I take a deep breath and smile. “Well, it seems like we’re off to a good start. I don’t want to brag, but I think your family likes me.”
Christian smiles slowly, and the intensity of the moment slips away like a morning fog. He shifts back to my side and continues leading me down the hallway. “They love you. At this rate, they’ll be just as heartbroken as I’ll be when you leave.”
Pretend heartbroken, I remind myself.
I untwine my arm from Christian’s when we reach my room and walk to the door, leaning back against the wood, my hand on the doorknob.
“What deception do we have on the schedule for tomorrow?” I ask.
“Actually,” he says, rocking onto his toes nervously before setting his heels on the ground and folding his hands behind his back. “I wondered whether you wouldn’t like to see more of Sigmaran?”
“Like, a tour?” I ask.
Like, a date? I wonder.
“It is a beautiful island, and I’d like to show it to you.” He glances down at his feet as he rocks up on his toes again. “But it is also important for us to be seen out together. I will do my best to avoid most of the high-publicity areas, but there are cameras everywhere I go, so avoiding them all is impossible. I just want my people to see us together so that things seem…real.”
The word seems to snag in his throat, and when it does finally come out, it falls to the floor between us like a concrete block.
Spending an entire day with Christian, sightseeing and touring a foreign country, sounds like a trap. Like an easy way to end up with my own heart broken. Spending the entire day with the King sounds less treacherous. Yet, I find myself nodding in agreement.
“Yes?” Christian asks, surprised by my answer, as well.
“Sounds fun,” I say, opening my door and stepping backward.
Christian’s eyes roam down my body once more as I slip behind the door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I smile and softly press the door closed. I hold my breath for one, two, three seconds until I finally hear Christian turn and pad down the hallway. When he is gone, I slide down the door until I’m just an elegantly dressed heap on the floor.
What have I gotten myself into?
Chapter 25
Jane-Ann
Sigmaran is beautiful. Beyond beautiful. It’s like walking in a dream.
Growing up in Texas, my family took regular vacations south to the water. We visited Galveston and New Orleans. I splashed in the warm muddy waters of the Gulf of Mexico and tanned on the sandy beaches. But nothing prepared me for the icy blue ocean lapping against Sigmaran’s rocky shores or looking down the sheer face of a cliff into the turquoise water of the fjord. Beech forests line the coast, making for a dramatic reveal of the North Sea when the tree line finally breaks.
I dip my toes in the cold water and tip my head back to soak in the distant sun. Sigmaran is a far cry from Texas, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. I’d expected the scenery to make me homesick, but instead, it makes me realize how large the world it, and how little of it I’ve seen.
We are on the beach throwing rocks into the water—Christian skipping them three or four times across the surface. I have never managed to master the skill, so mine just plunk to the bottom—when the press show up. Just like in every movie I’ve ever seen with paparazzi, a mechanical click carries down to us on the wind, and when we search, we spot a photographer hiding behind a thin tree, his camera trained on us.
Immediately, Christian’s security closes ranks, pulling in tightly so I could stretch out a hand and touch them. Christian wraps a protective arm around my back, and I let him. Not only because there is a camera there, but because I feel out of my depth. I’ve never been photographed against my will or surrounded by security. While the geography of Sigmaran has almost instantly welcomed me in, Christian’s lifestyle would take more adjustment.
“I’m hungry anyway,” Christian says, pulling me against his side so I can feel his hip against my waist. “Are you?”
I’ve been so distracted by the view—by the ocean tumbling out in endless ripples, the sky stretching down, thick and cottony to kiss the horizon—that I’ve barely noticed. But suddenly, I feel ravenous. Plus, I need to pump.
“I could eat,” I say.
Christian drinks in the sight of me slowly. Knowing we’d be walking most of the day, I’ve opted for a cropped skinny jean with a pale pink slip-on sneaker and a knit V-neck sweater that clings to my curves. Coincidently, Christian’s eyes have clung to me most of the day, too. At the moment, he is stuck on my chest. When he looks up, his eyes are unreadable. “Should we go back to the house first so you can change?”
My brow furrows. Is that why he’s been staring all day? Because I don’t look nice enough? He is wearing a pair of dark green chinos, a gray button-down with sleeves rolled up once the temperature reached the mid-sixties, and a clean pair of white sneakers. I think we both look fashionably casual, but apparently—
His eyes dart down to my breasts, and he tilts his head to the side in a knowing way.
He knows I need to pump. He can tell.
“Oh,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “Yes. That would be great.”
I fill two milk storage bags as soon as I get back to my room, and my body instantly feels more like my own. I wash my feet in the tub, getting rid of the sand and sea water, and then rinse my face in the sink. Christian didn’t say where we are going, only that I would want to change into something more formal.
“More formal than dinner with your family?” I asked.
“You could wear that dress again if you want,” Christian said, a devilish smile on his lips.
I wanted to reach out and swat his arm, but it felt too familiar.
“Or something nicer,” he went on. “It isn’t possible to be over-dressed at this restaurant, so wear whatever you want.”
My closet is full of tulle and silk and velvet, fabrics that aren’t part of my usual wardrobe back home. For the last two months, I’ve lived in leggings and cotton T-shirts. And for over twenty years before that, I lived in denim and cotton T-shirts. Silk and velvet have never been the norm, so I feel overwhelmed as I pull out the garments one by one.
There is a black velvet jumpsuit with wide-flared legs and a deep V-neck that looks like it could plunge to my belly button. I return it to the closet and reach for a deep green silk gown with one cross-body strap and a hem that brushes the floor.
I’m feeling pretty good about my post-baby body, especially since it has only been eight weeks, but I’m not ready to be sausaged into a skin-tight silk gown. It won’t be very forgiving to the new bumps and lumps I’ve acquired from growing a human being inside of me.
Toward the back of the closet, I spot a fabric that looks like captured starlight and pull it out and lay it flat on the bed. The gown has two straps, a neckline that isn’t modest—nothing in this closet would be approved by my father—but doesn’t make me blush just looking at it, and is floor-length with a sensible slit up one side. When I put it on and turn to look in the mirror, I gasp.
Blakely likes to watch a show where women try on and choose their wedding gowns. They try on countless dresses, but you always know when they’ve finally put on the one they are going to choose because the music changes to something slow and romantic, and when they see themselves in the mirror, they are so pleased with how they look that they seem to float.
Right now, I’m floating.
The material is forgiving around my hips and thighs, but clings to my waist and chest in a seductive way that makes me suspicious that I could be standing in front of a funhouse mirror. I’ve never felt so sexy, and I spend several minutes admiring the many shimmery angles of the gown. Finally, after I begin to feel vain for looking at myself so long, I go to the bathroom to fix my hair and touch up my makeup.
I run a shine serum through my hair to tame the flyaways caused by the wind off the water. And then, to keep it simple, I twist all of i
t over one of my shoulders and douse it in a healthy coating of hairspray. My skin is tan from my daily afternoon walks with Tyler over the past two months, so I don’t need much in the way of makeup. Just a dab of blush on the apples of my cheeks, a streak of highlighter along my cheekbone, mascara, and a shimmery eyeshadow to match my dress. It’s a good thing too because I spent so much time admiring my gown that Christian shows up just as I’m finishing my mascara.
When I open the door, Christian doesn’t say anything. He takes a stumbling step back like I’ve pushed him, and then he stares at me. His face is slack, bare of even his trademark smirk, and I bite back a smile. It shouldn’t matter to me that Christian finds me attractive, but it does.
Then, I take a closer look at him, and I’m the one struggling to form a coherent thought.
He is in a white button-down, the top button open to reveal a hint of his perfect pale chest, with a dark blue blazer thrown over. The jacket was made specifically for his body, I’m sure, and it does him wonders. He looks broad and tall and strong, and I could spend minutes and hours outlining the shape of his shoulders if it weren’t for his trousers. They are a gray wool with a crease down the leg, and I can see the evidence of every squat and lunge he has ever done.
I’ve never been with a man who didn’t grumble about wearing a suit, but Christian looks made for them. Seeing him in sweat pants would be like hiding the Mona Lisa beneath a sheet.
“Wow.” Christian’s voice draws my eyes upward, and I can see that his are still focused elsewhere. “You look…”
Words seem to fail him again, and I tilt my chin down, embarrassed.
“You look dashing,” I say.
“Yes. You too. I mean.” He takes a deep breath and shakes his head like he is fed up with himself. “Thank you. You look gorgeous.”
“Thank you.” I grab my clutch from the top of the dresser and step into the hallway. “Are we ready to go?”
Christian straightens his back and extends an elbow. “My lady?”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help but smile as he leads me down the hallway like a woman in a Regency-era movie.
The restaurant is tucked away in the hills of Sigmaran, perched precariously close to the edge of a cliff with a view looking across the fjord and out to sea. It is no larger than a gas station back home, but it is infinitely nicer. The servers are dressed in black tie, and the restaurant is lit with candles in the centers of the tables and gas lamps. If it weren’t for the shiny wooden floors, sleek concrete tables, and modern art dotting the walls, it would be easy to think we’d traveled back in time.
The other diners don’t stir as Christian and I walk to our table at the back of the restaurant. He told me in the car no one would pay us any mind here, and he was right. I wonder how important every person I pass is that they don’t even blink as a prince saunters past them.
Our table is tucked around a corner next to a large window with a picturesque view of the water. When Christian pulls out my chair and bows, my stomach flips. I hurry to sit so my knees won’t give out.
This feels too much like a real date. Too much like what I imagined during the long months of my pregnancy. When I wondered whether Christian would reappear and whether he’d reach out to me again. When I thought he might choose me if he knew about the baby. When I thought I could beat whatever duty he felt he had to his country.
Now that I know the truth, it hurts to see what could have been.
“Have I said you look gorgeous?” he asks, taking my menu and stacking it with his on the edge of the table.
“Several times.”
He smirks. “And I’ve meant it every time.”
I reach for the menu he took, and he stops my hand mid-motion, tangling his fingers around mine. “Trust me, you want the chef’s special. This is my favorite restaurant on the island. I get the chef’s special every time, and it has never served me wrong.”
“Trust you?” I ask, an eyebrow raised.
“Don’t you?” He leans forward, his lashes turning gold in the firelight.
He knows I do. I admitted it to him while we were both still in Texas. Even while I was angry with him for planning to leave me and Tyler and for asking me to help him carry out this absurd plan, I still trusted him. I still left my eight-week-old son to follow him here. To help him.
Despite everything, I trust Christian. I don’t know how to stop.
I pull my hand back and tuck it in my lap. That is answer enough for both of us, and Christian leans back in his seat, a confident grin on his face.
“Did you enjoy your tour today?”
I want to remain aloof and mysterious, leave him guessing my true feelings, but as soon as I start to talk about Sigmaran, the truth comes rushing out.
“Everywhere you look you can see the ocean,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. “And summer here is like winter in Texas. I could definitely get used to this temperature change. Even the people seem nicer. Happier, almost. Texas has a reputation for being friendly, but everyone smiled and waved at me while we walked through the city center.”
“The men smiled and waved at you,” Christian corrects with a wink. “My people know beauty when they see it, and you are more beautiful than most.”
I purse my lips and shake my head, not wanting to encourage the topic. Christian has been flirting with me all day, and I can no longer tell how much of it is for the cameras and how much is for his own benefit.
“I love the island, but I’m excited to get home.”
Christian’s smile slips, and he nods. “I’m sure Tyler misses you.”
“Maybe,” I shrug. “I think he might be too small to even understand I’m gone. Which is all the more reason to get back. My mom made a few jokes about running away with him when I left him there. The longer I stay, the more likely that becomes.”
“She really loves him, then?” Christian asks.
I nod. “More than she loves me, I think. She told me she has been waiting her entire life to be a grandma. That seems like a weird thing to wait for, but she looks so happy when she holds him that I actually believe her.”
Christian slides his finger down his water glass, making a line in the condensation. “My mom has mentioned me having kids a few times over the years. She doesn’t let too many of her emotions show, but I can tell she is excited. I think she would love Tyler.”
I don’t know what to say. She would. Of course, she would. Tyler is adorable and healthy and perfect. But he is also illegitimate. A half-American heir to the Sigmaran throne. And a blight on their family’s reputation.
My perfect baby might be seen as a mistake by Christian’s family, and it is that reality that is making him so solemn. That reality that has forced him to keep this momentous life change a secret.
I reach across the table and lay my hand on his. “I know she would love him. It’s impossible not to.”
He smiles up at me, and the defeat in his eyes nearly breaks my heart.
“My mom sent me a few pictures of him today,” I say, pulling out my phone and sliding it across the table. All of the pictures are basically the same—Tyler laying on his back in various places around the house with a mess of toys around him that he could care less about. But still, Christian’s eyes light up, and he lingers over each picture.
While he was away, and I was sending him brief daily updates, it was easy to convince myself that he didn’t care. Not in the same way I did. But seeing him study his baby’s face, I know Christian loves Tyler just as much as I do. And I see that he is in an impossible situation. One in which he has to choose between his family and the future he has planned for from the day he was born, and me and Tyler.
Even though I know I want him to choose me, I can see there is no right or wrong answer. There is no clear choice. And Christian asked me to come here so he could take his best shot at having both. At being able to rule his country and make his family proud, while also being able to have a relationship with his son. A relationship he woul
dn’t have been able to have had he married Lady Freyja. It isn’t the solution I want, but it is better than nothing.
As we wait for our chef’s specials, Christian talks about his favorite childhood vacation to a ski lodge in Switzerland and how he plans to take Tyler there every season once he is coordinated enough to ski. We discuss child-raising philosophies, the benefits of cloth diapers versus disposable diapers, and when I’ll decide to stop breastfeeding. All topics I think about constantly these days but have no one to talk about with.
My mom and Blakely do their best to be attentive, but Tyler is their adorable grandson and cute “nephew.” They don’t need to think about the tough parenting decisions or worry about how to discipline him. But Christian cares. He is invested.
“You can call me anytime of the day or night,” he says. “Seriously. If he’s sick or you need help with something, just call me. I want to be there for you as much as I can be. I don’t want you to feel like you’re doing this on your own.”
“Thanks,” I say, my voice quiet. I look down at my lap, so he won’t see the tears blurring my vision.
“And I will pay for everything,” he continues. “I know you can take care of yourself and Tyler without my help, but you shouldn’t have to. I’ll pay for whatever school he wants to go to and whatever clubs or other activities he wants to be in.”
“You are already going to be paying for everything,” I remind him. “One million dollars, remember?”
Christian frowns. “That’s for you, Jane-Ann. For you and Tyler, too, obviously. But that money is not meant to be my child support. It is payment for your time and trouble. Use it however you want. Invest it, give it away, buy a second house. I don’t care. I’m still going to take care of whatever else Tyler needs.”
A weight lifts off my shoulder at the idea that Christian will be such an active part of Tyler’s life. But the relief is overshadowed by the reminder that his participation will be from a distance. From across oceans and time zones.
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