by Pippa Grant
Viktor’s mouth twitches in a smile, which he hides a moment too late with his paper coffee cup.
I put Gracie in the backseat and settle in beside her while Viktor climbs into the driver’s seat to take us the short distance to her little cottage. The blonde doesn’t speak. Joey doesn’t speak. Viktor doesn’t speak.
Gracie hiccups in her sleep.
Her cottage is ridiculously charming in the pale early morning light, painted a soft pink with white gingerbread trim, a wooden rocking chair swaying with the breeze on the tidy porch. I lift Gracie and carry her up the front steps. Joey opens the door without a key, and my blood pressure spikes.
Joey stifles a smile. She’s sporting dark smudges around her eyes as well, watching me with a keen attentiveness as though waiting for me to make a wrong move.
I suspect our definitions of wrong are similar. Not identical, but similar.
The cat rowls when we walk inside. I carry Gracie directly to her bedroom, but her bed is covered with a pile of laundry and assorted bags. Her cat swishes along beside me.
Joey makes no move to corral the animal nor clear Gracie’s bed. Nor does Peach.
Peach.
Quite the name. I don’t believe it fits.
With the bedroom out of the question, I return Gracie to the living room and settle her on the sofa, which is less cluttered but still not clean.
My eyeball twitches, followed by my nose.
There’s a rather large amount of cat hair in this room.
Gracie rolls onto her side, one hand tucked under her cheek, dark lashes lowered. The cat leaps delicately beside her, then climbs her legs, to her hip, and finally settles across her rib cage, its paws kneading into her shirt.
She smiles in her sleep.
I know that smile.
It was the same smile on her lips when I left her in my bed two mornings ago.
I’ve no wish to leave her now. I drop to my knees beside the couch and brush the hair off her forehead, because I can’t not touch her. My fingers catch on something sticky, and I realize she’s sporting frosting globs in her hair.
She’s an utter mess.
And she’s never been more beautiful.
“You’re still in a pickle, aren’t you?” Peach says.
Joey’s being uncharacteristically quiet.
I don’t like it.
“I’m nearly unpickled, madam,” I reply.
“Giving up hockey and your crown to move to Goat’s Tit?” Peach asks.
“Down, girl,” Joey says.
I peer at her as I continue to stroke Gracie’s hair, frosting globs and all.
I hardly expected my defense to come from Joey—she’s hellishly determined to shelter Gracie for the rest of her natural life.
“She’s been complaining about you,” Joey tells me.
“I’ve noticed.”
“Not Peach. Gracie.”
My shoulders stiffen and my fingers still. “I’m quite done with the games, and regardless of how long it takes my father to sort his own affairs, this betrothal business is no longer an issue. I will not marry Elin. No matter the consequences.”
“The only potential consequence of any of this will be your Parliament putting pressure on your father to remove himself from the throne so that your brother can take over.” Joey shrugs. “Your family’s too popular to be run out by a man who doesn’t believe women should be doctors.”
I’m unsure if I’m to be impressed or worried that she’s been studying my country, my family, and Austling in such depth.
“Rather astute observation,” I concede as I stroke Gracie’s hair once again—it seems I can’t help myself.
I don’t believe Austling’s feelings on female doctors is public knowledge. The man isn’t popular, but he’s not a public enemy either, and in Stölland, objecting to female doctors would definitely make one a public enemy.
“I have no idea if your family is actually that popular. Gracie’s convinced you are though.”
“His Majesty does indeed enjoy high favorable ratings,” Viktor confirms. “As does His Highness, Crown Prince Gunnar.”
Peach sends daggers out her eyeballs at him.
He feigns indifference and sips his coffee. I rather suspect he’s punch-drunk enough on lack of sleep that he’d be quite happy to have a reason to wrestle either of these women to the ground.
Viktor’s rather testy when I’ve run him too ragged.
“What was Gracie’s complaint?” I inquire. I’m sitting on her carpet just to be near enough to touch her, terrified I’ve made some inexcusable error, and that I’ll lose her as soon as she’s gotten enough sleep to throw me aside.
“That you think she’s smart.”
“She is bloody smart.”
Joey smirks. “Damn right.”
“Must chap your hide that she prints ugly-ass penises on cookies for a living,” Peach says.
Would I rather she not be subjected to genitalia the likes of which Murphy and Lavoie have sent her for printing upon her pastries? Yes. But shall I fault her for her ingenuity? Never. “She’s found a niche market and capitalized upon it. The American dream, no?”
“Penises are just body parts.” Joey shrugs. “Gracie wanted to be a nurse when she was little. She’d line up her Barbie, her Baby Bixby, and whatever stray dogs we happened to have, and she’d bandage them and splint their arms and put eye patches on them. Body parts are body parts.”
“Shut up,” Gracie mumbles, and I’m not entirely certain if she’s asleep, or merely too tired to keep her eyes open.
“She is smart,” Joey says.
Gracie lifts a middle finger. The cat takes advantage of the moment to slink under her arm, and they both sigh contentedly when she hugs it close.
I press a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep, love,” I murmur.
She hiccups. I sneeze.
Joey pinches her lips together as though she’s stifling a smile.
Peach doesn’t bother. She laughs out loud. “Oh, they’re quite the pair, aren’t they? Problem with cats, your royal pain-in-the-assness?”
Nothing a little allergy prescription won’t solve.
My phone buzzes.
Not my father. Nor any of my family. Nor the prime minister himself.
No, Elin’s ringing me.
I answer, bracing myself. “Good morning.”
“I just handed the authorities the file my father has been compiling to blackmail your family, including falsified reports and planted evidence. You’re quite welcome. Enjoy your freedom. I certainly shall. And tell that woman thank you for the pep talk. But I can afford my own plane ticket.”
Before I can reply, the line goes dead.
I dial back instantly but get voicemail.
“Your Highness?” Viktor asks.
“Leave it to the women to solve all the world’s problems,” Joey muses, which I take to mean the entire room heard the call.
“Peanut butter wontons,” Gracie murmurs.
I kiss her once more and rise. She needs to sleep in a bed. For several hours. Or days.
And I’ve a feeling my time is limited before my phone shall ring again. And again. And again.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Peach asks as I open Gracie’s bedroom door again.
Joey laughs.
She actually laughs.
I fear the world may stop spinning at any moment.
“His Royal Cleanliness is going to fold Gracie’s laundry so she has a place to sleep,” she tells Peach.
“You know how to fold laundry?” Peach demands.
“His Highness is also skilled in sorting it and running a laundry machine,” Viktor says.
I do believe he’s baiting the woman. Fascinating.
I hadn’t noticed the frosting stains dotting Peach’s shirt and trousers until he pointed them out, and she’s beginning to glower at my guard as though she’d like to teach him a thing or two about manners.
Joey rises too. “Come on,
Peach. Thirty-two more orders to go out before Monday.”
I meet her eyes.
“Do not fuck this up,” she says softly. “My tolerance level for anyone who hurts Gracie is very low.”
Gracie snores softly, and once more, my smile finds me rather than the other way around. “I shan’t take her from you,” I promise. “Her, nor the babe.”
She mutters something that sounds like, “You better fucking not,” and she pulls Peach out the door.
I clear Gracie’s bed, my sinuses clogging with each subsequent inhale, but I rather don’t care if I can’t breathe.
All I care about is wrapping her in my arms as I lie down beside her after moving her to her bedroom.
“Your father…jerkhead…” she mumbles.
“Agreed.” I kiss her crown again, because I cannot help myself. She’s warm and soft and smells of sugar and spice, and she owns my heart, whether she knows it or not. “He can sod off.”
She burrows closer. “Love you,” she whispers.
I wrap her tighter while my throat closes for reasons beyond the damned cat walking up my legs.
Love is not something with which I have much practice.
But if being ready to abandon my family, my country, and even hockey to live with this woman is love, then I’m clearly madly in love with her.
And quite happy about it to boot.
42
Gracie
The late afternoon sun is streaming through my bedroom window when I wake, disoriented and too hot. My stomach lurches, my head pounds, and I barely make it to the bathroom in time.
I am not going to miss morning sickness.
Or afternoon sickness.
Or whatever this is.
My bathroom door creaks open, and I yelp in surprise.
“Okay, love?” Manning says softly. He doesn’t recoil in horror or beat a path out of the house.
Nope.
He squats beside me, brushes my hair off my cheeks, and rubs my back. “What can I do?”
He’s in pressed jeans, a Henley shirt that smells like toast—dog, toast sounds amazing—and bare feet, which may be the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.
Yes, I’m hanging with my head over the toilet, contemplating Manning’s adorably large feet and long toes.
I might need more sleep.
“You’re here.” Memories stir. “Just one of you.”
He chuckles and presses a kiss to my hair as though that split lip isn’t bothering him at all. “Heaven above, I missed you.”
Having him here is so right, my chest aches. I push away from the toilet, flush, and move to the sink to clean myself up. Unlike in his bathroom, it’s not far. “Do I smell toast?”
A flash of guilt dims his smile. “Possibly. Did the smell make you ill?”
“No. Hungry.”
He dashes out of the bathroom, and by the time I’ve managed to clean myself off and zombie-walk out of my bedroom, he’s putting two pieces of toast onto one of my white Corelle plates. There’s something different about my living room, though I can’t quite put a finger on it and I don’t really care.
“Dry? Jam? Peanut butter?” Manning offers as he swivels with my toast.
His eyes are hopeful, as though his offering might be found acceptable. I smile and go up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
Given the state of his lower lip, I don’t want to hurt him by kissing him on the mouth.
I’m also not sure how his family would take that, but since he’s here, I’m assuming it’s not a point I need to worry over.
“Peach jam,” I tell him. “I can—”
Before I can finish, he’s already pivoting to the fridge. “Sit,” he orders.
Sitting does sound nice. My back and shoulders are sore from all the decorating, and—“Oh, shit, I have eight billion more orders—”
“Joey’s handling everything. Sit.”
He balances the jar of jam, the toast plate, and me, crowding me until I sit at my tiny two-person table between my kitchen and living room. He lets me put my own jam on my toast, but he watches so closely I’m convinced he knows down to the eighth of a teaspoon how much jam to put on if I want more toast when I’m done with this.
Once I’m eating, he takes the seat across from me.
And that’s when I realize something else weird.
“Is Viktor with you?” I ask around a mouthful of toast.
His eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles at me, as though he’s amused that I’m talking with my mouth full, my arms propped on the table like a mannerless sloth. “Outside making sure you’ve not hidden any keys under any rocks.”
I roll my eyes. “Goat’s Tit is—”
“At risk of being invaded by half the Thrusters, since your packaging is metered at the post office here, and most of my teammates are highly amused by the word tit.”
I grimace. “I will never be able to look Nick Murphy in the eye again. Or whoever that guy was that he was shipping those to. I didn’t peg him for the boyfriend type, but whatever.”
His smile grows wider and he coughs. Several times. “As I believe I mentioned, he’s one of my charity cases.”
“I don’t think charity can fix what’s in his pants,” I whisper.
He tips his head back and laughs, and dog, he’s so ridiculously sexy when he’s laughing like that.
But I need to get a grip on myself. It’s fine to get along with my baby’s daddy.
It’s not fine to keep getting ideas about the two of us having a normal future.
He rubs his palms down the denim covering his solid thighs, his smile shifting into something else entirely.
Something warm and affectionate and starry-eyed.
I gulp down my toast while willing my pulse to slow. Why is he here?
He covers my forearm with his hand, his long fingers heating my skin while he rubs my arm with his thumb. “I’ve a proposition for you, love.”
I hiccup, and I swear my heart does too. “That sounds ominous,” I joke.
He scoots closer. “It’s been an eventful day,” he tells me as he picks a piece of frosting paper from my hair. “I’m free, my father’s reign is safe, and I’m in the rather remarkable position of being afforded the luxury of continuing to play hockey here in the States for as long as I’m able to secure a contract.”
Words.
I know words.
But they’re not coming, because I’m getting ideas based on what he’s saying, and the hope is building so fast and furious that if he pops my hope bubble, I’m going to crash hard.
“Move to Copper Valley with me. We’ll summer here. Winter there. Holiday occasionally in Stölland.”
I gape at him as words slowly start to filter into my brain, but the words still aren’t sifting fast enough for me to form coherent sentences.
Mister Beans leaps onto the table between us, turns, and lifts his tail to show me how well he cleaned himself after his trip to the litter box.
Manning sneezes.
“Oh, dog,” I whisper.
He grins despite his rapidly reddening eyes. “Bring the cat. We’ll dress in dinosaur costumes and chase it about the palace.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “You’re insane.”
“I’m a man who has unexpectedly found himself head over heels in love.”
My eyeballs are burning again. “And now you’re cheating.”
“You are quite possibly the only person in the world who has never wanted a thing from me, despite what you’re more than entitled to request. ‘Twould be far more difficult to not love you than it would be to not breathe.”
“Manning, I am not princess material.”
“On the contrary, my love, you are the best kind of princess material. You’re fierce. You’re loyal. You’re resourceful. You’re selfless. You’re kindness. You’re joy incarnate. You would make a far better princess than I shall ever be a prince.”
Tears are dripping down my nose. Mr. Beans meows and rubs his ta
il in my face, and I gently deposit him on the floor. Manning scoots closer. “There’s no rush, love. But I would be a shell of a man if you continue to insist you want nothing to do with me. Before you, I was unaware I even had a heart. Now, you hold it in your hands, my lady.”
“Manning,” I whisper, because my throat is clogged and I’m sniffling very unlike a princess, but it doesn’t matter, because he folds me into his arms and strokes my back and peppers me with kisses.
“I love you, Gracie,” he tells me. “Heart and soul. All of you. You’ve made me a better man, and I’d like nothing more than to spend my life proving to you just how good of a man I can be. This should be bloody terrifying, but you’re so perfectly you, it’s nothing but right.”
I hiccup into his shirt and follow it with a laugh.
Move.
Move to Copper Valley. Visit Goat’s Tit in the summer. See Stölland for myself—
“Are you sure your father won’t deny me entry into the country?”
He pulls back to gaze down at me, and the utter admiration in those perfect pale eyes makes my heart swell. “He damn well better not. Because I’m rather inclined to not go without you. Anywhere.”
And I’m about to become a blubbering mess.
He believes in me. And he wants me badly enough to put me ahead of his family.
I shake my head. “That’s—that’s—”
“Have you any idea how rare it is to find a woman willing to tell off a king for you?”
That smile. Oh, that irresistibly, joyful smile. “You can’t write your family off for me.”
“You are my family. My family, my heart, my hero. I know I’ve no right to ask you to leave your home, your friends, nor your business for me. And there’s little I can promise about the public scrutiny beyond my steadfast loyalty and belief in you. I don’t have all the answers, but you are my very soul, Gracie Diamonte.”
I launch myself at him, because here he is, pouring out his soul, offering to take me exactly as I am, offering to love me exactly as I am, offering to give me the world.
Travel.
Adventure.
Family.
This should be terrifying, because he’s right—there’s nothing simple or easy about a prince falling in love with a small-town dirty cookie baker. And the world does love a good scandal.