by Pippa Grant
I have no idea if Manning did any of those things, but the idea cracks me up and doesn’t in the least detract from any of his considerable current charm. And the appeal of his muscles. And his chivalrous side.
Also, I really don’t think Elin will make anyone a good wife until she works out what makes her such a miserable person that she has to inflict her misery on every living being she comes into contact with.
But going back to Manning—him attempting to throw me out of his house at every available opportunity since I arrived two days ago isn’t even turning me off, because I keep catching him looking at me like he wants to slather me in honey and lick it off me head to toe.
I shiver.
In the good way. Because the mere thought of having him lick me head to toe and everywhere—everywhere—makes my pussy clench and sends electric jolts of lust prancing all over my body.
Plus, the way he kept trying to save me from my own horrible decisions in Catan the other night was totally heroic in its own way. Holy crap, was it fun to watch his blood pressure go up each time I pretended like I was trying to make friends with Duncan by letting him get the better of every trade.
Manning’s going to have to try harder if he wants me to believe he doesn’t want anything to do with me. Or our baby. Don’t think I didn’t notice the way his eyeballs kept drifting to my belly.
And being wanted by Manning Frey is a serious thrill.
“How are your sleeping arrangements?” Joey asks, clearly deciding she doesn’t want to discuss Manning, Elin, or sticks anymore.
“Good. Ares lets me have the side near the bathroom and he wears shorts and a T-shirt to bed. I’m pretty sure he’s close to falling off half the night—good dog, I didn’t know it was possible to take up an entire king-size bed, and no, I don’t want to know how you and Zeus manage in your little bed—but he doesn’t complain. He did sit up in the middle of the night last night and say something about the bunnies in the coffee pot, but he laid back down and went right back to sleep, so I guess maybe that’s normal.”
“You’re still doing the shotgun wedding costume tonight?”
“Yep. And oh my dog, do you know who all he’s invited?”
“If his royal cheerfulness lets you throw yourself at any of the guests tonight without so much as batting an eyelid, you are coming home immediately, do you understand me? Because there is nothing normal about a man being comfortable watching a woman carrying his child picking out a stepfather.”
“Please. I might go around asking for autographs like a teenager, but I still have some self-respect left. Besides, Manning’s not all that cheerful these days. He’s still smiling, but it’s not a happy smile. You should’ve seen the looks he gave Ares when he realized where I was planning on sleeping. I think having his home invaded by two women and a monkey is doing something to his peace of mind.”
I don’t mention waking up to the monkey staring at me this morning until I rolled out of bed and let it have my place next to Ares, because Joey would probably take that wrong.
Not that there’s a way to take it right, but she’s not always the best at going with the flow, and I don’t want to mess with her acceptance of my life choices at the moment.
I also don’t mention that there was a map of Copper Valley, a metrorail pass, and a brochure and tickets for an audio-guided tour of Heartwood Estates, Copper Valley’s most iconic mansion, slipped under my door yesterday morning.
Like Manning’s giving me a chance to see some of the world, even if he can’t be there to show it to me himself.
It’s possibly one of the sweetest things he could’ve done. I’d felt like a rambling idiot the night we met, when I told him I wished I could squeeze eighty-six hours into a single day and see the zoo and the aquarium and Heartwood Estates and the mountains and all the wineries.
But he remembered.
And in the two seconds I saw him this morning, I swear he silently asked if the tour was everything I hoped it would be. Which it was, though I would’ve rather had him with me. Not because I didn’t do well with going alone, but because I just plain would’ve enjoyed his company.
I have this feeling he would’ve made all of it a completely different level of fun.
“Nice to know he’s human, I suppose,” Joey says.
“You two have a lot in common. I tossed a cardigan on his couch and left a juice cup on the end table, and he picked them both up and put them away before my butt print cooled off the seat.”
“He must love the monkey then.” She’s practically chuckling, which is on par with snort-laughing for normal people.
“I can’t decide if he’s not an animal person or if he’s just opposed to creatures that throw eggs and wontons.”
“If he snaps, you call me immediately. I can be there in two hours.”
Which is the bad thing about having a sister who owns an airplane. “Quit making threats. We’re fine here. And Ares has my back. And he can usually keep the monkey under control too.”
“Speaking of Ares—how’s he doing? Zeus worries.”
As if Zeus is the only one. “He seems good. Although, I’m starting to wonder about this Ares-not-talking thing. I swear I heard him singing every word of Levi Wilson’s newest song in the shower yesterday morning.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t the monkey?” She coughs a little, and I realize she’s laughing. Laughing. Joey doesn’t laugh.
“You’re with Zeus, aren’t you?” I accuse. “Are you naked? Never mind. I don’t want to know. But oh my dog, Joey, if you weren’t my sister, I’d totally pick Felicity Murphy. She’s hilarious. Wait. How do you know about the talking monkey? I didn’t tell you about the talking monkey.”
“Zeus is fluent in Ares-gif.”
“Fucking fluent in everything,” Zeus says in the background.
As soon as I hang up the phone, I’m going to send him six different gif messages and see if he can translate my gif-gibberish too. I wonder if it’s like fortune telling or something, because I’m thinking there won’t be any rhyme or reason.
“How’s the pie shop working out?” Joey asks. We got me set up to print my cookies in the pie shop down the street while I’m in town, so I don’t miss any orders.
“Great.” I fill her in on all the cool things I’ve seen and done here, because it’s fascinating to me how big the city is. And I’m only in a small piece of it. It’s so different from Goat’s Tit. Obviously. But not in a bad way.
Just in a different way.
An exciting way.
Voices carry in from the living area. My nipples perk up and a delicious pull deep in my core adds confirmation that Manning’s home.
He won’t be alone—Viktor or Kristofer will be with him at the very least—but Elin’s not here, so that totally counts for something.
And I’ve barely seen him since I got here because he’s had so many commitments with the Thrusters.
“I need to run,” I tell Joey. “Peach made me an appointment to get my hair done for the party, and I’d feel horrible if I missed it.”
“Be careful. And if he starts turning into a jackass, take his money and run.”
“I don’t need his money,” I whisper.
“But he does. Kick him where it counts.”
“Joey?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for supporting me.”
There’s a brief pause. “Not sure I had a choice.”
She did. Of course she did, and we both know it. But she won’t admit it.
We hang up. I text Zeus and order him to give Joey extra hugs for me, ask if Ares has always had a special relationship with monkeys, and I add eight different gifs to the string of messages, everything from a frolicking cartoon sheep to a laser-eyed cat head blowing up packages on street corners.
And then I leap off the bed. Because Manning’s here.
I pull off the baby bump because I don’t want to ruin my grand entrance to the party later, shove it into a drawer that I’
m mostly certain the monkey can’t open because it’s freaking heavy, and do my best to walk slowly and casually down the hall, stretching as if I’ve just gotten up from a nap.
When I step out between the kitchen and the dining room, I find Viktor eyeing the covered plate of almond meringue cookies on the counter with unfiltered lust in his eyes. Manning’s bedroom door closes on the second floor.
Missed him.
Dammit.
Not that I expect him to say much to me beyond Have you signed those legal papers yet and would you kindly remove yourself from my home?, but because I need to say a few things to him.
Such as, I’m well aware I’m not princess material but I care too much for you as a friend to let you marry Maleficent.
And also, Take your money and slather it in soy sauce and shove it down your pie hole.
“Good hockey practice?” I ask Viktor.
He wrenches his attention from the cookies. “Yes, my lady.”
“Have a cookie. Kristofer said they’re your second favorite.”
I don’t know if his hesitation is because he’s not supposed to eat on the clock or if he’s worried I poisoned them, so I take a guess. “The lemon crinkles are for Elin.”
That earns me a wry frown. “What did you do to her ladyship’s luggage?”
I grin. “Not a gosh-darn thing. Did it drive her crazy?”
He studies me for a moment as if he’s using some kind of magic royal guard superpower to determine if I’m telling the truth. “It did, my lady.”
I act repentant. “Sorry if it caused you any grief.”
“You’re quite nearly as much trouble as His Highness.”
“I didn’t put licorice flavoring in the lemon crinkles either, but I might’ve left the bottle sitting on the counter next to them.” Since he seems determined to resist the cookies, I pull the glass cover off, pop a meringue into my mouth, and push the plate closer to him. Loki swings into the room on his adorable monkey arms, climbs onto a stool, and reaches for a cookie.
“If you throw that, you have to clean it up,” I tell him.
He flashes a monkey grin at me, takes four cookies, and disappears down the hall.
I wonder if Ares will find them later on his pillow or buried in that pile of laundry he keeps in the corner.
“Ever guess when you signed up to be a royal guard that this would be what you’d be dealing with every day?” I ask Viktor.
“Life is never dull, my lady.”
“Do you have a family back home?”
“My mum and pappa and siblings.”
“I just have my sister,” I tell him.
“My sympathies.”
I laugh, because he’s met Joey. “I knew you had a sense of humor.”
His stern lips relax into a smile. Just barely, but it’s there.
I settle onto a stool at the island and prop an elbow on the counter. “Can I ask you something?”
“You’ve hardly hesitated before, my lady.”
“Is Manning okay?”
Viktor’s face shutters into an impassive stare. “Your concern is touching, Miss Diamonte.”
“That’s what I thought,” I tell him with a knowing nod, even though I have no freaking clue what Your concern is touching actually means beyond It’s none of your fucking business. He’s good.
I like that Manning has good royal guards who look out for every aspect of his well-being.
“Seriously, eat a cookie,” I tell him. “I doubt it’s as good as what your mum makes, but it’s something.”
I smile, turn, and head to the freaking cool spiral staircase that leads to Manning’s room.
Viktor doesn’t try to stop me.
I think that means he likes me.
If not, it’s what I choose to believe.
I might be a simple Alabama girl accidentally pregnant with a prince’s baby, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be an optimist.
20
Manning
I’ve hung my coat in my closet and settled at the small desk in the office adjoining my bedroom to investigate this cookie company Lavoie found—though as always, the secret room tucked behind the wall beside me is a far more tempting idea since banging down Gracie’s door and offering to take her to the zoo after shagging her until neither of us can walk straight is not an option—when there’s an audible click from the door in my bedroom.
I set aside my tablet and angle my body to peer through the doorway as a female form steps through the foyer and into my private chambers. “Hello?” Gracie calls.
Her voice sends a thrill humming through my veins.
I’ve always thought myself happy. She’s sunshine itself.
And I need to send her away. I lean back in the rolling leather desk chair and cross my feet atop the elegant writing desk. “Miss Diamonte. I thought I’d locked that knob.”
“Yet here I am.”
“You’ll find the door works the same when you leave. Do pull it shut behind you, please.”
She waltzes easily through my bedroom to lean into the doorway, her curvy hips encased in tight gray cotton leggings that look soft as a lambskin, a patch of smooth olive skin showing beneath her snug white shirt—but not the belly button stud, alas—and her nipples are two perfect points centered in her luscious breasts, as though she’s either sans bra, or encased in nothing more than thin silk. The tank hangs just low enough to showcase a hint of cleavage.
Her feet are bare, her toenails a brilliant Halloween orange, her largest toes sporting decorative black detail that I’m unable to clearly make out from this angle. A spider, perhaps.
Her hand drifts over her lower belly. Where my child is growing within her.
And she looks so very bloody right in my private quarters.
Natural. Complete. At home.
“You wish for a larger settlement,” I say, because apparently being an ass is the only tool at my disposal in doing the right thing for this woman.
“Oh, those documents you sent? I fried them up in butter, added some ground beef, and served them to the goats on Old Man Jones’s farm.”
Heaven above, life with this woman would not be boring.
And I do despise boring.
I pin her with a frown, which feels as unnatural as pouring petrol into my ears. “I’ll have another copy sent.”
“Or you can tell me why you’d pretend to be a dick when I’m perfectly capable of helping you solve your problem.”
The woman is turning my own good cheer against me, smiling brightly as she informs me she has no intention of doing this the easy way.
I do despise the easy way as well.
Generally.
But not when the welfare of my unborn child and one of the most genuinely kind women I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing is at stake.
“I’ve no problems you need to concern yourself with.”
“But you do have a problem.”
I do have a fucking problem. A big fucking bloody problem. Several, actually. One is growing beneath the desk, demanding that I touch this woman, kiss her, claim her, tear her clothes from her body and ravish her until neither of us can breathe.
It’s a struggle to remember why touching her is a bad idea. We’re alone. No witnesses. Who would know if we were to indulge in our primal urges?
“You misunderstand me, my lady.”
“I’ve met Elin. I’m pretty sure the only thing I’m misunderstanding is why any of your relatives thought the two of you should get married.”
She’s bloody vicious with her buckets of ice water, yet it still doesn’t detract from my desperate desire to toss her across my desk and have my way with her.
I’m clenching my fingers together so tightly they’re going numb. “It’s a political arrangement to keep peace within my kingdom,” I tell her tightly. Which is true. But not nearly all of the truth.
“Because your loyal subjects will looooove that you and your wife hate each other?”
“I do not hate Elin.
”
She lifts a brow. Her expression should irritate me—it’s bloody identical to her meddlesome sister’s Don’t lie to me facial expression—but I find myself battling against my natural urge to smile in the face of Gracie calling my sheepshit.
“You’re a good man, Manning Frey, but I don’t believe you’re that good,” she says flatly.
“Hatred requires far more care and concern than I generally give to the woman my grandfather chose for me twenty-odd years ago. Tell me, Miss Diamonte, would you like to see your child sold for political gain in a country you’ve never visited and know nothing about?”
Ivory replaces the lovely olive glow of her cheeks, her hand stills over her belly, but even as her complexion visibly recoils at the idea of our child being forced to wed against his will, her bright brown eyes narrow in determination. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“I am not now, nor will I ever be, the king of my country. Decisions of those nature are above my royal rank.”
She pushes out of the doorway and swings her hips as she crosses the relatively modest space to lean her hands on my writing desk, giving me a perfect glimpse of the deep vee of her cleavage and the light pink satin cups holding her perfect globes.
I swallow as my cock roars a protest to the idea of doing nothing more than looking.
Which I also should not be doing.
“Why do you have to marry Elin?” she asks.
“Why matters not.”
“Do you already have a secret love child with her?”
“Dear god, no.”
“Does she have naked pictures of you that she’s threatening to release to the press?”
Finally, I allow a smile out. “And why should I be ashamed of naked pictures? I’m quite the delectable specimen.”
“Hardly dignified and royal though.”
“Perhaps not, but tourism would increase tenfold if American women knew what they might find in Stölland. Speaking of naked pictures, Miss Diamonte—”