Prince Baby Daddy - A Secret Baby Royal Romance Read online

  Father nods unapologetically. “If you make no moves to date a suitable woman seriously, we will begin to select options for you.”

  I turn to my mother. “You have got to be kidding.”

  “We only want what is best,” she repeats for what feels like the hundredth time.

  I can’t sit by and let this happen anymore. I can’t continue letting them control my life and my movements. I’m a twenty-nine-year-old man. I will not allow my parents to begin pimping me out to any woman they think is a good match. Things have gone way too far.

  “What is best for me,” I say, pushing away from the table and standing up, “is making my own choices. It is not bowing to your demands.”

  My father snorts. “Our ‘demands.’ As if asking you to settle down is so horrible? You are not being placed under any stresses I have not already endured. Despite how you like to act, you are not a victim.”

  My hands are shaking, but I don’t want them to see how angry I am. How upset. Screaming is my father’s specialty. I could never beat him at it. No, I have to do what I’ve always done. I have to play the game my way. And my way is not a war of words, but open rebellion.

  I stare at each of them for a moment, letting a wave of calm roll over my features. Then, without saying a word, I turn and leave the room.

  My father calls after me, and my mother talks quietly to him, hoping to avoid a screaming match, but I’ve already avoided it. He cannot scream at me if I am not in the castle anymore. If I’m not in the city. If I’m not in the country.

  As a safety precaution, each member of the royal family has what is called a “Go Bag.” It’s a bag kept in every royal residence and contains everything a family member would need to leave the country quickly should an emergency require it. I grab my own Go Bag from the utility closet just off the servant’s wing, steal the chauffeur keys hanging next to the door, and march through the side door to the palace where a black town car with bulletproof glass is parked along the drive as if it is waiting for me.

  No one guarding the gate even blinks as I wave to them from the car and ask to be let through. They have been trained to be wary of strangers. Of outsiders. Not of me.

  When I get to the airport, I park in the lot and then change into the chauffeur cap and jacket I grabbed from the closet, as well. It’s not an elaborate disguise, but it should be enough to keep the press stationed at the airport from paying me any mind. And indeed, when I walk past a small gaggle of paparazzo’s standing near the front entrance, not one of them glances in my direction. I am a ghost.

  I walk to the first ticket counter I can find and hand over my passport. “Any available ticket for the next departing flight.”

  The woman is middle-aged with mousy brown hair and a pinched nose, and she studies me for a second before turning to her computer. “The next flight out is for Austin, Texas.”

  Texas. I roll the idea over in my head. I picture large ranches, cowboy boots, and tumbleweeds—everything I’d seen in western movies as a kid. I’m sure it looks nothing like my imagination, but it seems like the furthest place in the world from Sigmaran, which makes it all the more appealing.

  “Perfect. I’ll take it.”

  I dig out my wallet, hoping my father hasn’t yet lost so much faith in me that he has closed down access to my debit card.

  The woman takes my card and then flips open my passport. As soon as she sees the name—Christian Jakob Åström—her mouth falls open. She looks up at me slowly and then back at the passport before she gasps.

  Before she can do or say anything else, I lean forward, catching her eye, and hold a finger to my mouth. “I’m trying to keep a low profile.” Her eyes flash to the chauffeur cap, and I nod. “I would really rather not be photographed today.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asks. Her face reddens when she realizes what she has said. “You don’t owe me an explanation, of course. I am simply surprised. The royal family uses the airline, but it is always arranged through other means and they are taxied directly to the flight. Is everything all right? Do I need to call someone to assist you?”

  I can see theories and concern creeping into the woman’s face, and I do not want my simple rebellion to turn into a press circus about a possible threat to the royal family, so I reach out and grab the woman’s hand. I notice the name tag pinned to her chest.

  “Kara, I can assure you there is no trouble. I’m simply taking a spur-of-the-moment trip and do not wish to be spotted by any photographers. I promise you, all is well on Sigmaran.”

  Relief and disappointment mingle in her face as she nods. “I can keep a secret, I assure you.”

  I squeeze her fingers once more before letting go. “Thank you very much.”

  She prints out my ticket and slides it slyly across the table to me. “Enjoy your trip,” she lowers her voice to a whisper, “Prince Christian.”

  I stuff the ticket in the inside pocket of the stolen jacket and tip my hat to her. “Thank you for your help, Kara. Your kindness will not be forgotten.”

  No one pays me any mind as I clear security and head toward my gate. I have half an hour before my flight leaves, but I pull my phone out and switch it to airplane mode early. The next time I hear from anyone in my family, I’ll be thousands of miles away.

  Chapter 2

  Jane-Ann

  Looking out over the sea of recliners, loveseats, sofas, and sectionals, I wonder if there could ever be enough people in the city to buy them all. Austin is the fourth largest city in Texas—only twenty minutes from where I live in Round Rock—and I know based on the detailed spreadsheets I make on a weekly basis to track sales that we have a high product turnover rate, but I’m feeling discouraged. I’ve been standing on the sales floor of Rufus’ Sofa Shack for six hours, and I’ve sold one measly recliner, which I had to sell at twenty-five percent off because it was scuffed.

  “Hey, Jane-Ann.”

  I turn to see my boss, Rhonda, the Mrs. to Mr. Rufus Ashley, standing near the bedroom sets waving me over.

  “Come give me a hand.”

  Rufus handles the money side of the furniture business and stars in all of the ads that run once every two hours on every local television station, but Rhonda handles the floor. She greets every customer as they walk in, does all of the hiring, firing, and promoting, and reorganizes the sales floor at least once a week in hopes a fresh arrangement will spark sales.

  “This feels a little stale, right?” she asks, pointing to a solid walnut four-poster bed with matching end tables, dresser, and storage trunk.

  I’ve learned there is no sense in disagreeing with her, so I nod. “It could use a little bit of Rhonda.”

  She smiles, pleased with the compliment, and then grabs hold of the footboard of the bed. “The bed should go against the back wall with the dresser on the right side and the trunk at the foot of the bed. It will feel more inviting that way.”

  And the most possible work to move, but I keep this thought to myself. If Rhonda, who is well into her sixties, isn’t going to complain about all the lifting and dragging required, then I’m certainly not going to gripe. Even though hauling furniture was definitely not in my job description.

  “Have you sold anything since that recliner before lunch?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

  I shake my head. “No, but I had a couple biting pretty hard at the blue sofa set by the door. They wanted to look around a few other places before they committed.”

  Rhonda gasps like she has been slapped. “Did you tell them this town is full of crooks who will steal their money and refuse warranty? Did you tell them what our return policy is?”

  “Any item, any time, for any reason,” I repeat.

  The return policy is the store’s mantra. It is what Rufus screams into the camera for every commercial while CGI fireworks go off on the green screen behind him.

  I continue, “I told them, but they still wanted to look around.”

  Rhonda huffs. “Then they’re d
umb, and we don’t want their business anyway.”

  Except, I kind of wanted their business. I make a commission on every item I sell, and so far today, I’ve spent most of my day talking to people who are “looking around” or “checking prices.” Neither of those scenarios helps me pay my rent.

  We move the bed and then the massive dresser, but as soon as it is in place on the right side, Rhonda changes her mind.

  “The dresser should go back where it was,” she says. “It worked better on the left side, don’t you agree?”

  I smile and nod, though I can feel sweat dripping down my back as we move the dresser back to where it was originally.

  When the trunk and end tables are in place and Rhonda begins doubting the whole layout, I shower her with encouragement that it will draw in all the customers and scurry away to my favorite corner of the store, tucked behind the computer desks and bar stools. There is a half-wall that keeps Rhonda or the customers from seeing that I’m checking my phone, and I can usually hide out for five minutes before anyone notices.

  I have three missed messages from my best friend Blakely. Even when she knows I’m at work and my phone is on silent, she texts me multiple times to try and encourage me to pick up.

  “You up for a trip to Jimmy’s tonight?”

  “What do you say, J-A?”

  “Hello?”

  My feet ache from standing all day, but the thought of burning off some steam at Jimmy’s Honky-tonk sounds appealing. I can hear Rhonda asking one of the guys from the back if he has seen me, so I shoot off a text as fast as I can before getting back to work.

  “I’ll meet you there when I get off. First round of shots is on you.”

  Jimmy’s is at maximum capacity, and I have to awkwardly wedge between several gyrating couples on the dance floor to make my way to where Blakely is waiting at the bar. She is wearing a denim miniskirt, her favorite pair of blue cowboy boots, and a silver bedazzled tank top. It makes me feel underdressed in my high-waisted jeans and plain white T-shirt, but soon, I’ll be drunk enough that it won’t matter. Blakely jumps up, lifting two shot glasses into the air in greeting.

  “Jane-Ann is here!” she screams.

  A few people I recognize give a cheer before returning to their drinks and conversations, and I shake my head at Blakely.

  “Did you wait for me to start drinking or are you as tipsy as I think you are?” I shout over the country music blaring from the speakers.

  She hands me my shot glass and puts her hand on my shoulder, drawing me in close. “Everyone knows the party doesn’t start until we are both here. Those first few drinks were just to kill time.”

  I laugh, and we cheers to the fact that it is Friday and for the first time in almost a month, I have a Saturday off work. The alcohol burns going down, but it warms me from the inside. I throw my head back and shake my head and shoulders, shaking off any residual stress from the week and work and bills. Tonight is all about drinking and dancing.

  Blakely takes my shot glass and slams it down on the bar before grabbing my hand, draping it over her shoulder, and leading us both to the dance floor.

  Over the years, we have come up with line-dance routines for every popular song, and a lot of the regulars at Jimmy’s have learned the steps too. We are the unofficial dance instructors at Jimmy’s. Blakely has even asked Jimmy on multiple occasions to toss us some of the tip money for making his run-down honky-tonk one of the main places to go in Round Rock for a good time. He refuses, but I think he’d change his tune if we decided to start dancing somewhere else.

  Breaking previous records, we make it an entire three songs before Blakely sets her sights on a tall cowboy in the corner. He is casually drinking a beer, but there is nothing casual about the way he is watching Blakely dance.

  As we move through one of our long-time favorite routines, featuring a lot of leg kicks and hip shimmies, I notice Blakely arching her back and putting in a little extra shake for the handsome stranger. As soon as the song ends, she grabs my arm and pulls me close, whispering in my ear.

  “Will you hate me if I leave you alone?” She winces and bites her lower lip, hopeful.

  I laugh and throw my arms wide, gesturing to the writhing mass of people dancing around me. “I’m not alone.”

  Blakely beams and kisses my cheek. “You are a treasure, J-A. A true treasure.”

  I slap her butt as she walks away. She yelps and turns back to me, her mouth open as though she has been scandalized.

  “Jane-Ann Callister! You brute!”

  “Go show that cowboy a good time,” I shout, eliciting a few encouraging “yee-haws” from the women dancing around me.

  As soon as Blakely is gone, I push through the crowd back to the bar. My heels are aching inside my boots, and I’m thirsty.

  I wave down the bartender for a beer and lean back against the bar. In the minute it took me to cross the bar, Blakely managed to introduce herself and begin a very heated make-out session with the cowboy. Hell, I don’t even know if she actually introduced herself first. When my beer slides next to me, I pick it up and raise it in salute to her and her latest conquest from across the bar.

  “Blakely didn’t wait long to find someone to take home.”

  I don’t need to look to know Colby Brooker is whispering in my ear. I smile without looking at him and shrug.

  “She has a long line of interested men. Why should she wait?”

  His elbow nudges my arm gently. “She isn’t the only one who turns plenty of heads.”

  I dated Colby Brooker in high school. He was my first serious boyfriend, my first kiss, my first time, and my first love. He has a very special place in my heart. Unfortunately for Coby, that place is nostalgic and firmly in the past. My present feelings for Colby are the same way I feel about my childhood bedroom. It’s sweet to look back and remember that time, but I’ve outgrown it and Colby. I only wish Colby understood that.

  “You are such a flatterer,” I say, finally looking his way.

  He’s standing less than a foot away, his face even closer than that. He smells like whiskey and sawdust, and I can tell by the way he is looking at me that he is hoping tonight will be the night. The night where I finally realize that we are perfect for one another. That we should get back together. That breaking up with him after high school was a mistake.

  He smiles his crooked smile at me and shakes his head. “Only to you, Jane-Ann. And it isn’t flattery if it’s true. You look great.”

  “So do you,” I say in what I hope is a companionable way. “How long have you been here?”

  He takes a long drink from his beer and leans back against the bar. “Long enough to know I’m talking to the only interesting woman in the room.”

  Talking to Colby would be pleasant if he wasn’t constantly hitting on me. I’ve told him directly too many times to count that I see him as a friend, so I’ve taken to just brushing his advances under the rug and ignoring them.

  “I’m going to tell Blakely you said that.”

  He laughs and tips his head toward where she and her cowboy are pressed against the wall, his hands grabbing her in very unladylike places. “You’ll have to use the jaws of life to tear her away from her new man, but if you’re up for the challenge, then go right ahead.”

  “They do seem rather preoccupied,” I admit.

  The music changes to an acoustic love song. Colby drops his empty glass on the bar and holds out a hand, bowing low.

  “Dance with me, m’lady.”

  I know dancing with him will only encourage his misplaced feelings, but when the people around us begin to ooh and ahh, I can’t bring myself to embarrass him. So, I grab his arm and yank him to standing and then toward the dance floor.

  Rather than being discouraged, Colby seems to think I’m simply overeager, and he’s beaming as he slips his hands around my waist and twines my fingers around his neck.

  “This reminds me of senior prom,” he says. His cheeks are flushed from drinking, an
d his eyes are reflecting the colored lights of the dance floor along with a good deal of hope. Prom was the night we first slept together.

  “I like to think we’re both more mature than we were then,” I say. “And better dressed. I was wearing a spaghetti-strap dress, four-inch wedges, and had crimped my hair. Not cute.”

  “I just remember thinking you were perfect. I still think that.”

  He pinches one of my blond braids between his fingers and then lets it fall against my chest so he can tighten his grip on my waist.

  I quickly look around for anyone I know within shouting distance. I need a buffer. Someone who can distract Colby from his laser-like focus on me. Blakely and the cowboy have disappeared, meaning they are either doing dirty things in the bathroom, the parking lot, or they are on their way back to Blakely’s house to do dirty things. Regardless, Blakely is occupied and I don’t recognize anyone else.

  Even if my other friends were here, they wouldn’t help me. All of them have told me on multiple occasions that I’m crazy for keeping Colby at arm’s length. On one hand, I get what they see in him. He has sandy brown hair that is always perfectly mussed, deep dimples that give him a boy-next-door kind of charm, and he is lean and strong and tan from his job working construction. Colby Brooker is an all-around good guy. He just doesn’t do anything for me.

  When I look at him, I see a friend. My chest doesn’t swell with desire. I don’t find myself itching in all the right places, desperate to get him alone and tear into him. Sex isn’t the main part of a relationship, I know that, but it is an important part. And the fact is that I do not have any sexual feelings about Colby.

  “You’re sweet,” I mumble, keeping my eyes on the crowd around us.

  His fingers tickle up my spine, pressing me closer to him until we are almost welded together. We’re only a few centimeters away from crossing a line that I have spent a long time drawing in the sand.