Royally Knocked Up by Pamela DuMond

Epilogue

EIGHT MONTHS LATER…

Friedricksburgh, Fredonia

Ethereal New Age music played on the speakers in the birthing suite at Friedricksburg Memorial Hospital. Flames flickered from an array of non-toxic, lavender-scented organic candles strategically positioned on the shelves. A zen-like water fountain trickled in the corner. Soothing seascapes lined the pastel walls.

I paced, one hand under my belly, one clamped across my breasts that had ballooned in the last eight months to Titanic-like proportions. My boobs could probably be used as weapons; either to smother someone, or take out an eye out if I whipped around quickly, didn’t wear a bra, and aimed high.

Nick followed me around the joint like my hot, personal, man-servant. He massaged my sweaty shoulders. “Breathe,” he said.

Another contraction hit, plowing through my lower back, my abdomen, radiating down my upper thighs. “Ow!” I clutched the back of a tastefully-upholstered chair and hunched forward, squeezing my eyes shut. “Ow. Ow. Ow!”

“Deep breaths,’ Nick said.

“Easy for you to say,” I huffed.

“After you punched me in the gut an hour ago, trust me, it wasn’t all that easy.”

Sometime later—it could have been a year, or a month, or a few minutes—the contractions eased. “That wasn’t my fault, Nick. You said you wanted to know how it felt to give birth.”

“I was speaking rhetorically, darling.”

“Perhaps that’s a tactic you’ll wish to re-visit should you ever find yourself around another woman in labor.”

“I’ll remember it for our next go around,” he said, and squeezed my hand.

“This is our sole rodeo in the birth department,” I said, breathing in that practical, in and out, hiss-hiss, pant-pant kind of way we had been taught in class.

“You say that now.”

“It’s been eighteen hours. I need the drugs. I can’t do this the old fashioned way.” I was exhausted.

“But this is what you wanted, Lucy. We talked about this just a few days ago and you said, ‘No matter what—don’t let me renege on having this baby the natural way.’”

“That was someone else talking. She’s a big fat liar.”

“We had perfect attendance at the Lamaze classes. We studied, practiced, even had a few dry runs. We are the Timmels of Fredonia. We are not wusses.”

“I’m totally a wuss! I’m new to the royal family and therefore allowed to change my mind. Where’s the damn midwife? Nurse! Midwife! I think it’s time! The baby’s head is popping out of my girlie parts. Help!”

The door flew open, and a thirty-something woman in scrubs attempted to stave off a gaggle of women, also in scrubs and hairnets, who pushed past her with attitude. Someone may have even thrown an elbow.

“I don’t know how you got around the security guards, ladies,” the midwife said, “but you can’t just waltz in here like you own the place.”

“But I do own the place,” Esmeralda said. “I inherited it from my great aunt and uncle on the Von Haspburgh side of the family. Lucy, what’s the fuss? Is that your cervix I see you holding, or the top of your baby’s head. Peek-a-boo!”

“I still can’t believe you don’t know the sex of your child,” Joan said, clucking under her breath. “It’s hard enough buying baby presents when one is single and child free, but not knowing the sex makes the shopping process that much more stressful.”

“I got baby Timmel a membership to the Circle of Seven History Museum,” Zola said. “Pop-up picture books, and family pack day passes to the new exhibits good for five years.”

Joan frowned. “You’re already the ‘cool’ aunt.”

Esmeralda leaned down and talked to my stomach. “Come out, come out wherever you are.”

“Stop!” I said. “Do you all think this is fun and games? Do you think I am enjoying myself? Do you think for one second that I want you all in the room when I’m undergoing what might be the most difficult experience of my entire life?”

“Ladies,” Nick said. “Maybe this isn’t the best time. Maybe this is one day you should leave Lucy alone.”

With the exception of something soothing by Enya playing on the loudspeakers, quiet stretched throughout the room. The midwife eyed my ladies-in-waiting with one arched brow.

“Oh, it’s definitely not fun and games,” Zola said.

“I doubt you’re enjoying yourself,” Joan said.

“Of course Lucy wants us here,” Esmeralda said. “Whose got your back during the tough times?”

“Me,” Nick said.

“Besides you,” Esmeralda said. “We do, Lucy. We’ve had your back from the get go and we always will.”

“Fine,” I said. “You’re right. Stay.”

“Yay!” Joan said.

“I told you she’d let us stay!” Esmeralda said. “Joan, did you bring the Scotch?”

“Of course,” Joan reached for her purse.

“No drinking until I have this baby. And another thing, I need someone, please I beg you, to put on a decent playlist. If I hear one more New Age song I will kill someone, and right now I’m looking at Nick.”

“Shoot me, I forgot the playlist,” he said.

“You forgot the playlist and yet you want me to stick to the natural delivery plan? Not fair.”

“I’ve got this.” Joan fiddled with her phone. “I copied your playlist at the baby shower and downloaded all the songs.”

“You’re having my baby,” Nick warbled.

“One more word of that song out of your gorgeous mouth and I’ll kill you.” I shot him a look.

“That tune needs to be taken out into a field, blindfolded, and shot,” Esmeralda said.

“Hop up on the bed, Lucy,” the midwife said. “Let’s take a look.”

I waddled to the bed. Nick took my arm and helped me up. Another contraction hit. Tears flooded my eyes and I bit my lip.

“You, Duchess, are ready. I’ll grab the doctor.” The midwife hustled out of the room.

“Don’t leave! Can’t you do this now? Come on. Pull it out of me. I beg you. I’ll give you twenty Euros if you just pull the baby out of me now.”

“High profile delivery,” Zola said. “They always call the doctor.”

“Screw the doctor! Come back. I’m upping my offer to forty.”

She returned accompanied by the OB-GYN. Suddenly I felt like I was in those Jason Bourne movies that moved too fast. My surroundings and loved ones became a blur of pain, encouragement offered, and ridiculous feelings I’d never felt before.

“Push, Lucy, push,” the OB-GYN said.

“We got this. Come on,” Esmeralda said.

“Drugs, please?” I asked.

“You’re almost there,” Nick said, squeezing my hand.

“Like, seriously you picked Aw, push it by Salt-N-Pepper for your playlist?” Zola asked.

“I did not pick this song!” I wrung my hands.

“Yes, you did!” Joan said.

“I wish my mom was here,” I said.

“I know, honey, Esmeralda said. “Me too. But we’ve got this.”

“I love you, Lucy,” Nick said.

And at 9:01 p.m. Fredonia time on an enchanted evening in Friedricksburg a soul entered the world drawing her first breath. She had ten fingers and ten toes, a perfect APGAR, weighed six pounds eight ounces, had Nick’s dark brown hair, his blue eyes, and dare I say it, my mischievous smile.

I held Princess Clara Marie Susannah Timmel in my arms and could not believe my good fortune. The Tower had fallen, the Devil card had played out, but now, someone wonderful had been created and chosen to enter our lives despite all the mayhem.

“She looks exactly like you,” Joan said, passing around her silver flask of Prince Harry’s private reserve Scotch. Everyone but me took a shot.

“Hello, gorgeous Clara! She has the Timmel forehead,” Zola said, leaning in, smiling at her. “Both Nick and Cristoph have it.”

“When are you and Cristoph going to make beautiful babies?” Esmeralda asked, waggling her eyebrows.

She blushed. “We’re way too busy for that kind of stuff.”

“Need Clara.” Nick held out his arms to me.

I passed him our baby, our beautiful Clara Marie, and our hands touched for a few moments. I stared up into Nicholas’s crystal blue eyes, took in the cleft in his chin, and admired those Timmel cheekbones. “Seriously? ‘You’re having my baby?’ What were you thinking?’” I asked.

“I think I was panicking at that point,” he said.

I looked at my ladies in waiting, then at the handsomest prince in the world, and finally, at my daughter, blood of my blood, heart of my heart. She was perfect and pretty and magical: the next generation of the ladies-in-waiting, a fiercer, stronger, warrior princess that would conquer new worlds, refuse to take shit from asshats and thieves, and best of all— write her own stories, with her own ink, in her own book of life. Because I couldn’t write them for her—we all had to write our own.

Nick leaned in and kissed me on the lips. “Hey, Warrior Princess. Not bad for a fairytale ending, is it?”

Perhaps Clara would still be here if life was perfect, smooth sailing, not bumpy or filled with turbulent waters. But perhaps Clara Marie’s soul chose to be born to Nick and me not despite the chaos and confusion, but actually because of it.

And I smiled. “I couldn’t be happier, Nick. I couldn’t be happier.”

* * *

Dear Reader: Thanks so much for reading ROYALLY KNOCKED UP! I hope you loved Lucy and Nick’s romance and the Ladies-in-Waiting adventures. I have a feeling I’ll be writing more in the future.

Looking for a hilarious matchmaking Romantic Comedy with backstory that has the feels? You’ll love Ms. Match Meets a Millionaire ! Turn the page to read an excerpt.

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Looking for more heartfelt reads with a touch of adventure? Check out The Story of You and Me. Turn the page for an excerpt.

Like your royal romances on the steamy side? I wrote THE CROWN AFFAIR as a more explicit version of the Royally Wed books. Check out The Prince’s Playbook #1 .

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Happy reading!

Pamela DuMond