Tonight’s game is only the second I’ve ever seen in person, but I’ve watched so many on cable or streamed them online since the first time I came to watch Manning play that tonight’s game feels different.
And not just because there’s a big deal made over having the king of Stölland sitting in the stands watching his son play.
“How do you deal with this?” I ask Joey after wincing when one of those bastards from Boston body-slams Manning into the plexiglass surrounding the rink. Of course, he comes away smiling, but that’s not his I’m so happy to see you smile or his That was fun, let’s do it again smile or even his I’ll kill you for that later smile.
It was more like a That bloody hurt but I’m going to smile through the pain because I’m a man who likes sports that involve pain and I can handle more pain than you can smile.
Which is way more of a turn-on than it should be, but apparently I have a thing for the bloodthirsty part of his Viking heritage.
“You remember how there are some things we’ve agreed to not talk about?” Joey says.
I wrinkle my nose, because now I’m picturing Joey kissing Zeus’s booboos, and while I’m happy for her, ew.
Not that Zeus is a bad guy. He’s actually one of the nicest guys I know, but like Joey, he hides it under a few layers of Big tough men don’t have feelings.
I really don’t understand how men can possibly rule so much of the world. They’re such Neanderthals. Yet it’s impossible to not be enthralled at the game. If I got out there on the ice, I’d fall flat on my ass. But there’s Manning and Ares and the rest of the Thrusters zipping across it as though their feet have wings, all while dodging Boston’s players and handling a tiny puck that they’re trying to get into a goal. It’s all so captivating.
I’m chewing on my fingernails as the clock ticks down the final seconds of the game, and I’m not a fingernail chewer.
Usually.
Unfortunately, all the stress of the game—especially the part where it’s tied five-five—is also giving me the hiccups.
Again.
And Mink Arena security wouldn’t let me bring in that tub of peanut butter from Manning’s place. Even Joey’s Jedi mind tricks didn’t work to convince them.
I still can’t make any sense of who’s playing what positions and what sort of strategy either team is using. The players are all blurs of maroon or black, flying over the ice, chasing a puck so small I can barely see it from our seats. “In case they totally blow it and I forget to say it later, thank you for the tickets. This has been really fun.”
She squeezes my hand, which is something she’s rarely done in public. See again, men don’t have feelings.
Which is really utter horseshit. All the best men have feelings.
From this high up, we can only see the players’ faces when they’re flashed over the gigantic screens on the scoreboard. But I’m tracking Manning and Ares by their posture as well as their numbers, and the two of them, along with Duncan Lavoie, have been battling the Boston defenders to get close to the goal for the last minute. Every time Boston hits the puck toward the center line, one of the three of them swoop in and drive it back toward the goal.
This final minute feels like it’s lasting six hours.
My knees are bouncing. My hiccups are coming faster, and something isn’t sitting right in my belly. Possibly the popcorn.
The morning sickness so far has stuck to mornings, but it seems determined to make me miserable at the moment.
Because I refuse to admit this could be nerves. About the royal family at Manning’s penthouse. About sitting here feeling like I’m spying on his hockey life. About wondering if last night in his Lego room actually meant something to him, or if I’ve become easy by being there for him when I’m supposed to remember my purpose isn’t for me, but for my baby to have the opportunity to know both her parents.
Joey has a hotel room for the night. I could stay with her. Escape the weird tension at Manning’s place. Sit up late giggling over boys—no, I mean sit up late eating protein bars and debating which planet we’d want to visit first if we could make it there and back in a single year, because that’s really what happens on a girls’ night with Joey, unless Ten Things I Hate About You is on TV.
Or I can woman up and push past feeling like an ignorant, dirty-minded country bumpkin-slash-hockey groupie when I’m surrounded by all the testosterone and royal pedigree back at Manning’s place.
All that royal pedigree doesn’t feel like it fits him at all.
He’s not posh. Sure, his clothes are fancy, and he has that sexy as sin accent, but he’s more. He’s fun and thoughtful and way more attentive than he gets credit for and—ohmydog, he’s scoring. Ares has passed him the puck right by the net and he’s scoring!
I shoot out of my seat, fists in the air, screaming as the puck disappears between the goalie’s legs half a second before the buzzer sounds. Lights flash all around the arena, the crowd is screaming along with me, confetti billows out of somewhere behind us, and on the ice, Manning disappears in a pile of teammates clapping him on the helmet and swallowing him in one of those team hugs.
It might just be a hockey game, but it’s a victory.
And I’ll take every single victory we can get.
I decline a late dinner with Joey, who’s promised Ares four hamburgers tonight, partly because I’m tired, and partly because I’d rather celebrate with Manning.
He might be busy with his family. Or he might be busy with interviews or team meetings or whatever physical therapy or training his coaches think he needs after the game.
Or he might escape it all and sneak into my bedroom and lock the door and do delicious things to my body while making plans for the two of us to run away together to some obscure tropical island without television, radio, or internet, because at the moment, faking his death is seeming like a better way of getting him out of his betrothal.
But I have this weird sensation in the pit of my stomach telling me that faking his death would cause more problems for his family, and while his family isn’t at the top of my favorite people list, they are half the ruling force—along with the Parliament—of an entire nation.
When they suffer, I imagine their people suffer too.
Look at all the joy clearly visible on everyone’s faces when the king married Sylvie Honeycutt.
I doubt the people would be thrilled about a royal wedding if they knew it would make both Manning and Elin miserable, but then, I doubt the majority of the world will ever know they’ll be miserable, because it’s their duty to look happy no matter what.
And isn’t the thrill of a wedding more exciting than the reality of marriage? Back home, Nancy talks about George never helping with the dishes and leaving his dirty socks in the living room. Ginny Jo’s forever complaining that her husband has left the toilet seat up or not replaced the toilet paper. Which makes me wonder if while weddings are all joy and celebration and optimism, marriage is smelly bathrooms and a larger chore list.
It’s after eleven when I stumble into the bedroom I’m sharing with Ares. I flop onto the bed, planning on taking just a minute off my feet before brushing my teeth and changing into sweats and a T-shirt, but the next thing I know, the lights are off, there’s a mountain breathing softly beside me, a monkey staring at me, and the clock on the bedside table reads 3:32 AM.
Also?
I’m hungry. And if I don’t eat when I’m hungry, the morning sickness will only be worse.
I pad down the hall in my jeans and the Thrusters hoodie I got for the game last night, along with my mismatched poomoji and unicorn socks, because they make me happy and I don’t care if they’re not royal family approved. In fact, I hope they aren’t. I hope my socks would shock and appall the royals just as much as my Dickookies.
Who are they to judge my life? I didn’t ask for their approval. Or their acceptance. I’m not here for anything other than helping Manning get out of the royal disaster they got him into.
Who does that to the people they love?
I’m getting myself worked up with righteous—and probably unnecessary—indignation when I realize the lights are on in the kitchen.
Manning’s up.
He’s shirtless, in loose sweatpants that hang low on his chiseled hips, his broad back to me as he cracks eggs into a skillet.
I pause, admiring the slope of his shoulders, the solid bands of muscles weaving down his arms, the twin dimples at the base of his spine, because even when I’m furious on his behalf—and maybe some at him too for not having taken care of this betrothal years ago—the sight of him makes me go all soft and gooey on the inside.
He rubs the back of his neck, turning his head enough for me to see his profile.
There’s no smile turning his lips up. No mischief sparkling in the corner of his eye.
He just looks tired. In need of a hug. All this time he’s playing hockey and doing interviews and smiling and looking after the interests of his family and his country, who’s taking care of him?
I take a step, and he turns to glance at me.
The smile is automatic, even as his eyes register surprise. But the surprise quickly melts into warm affection, and I feel an answering warmth swelling in my chest.
He’s a good man.
“Did I wake you?” he asks.
I shake my head and slide onto a stool at the bar. “Got hungry.”
“Can’t have that. Eggs?”
I grimace before I can stop myself. “Crackers. I can—” get them.
But he’s already reaching up into the cabinet holding sixteen different varieties of crackers while I blatantly admire the flex and stretch of his muscles. Even with a sour stomach, I can’t help myself.
He selects the Saltines and offers me an open sleeve from the box. I didn’t realize he’d noticed which crackers I’ve been sneaking into my room, but apparently he has.
I wonder how much else he’s noticed.
“Feeling all right?” he asks, his eyes taking total inventory of my body and making me simultaneously gooey in my chest and hot in my hooha.
“Mostly.” I touch my cheekbone in the same vicinity where a bruise is forming on his before digging into the crackers. “Does it hurt?”
“Had worse.”
“That hit looked like it would’ve hurt.”
“Ah, the lady confesses to watching my game.” His grin turns cocky, and once again, it’s impossible to not smile back at him.
“Joey made me go,” I lie.
“Would’ve been my pleasure to get you better seats.” He moves to flip his eggs, then returns to leaning his elbows on the island, all that solid arm muscle on full display while he quite smoothly moves his long, capable fingers closer to me across the granite. “Your diabolical sister too. Where is dear Joey? It’s been far too long since I’ve had the pleasure of ruffling her wool.”
“I left her at her hotel so she could have uninterrupted phone sex with Zeus before a late-night burger run with Ares.”
His gaze dips to my chest, which is not only covered with the hoodie, but also with cracker crumbs now. My nipples tighten, and my fingers clench around the cracker package, making it crinkle loudly in the still evening. A subtle sizzle comes from the eggs on the stove, but there’s another sizzle building and coiling in my core.
All because he glanced at my chest after I said the word sex.
I’ve never been so easily turned on in my life. Maybe it’s pregnancy hormones.
But more likely, it’s him. Because he did this to me even before that night in the locker room.
“What would you be if you didn’t have to be a prince?” I whisper.
His attention lifts back to my eyes. “Yours.”
My breath catches. It’s not a line. There’s no charming smile or flirty grin, nothing but a rare intensity that I’ve seen only twice before.
Both times I was well on my way to being naked with him. Which doesn’t make sense, because I hardly knew him the first time.
I could argue I still hardly know him, except it’s not true. I know he works hard. I know he’s loyal to a fault. I know he shoulders more responsibility than his smile and reputation would imply.
And yes, I know about his reputation back home.
But the truth is, he could’ve talked me out of my pants the night we met if he’d wanted to. But he didn’t. And not because he’s afraid of Joey, and not because he wasn’t attracted to me.
I might be a small-town girl, but human desire is universal.
Even the night in the locker room, he waited for my go-ahead.
That’s not what I’d expect of a playboy.
It’s what I expect of a prince.
He leans further across the island. I lean in too, though the island is so wide, there’s still at least a foot between us. “What would you have me do if I were but a common man?” he asks.
It’s such an impossible question, because I know he can’t ever be a common man. Even when he’s free from his betrothal, he’ll still be Prince Manning of Stölland. Ambassador for his country. Loyal son and brother to his family.
But I can think of one thing I’d ask. “Stay,” I whisper.
He caresses my cheek with his thumb, and I want to melt into his touch. “You’re quite the irresistible woman, Gracie Diamonte.”
I’m a woman in over her head. “I’m just a poor girl from Alabama who barely graduated high school.”
“You’re utterly perfect.”
“I run a side business printing genitalia on cookies,” I confess, my voice as small as it will go.
His fingers trace my ear and slide into my hair while his smile grows impossibly warmer. “Bloody brilliant business move. Although I’m afraid I’ll have to kill several of my teammates for having sent you pictures of their dicks. Damn things are all over the dressing room.”
“It’s not a big deal. Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. They’re just body parts.”
“I beg to differ, madam.”
He’s smiling broadly now, and I can’t resist smiling back. “Don’t tell me you suffer from penis insecurity.”
“I’ve no reason to. As you well know.”
He’s inching closer and closer, both hands cupping my head now.
“I haven’t gotten a good look,” I tell him. “But I can compliment you on your equipment skill level.”
“Why, thank you.” His laughter rolls off his lips and tickles my face. I could tilt forward and kiss him.
“I didn’t come here to seduce you.” But I still can’t resist stroking my fingers over his short beard.
“You seduce me merely by existing.”
That warmth in my chest is spreading everywhere over my body. “Such a charmer.”
“I have a confession of my own.”
There’s nothing he could say right now that would make me want to kiss him any less. Or make me not want to climb onto the island and do some kind of Dirty Dancing crawl to get to him. “Later,” I tell him.
“The night we met, I bet Zeus a ridiculous sum of money that he couldn’t get your sister to leave with him.”
“Oh my dog, you didn’t.” I laugh, then clap a hand to smother the noise so I don’t wake anyone else. The idea of Manning making that bet is both completely ridiculous and completely believable.
Also, I suspect Joey probably knew the whole time, because she’s like that. There’s no sense in getting offended on her behalf.
“I did,” he murmurs against my cheek, his lips and stubble teasing my skin. “Because I hoped the challenge would present an opportunity to get closer to you.”
“Me?”
I was a star-struck bumpkin making half a fool of myself that night, when I was supposed to be making sure Joey didn’t do anything, well, Joey-ish at the charity tournament that her company was co-sponsoring.
“You,” he confirms. “You brushed against me on your way into the room, and before I could say so much as excuse me, you were diving for a teetering tray that was troubling one of the servers.”
“I don’t remember that.” Most of the night was a blur until Manning and I escaped to walk the golf course. His flirting was so outrageous I didn’t let myself believe it was real, but dog, did I feel like a princess for a few hours.
“And that is exactly what makes you unforgettable. You incorporate simple human kindness into your every breath. You’re a rare woman, Gracie. And I’m but a spoiled brat who has servants to do his kindness for him.”
“You are not.”
His chuckle, combined with the circles his fingers are drawing over my scalp, makes goosebumps race over my skin. “Oh, but I am.”
“And that’s why you’re cooking your own eggs at three in the morning instead of waking your hordes of servants to do it for you.”
“Perhaps I lack servants because I’ve driven them all away.”
I grab his cheeks and pull back so I can see the twinkle of mischief in his perfect blue eyes. “Clearly,” I agree. “You’re nothing but an overgrown toddler who throws temper tantrums at every opportunity. And your eggs are going to burn.”
“You have a good heart, Gracie. A big heart. A noble heart. You deserve every happiness in this world.”
I blink.
Because my happy-go-lucky prince charming is once again turning serious on me.
Deadly serious.
“Everyone deserves happiness.”
He presses a soft kiss to my forehead before disentangling himself. He turns to the stove, kills the flame on the burner, and pushes the pan back.
But instead of grabbing a plate, he walks around the island and takes me by the hand. “Come upstairs with me.”
“No.”
He lifts a brow. “No?”
“I’m not having goodbye sex with you.”
His smile is again a new smile. Soft. Gentle. Affectionate. “I’m informing my father first thing in the morning that I’ll not marry Elin, and I’ll handle whatever consequences follow.”
I don’t know what kind of consequences he’ll have to deal with but, given his insistence that duty and the good of his people demanded that he follow through with the marriage, I can’t help wondering just how much trouble this will cause for his family.
And if he’ll be able to fix it from here, or if he’ll have to go home.
“Will it be bad?” My stomach is cramping like I might have to puke.
He steps closer, still gripping my hand, until I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. “I’ve no idea.”
“Will you have to go home?”
“Not if I can help it.”
His free hand strokes down my spine. I lean into his solid chest, resting my ear against the steady thump of his heart. “I had a really good plan to save you, you know.”
“And you executed it quite brilliantly.”
“You don’t even know what it was.” I hate that he keeps calling me brilliant. I’m not brilliant. I’m me. But he’s sweet to think so highly of me. “You’re stealing my thunder.”
“Quite the contrary. Your courage has given me the strength to handle my problems as I should’ve long ago.”
“You’re welcome,” I murmur, because it’s suddenly easier to be flippant than it is to face the pounding of my own heart and the desperate need to fling myself at him and ask if, even though I came for the baby’s sake, he might ever fall in love with me too.
His lips brush my hair, and a shower of fairy sparkles lights up my skin. “Come upstairs with me, love. Stay with me. I can’t bear the thought of you sleeping another minute with another man.”
I lift my face to his. “I shouldn’t.”
“I’m not asking as a prince, Gracie. I’m asking as a man. You haunt my dreams. You live in my every breath. I fall asleep to memories of your skin against mine and the taste of your lips. I wake to memories of your face as you come around my cock, and I smile to thoughts of your laughter throughout the day. My blood may belong to my country, but my heart belongs to you.”
My breath catches, my eyes water, and I hiccup.
“I bloody adore your hiccups.” He kisses the corner of my lips as I hiccup again. “Come upstairs, love. Please.”
