to a man buying off the woman carrying his child.
Joey’s dark gaze lands on me. It’s not chiding, but it’s not happy either. “I might actually respect him more if he sent these.”
“What?”
She’s not one to blink away from a fight, but I get the feeling she’d rather not look me in the eye at the moment.
“He’s protecting you.” She wiggles her phone screen at me, where Maleficent is stuck with a half-sneer, one eye closed, the other squinty with her pupil aimed somewhere that makes it appear as though her eyeball is trying to crawl out of her face, and the tip of her tongue is sticking out at an odd angle. “He’s protecting you from this.”
“You just said something nice about Manning,” I whisper.
“You’re a strong, smart, capable woman.”
I swallow hard against a wave of emotion. “You’re damn right.”
“Do you love him?”
“I don’t not love him.”
Peach snorts. “I don’t love him.”
“He told me his betrothal wasn’t by choice,” I tell Joey.
She nods.
Of course she does. She probably knows more about it than I do. Hell, she probably knows the last meal he ate, if he showered this morning, when his royal guards switch shifts, and most likely an embarrassing childhood story or sixteen.
“Why do royal people have to do all this betrothal shit anyway?” I ask. “It’s not like you can’t get just as good of a genetically superior match by using the internet these days. That’s what it’s about, right? Combining genetic lines?”
“I’m still digging.”
She’s digging. Which means she’s trying to help him out of it. Dammit, I don’t like to apologize for my emotions, but I’m getting tired of this weepy-eye thing. “What does Ares say?”
She hits me with a seriously? look.
Because Ares really doesn’t say much.
I fold my arms and glare at her. Because people can say things without using their mouths.
Sort of like I’m silently telling her to fuck off if she doesn’t want to be helpful and ask her boyfriend’s brother, who lives with Manning, what he knows.
Her lips twitch as though my pathetic attempt at a silent temper tantrum amuses her.
“Fine.” I stand. “You know what? I don’t care if the man wants to get to know me or marry me or just pay me off, but this?” I tap the stack of legal papers. “This isn’t the full story. And I’d bet my entire bakery that Manning needs to be rescued. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to go rescue my baby daddy from the worst mistake he could ever make in his life. And don’t try to stop me. Because if you do, you’re never going to see my baby either.”
My belly quivers at the idea of leaving Goat’s Tit to embark on a mission to a big city to save a prince, but dammit. Can’t anyone else see that every bit of this situation is just wrong?
Joey’s lips tip up, which is the equivalent of Joey belly-laughing with joy, and the weirdest thing happens.
Her eyes go shiny, and she has to blink a few times.
“What the fuck are you smiling about?” I demand. Because dog help me, I cannot ask my badass sister what she’s crying about.
I can’t.
Because if it’s enough to make Joey a little wet in the eyes, it’ll be enough to make me flat-out bawl my eye sockets out, and I’m already more than a little nervous at the task in front of me.
It would be so much easier to take the money and stay home. Or even reject the money and stay home.
But it’s not what’s right.
“Honey-girl,” Peach says, her voice surprisingly thick as well, “she just watched her own baby grow a pair of balls. That’s enough to make any man cry.”
Joey pushes back from her chair too and grabs me in a tight hug. “Be careful,” she says.
Shit damn fuck hell.
I hate it when she admits how much she loves me. And I hate it even more when she believes in me.
Because it’s so much easier to not cry when I’m annoyed with her than when I’m grateful she’s my sister.
Peach wraps her arms around both of us. “You call if you need anything, you hear? And if you want any help making a plan, or cutting his testicles off, you know we’re here.”
I nod to both of them.
I don’t exactly know what I’m about to do, but I know one thing.
My baby deserves a chance to have two parents. And my heart says Manning is a good man who would be an excellent father—and that my own daddy would’ve loved him—but who’s stuck in a situation beyond his own control.
It’s time to get creative and play hero.
15
Manning
The Thrusters arrive back in Copper Valley around 5 AM a few days before Halloween. We’ve spent the last week on the road, in Calgary and Vancouver and Edmonton, including back-to-back games that ended in a bloodbath for us in Lavoie’s hometown. But I did my royal duty in giving interview after interview about what it’s like to be a prince playing hockey and how much I miss the fjords and northern lights back home, and acknowledging that yes, the Thrusters’ promotional video was quite enjoyable to create, though my teammates keep ribbing me about my royal status.
I can only hope the increased press coverage of Stölland is helping guide more tourists our way.
Because though I have little experience with being poor, I’m familiar with math, and something is always greater than nothing.
The larger the something to go against our debt to Austling, the better. And most of my paycheck from the Thrusters is going toward my living accommodations and seeing to it that the heir I’ll never be able to acknowledge is well cared for.
I bloody hate every word on that legal document I had to send Gracie, but it’s for the best.
The lady is too lovely and kind to be mixed up with the likes of my family. She deserves better. I merely wish I could offer her more than money.
Ares and I, and Viktor of course, tumble into my penthouse as the sun is shining its first rays on the Blue Ridge Mountains out my wall of windows. Lovely as the view is, I’m ready for a few hours of sleep before I’m due for a charity appearance as a judge at a children’s talent show on the military base north of Copper Valley.
Where I’ll also extol the beauty of my country for any parents in attendance.
But sleep is not in the cards.
Because Elin is awake.
“Where have you been?” she demands. Her monkey is sitting on my counter, nibbling on something that I hope is food and not a piece of any of my wardrobe or hockey gear.
“Western Canada,” I reply. “A mere six hours by plane and two more hours through Customs. You’re right. I should’ve been home sooner.”
“You’re supposed to be charming.”
“This is charming, darling.”
Ares pulls a cookie from his back pocket. The monkey darts off the counter, climbs Ares like a tree, snagging the cookie along the way, and sits on his shoulder. Ares grunts, which translates to good night, and disappears down the hall to his bedroom.
Elin’s shoulders go tight beneath her short dark hair. “You need to kick that thing out.”
“If you don’t like the monkey, you shouldn’t keep it as a pet,” I counter, knowing full well she’s referring to Ares.
Her amber eyes flash.
Were she a woman with a soul, she’d be quite attractive.
“You seem unhappy, darling,” I interject quickly when she opens her mouth. “Perhaps a trip to the sea would be in order. I hear Bermuda is lovely this time of year.”
“We have a wedding to plan.”
“Your joy is overwhelming.”
Her lips purse. “Must you be so unpleasant?”
“Terribly sorry, madam. It seems sleeping on an airplane after back-to-back hockey games makes me a poor conversationalist. Perhaps you should rub my feet whilst I tell you of attempting to take the ice with a rubber stick. Quite the entertaining story. My teammates have gotten more creative with their pranks.”
Somehow she’s managing to curl her pursed lips, and she looks rather like a rabid duck. I can only imagine what my own smile must look like, because it’s not pleasant.
“No foot rub then?” I ask. “Of course we’ll save intimacy for marriage, but I shan’t tell if you feel a need to rub other parts of me as well.”
“You’re despicable.”
“Missed you too, darling.”
I grab a plum from the bowl of fruit someone has left on the island and drag my tired limbs upstairs to my bedroom. I took a puck to the calf two nights ago, the fire alarms went off just after we’d settled in to sleep at the hotel in Calgary between games, and the flight home to southern Virginia was quite bumpy last night.
I don’t wish to argue with the woman I’m to marry.
I wish to collapse in my bed and lose myself to unconsciousness.
But after I’ve locked my bedroom door, stripped out of my travel suit, and flung myself onto my bed, I find I can’t sleep.
Because once again, images of a warm, sensual, happy baker fill my thoughts.
I’ve not heard a word from her in the week since my legal consultation with a discreet attorney who specializes in such things.
I’ve also not heard that my offer has been accepted or countered, though I am aware it’s been delivered.
Despite having utterly no right to, I let my mind’s eye wander to my last vision of her. To the memory of the swell of her breast as it disappeared into her apron. The curve of her hips behind the lacy white material. Her slender legs gift-wrapped in bright pink leggings.
Her shoes, simple black trainers with smiley faces drawn in puffy pink paint over each of the toes.
I mentally replace the trainers with the remarkable rainbow platform shoes that she wore beneath her dinosaur costume, and the feel of the tight, slick heat between her thighs welcoming my cock overcomes my willpower.
My royal member stiffens, and I grip it in my fist.
It’s a poor substitute for her sheath, but it’s all I have. I stroke myself up and down, hardening tighter, remembering the flush of her cheeks, her sooty lashes lowered over aroused, darkened eyes, the bold liberties in which she indulged with her mouth, her hands, her legs.
My first view of her, standing in a golf clubhouse, stars in her eyes as she drank in the athletes, musicians, and actors also in attendance at the charity golf affair. My second view of her, when she bumped past me on her way to helping a server about to drop an overly-laden tray.
My first words to her, when she finally looked at me.
It’s hardly unusual for a woman’s gaze to snag on me and linger.
Nor is it unusual for me to freely return a woman’s interest.
But it’s highly unusual for the simple act of offering a woman my arm to cause gooseflesh to rise beneath her touch and pebble my skin all the way to my opposite fingertips.
I grip myself harder and stroke from base to tip, tip to base, squeezing with the same might as my desperate wish that she were beside me. That I could pin her to my bed, claim her mouth, glide my tongue over hers while I stroke her pussy and feel her wetness. That her scent—vanilla and peaches and earthy, aroused woman—could be imprinted on my sheets as much as her body’s heat.
I hadn’t the time to fuck her with my fingers in the locker room. To explore her center with my tongue. To leave her so entirely breathless, boneless, and euphoric that she was unable to form coherent thought.
Once was not enough.
The night we met, a month before Nashville, she’d paused in the middle of the rapidly darkening fairway and tilted her head to the sky. Ambient city light illuminated her olive skin, tinting her cheeks bronze in the dusk. I’d followed the curve of her neck down the slope of her slender shoulders, took a moment to admire her lovely breasts, and when my gaze returned to her face, her soft smile took my breath away.
Where are the stars? she’d asked.
Hiding from the city, my lady, I’d replied.
She hadn’t replied, but instead stood staring a moment longer.
I’d wanted to know what thoughts danced in her head, but I hadn’t asked.
I should’ve asked.
My fist is jerking hard now, up and down my cock, my bollocks tight, a sheen of sweat accompanying my rapidly increasing pulse and quick breath.
She should be here. Moaning my name. Wrapping her legs tight around my hips, welcoming me home while I thrust so deep inside her it would be impossible to not leave a part of myself behind.
I remember the tight feel of her hot channel squeezing me, and my release overtakes me, spilling into the sheets with Gracie’s name on the very edge of my tongue.
I’ve no right to call her name. I’ve no right to think of her. I suspect she’s quite furious with me right now, and rightly so.
But I desperately hope that, one day, she’ll understand that my decision was for the best.
Sometimes, the greatest gift one can give another is freedom.
I’d far rather she hate me than be shackled to this life.
No matter the cost to my own life.
16
Manning
A few hours later, I’m awoken by an unfortunately familiar voice.
“Why in god’s name have you let a whore into my home?”
For a brief moment, I congratulate Ares on enjoying his bachelorhood. I roll over, intending to fall back asleep, when—
“Oh, sugar-pie, you have to take money to be a whore. I do this for free.”
I leap out of bed and have my door half-open before I recall that my royal staff and jewels are dangling about for the world to see. I fumble into last night’s suit trousers and shirt, buttoning the thing as I wind down the staircase to find Viktor awake and standing between the two women.
Elin spins on me. “When I said be more discreet, I meant keep your whores out of my home.”
“You know what I do when I’m madder’n a bee in a bonnet?” Gracie says. “I pray. How ‘bout it, sugar-pie? You wanna pray with me?”