Royally Knocked Up by Pamela DuMond
Chapter 2
“Iam not upset!” I hurled my croissant at Cristoph across the high-end granite island countertop in his primo kitchen. It nailed him square on his full lips, plummeted to the polished hardwood floors, and bounced.
But the crown prince of Fredonia had decent reflexes from all the years of playing sports and caught it on the rebound. “I never would have suspected that in a million years.” He took a bite of the baked good, and brushed flakes off his mouth and chin. “Tulip, do you want some?” He held his crumb-specked hand out to my dog, tempting her with the buttery, carbohydrate—rich people food that she did not need.
The yellow Labrador retriever pushed off the kitchen floor, stretched, and sashayed over to the handsome, athletic, blonde man. She licked the crumbs from his hand, wagging her tail like a metronome.
Tulip was adorable. She was cuddly. She was a traitor.
“I appreciate all your hospitality, Cristoph. Thanks for the ride back here, having your guard walk Tulip from my house to yours, letting me borrow your shower—”
“And my robe.”
“And your robe.”
“You’re welcome.”
“But Tulip has her own bed next door, at the townhouse I share with Nick.” I pointed over his head in the direction of my home, but the long sleeves that undoubtedly fit his tall frame, hung over my hands, only my fingertips peeking out. I probably resembled a child playing dress-up, raiding her dad’s closet. “Honestly, I don’t understand why I have to be here. Why couldn’t I have been dropped off at my place?”
He sighed. “It’s complicated.”
“How complicated can it be?” I paced back and forth across his kitchen and waved my hands in the air, irritated. “Is my residence a crime scene? No. Was it infested with termites? No. Did someone discover ancient roman ruins under the joint, and they’re now excavating a big fat hole in my kitchen and worried that we might fall in? No. I’m going back home. Tulip, come!” I snapped my fingers, and as if on cue, she wagged her tail and passed gas.
Cristoph stared at me, an odd look on his face.
“I’m sorry, but it’s just a little wind. Besides, you’re the one who fed her ‘people’ food.”
“Not wind,” he said, waving a finger in my direction. His gaze locked on my chest.
I glanced down. The cushy bathrobe had gaped open across my boobs and I was flashing the Crown Prince of Fredonia a straight on titty shot. “You didn’t see that.” I yanked the lapels across my boobs and cinched the robe tighter around my waist.
“Spectacular. Forever burned into my memory. Look, there are practical reasons for you to stay here. The sun’s going down, I don’t know who’s going to be lurking about, and the good news is that my place is thoroughly guarded.”
“So is mine.”
“Not anymore. We temporarily re-assigned that crew. Let’s get this mess figured out as quickly as possible, and then we can return to normal life.”
“Define quickly.” I glared up at him. Prince Cristoph of Fredonia was six foot two muscular inches tall, built, and resembled a cross between an Olympic athlete and a chiseled swimsuit model. I, on the other hand, was five foot six and only weighed myself the first thing in the morning. Naked. And before coffee on days when I felt hopeful, which lately wasn’t very often.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“I do. One night. I can live with this for only one night.” I held out my hand. “I’d like another croissant, please.”
“You’re on. One night it is.” He tossed the baked good to me. I fumbled it, scraped it off the floor, and took a bite.
“You have dog hair on your lips.”
“I know.” I took another defiant bite. “Where’s Tulip going to sleep while she’s here?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Cristoph took a few steps into his pantry and walked out holding a large, cushy, oval brown lounger in one hand, and a few chew toys in the other. He dropped them in the corner of the room. “She’ll enjoy her loaner bed and toys. Kind of like sleeping on the fold-out couch at your auntie’s place when you’re on holiday.”
Tulip dove onto the lounger, and rolled around coquettishly, exposing her soft pink underbelly. “You can’t give her toys and then take them away, Cristoph. She’ll bond with them and mourn them when they’re gone. Kind of like how I feel about your brother.”
He grimaced. “Tulip can keep everything. Look, I’m sorry about Nick. He never should have been arrested. This cock-up wasn’t completely my doing, you know. I can only imagine what you’ve been through in the past couple of days.”
“Let me clear that up for you. My ladies and I have been marching outside the prison for two days because my husband, your brother, was hauled away in handcuffs on New Years Eve, and unlawfully detained. Undoubtedly we are tired, cold, hungry, and I feel terrible that the marchers endured that. You should have been there to shut this shit down. Where were you?”
Tulip, whom I now silently nicknamed Mata Hairy, grabbed a blue lambs wool snowman, and chewed it enthusiastically. “Squeak, Squeak, Squeak!”
“I can’t tell you,” he said.
“What do you mean you can’t tell me?”
“That statement’s self-explanatory.” He opened the fridge, pulled out a few lagers, some crackers and cheese, and plopped them on the granite countertop kitchen island. “Answers to that question do not flow from me to you.”
“Why not?”
“Need to know basis. You’re not in the loop.”
I frowned. “I hang out with the ladies-in-waiting. They’re a better dressed version of the CIA.”
“We’re not in America.”
“Fine. The FIA, the Fredonia Intelligence Agency.”
“Oh, please.” He pulled a Mediterranean-tiled platter from a high shelf in a cabinet and set it on the granite surface.
“Don’t ‘please’ me. The ladies know who’s sleeping with whom. They recognize governmental policy changes before changes are even introduced, and can distinguish persons considered lemons from those getting juiced into lemonade. The ladies are doctors, and lawyers, bakers, and pin-up girls, fashion icons, housewives in simple cottages, politicians, and girls in middle school who will some day become determined women who run for office. We are fierce. We are a force.”
“I wish I could harness your awesome collective power for the problem that currently confronts us. That situation might not have landed Nick in jail, but prickly problem that it is, currently keeps him there.” He pulled back the saran wrapping and picked up a knife. “Do you prefer the extra sharp cheddar or are you a goat cheese kind of girl?”
“Extra sharp with the stone wheat thin crackers. You don’t really believe all that shit about you and I being married, do you?”
“I didn’t at first.”
My heart rose in my chest, squeezing into my throat and lodging there, like I’d swallowed a giant bagel. “What do you mean ‘at first’?”
“We’ll talk. I need to blow off some steam. Exercise does that for me. Or you could flash me your magnificent boobs, again. Are they real?” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Shut up.”
“Get dressed. Wear something warm, clothes you can move in.” Cristoph’s phone buzzed and he picked up. “Yes, let them in.”
“Let who in? I’m not prepared for company…”
Mr. Philip Philips swept into the room followed by two guards pushing a luggage rack. It was filled with wardrobe boxes and dollies piled high with cartons, containers, and suitcases. They stopped and bowed.
“Greetings, your Royal Highness,” Mr. Philips said. His face was ruddy, his hair white and clipped neatly, his winter overcoat impeccable. He was practically a father figure to me, and just like any dad who showed up uninvited, I was tempted to tell him to take a hike.
“Thanks for helping us out, Philips,” Cristoph said.
“Of course. Per your request,” Mr. Philips said, “Lucille’s clothes and sundries have been transferred to this address.”
“Excellent. Take those upstairs, please. Last bedroom on the left.” The movers scurried fast as mice. “And while you’re at it, Philips, give Lucy the lay of the land. I’ll meet you both back down here in ten minutes.” He jogged up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
I walked across the living room and hugged the dapper older man. “Are you my knight in shining armor? Have you come to rescue me from purgatory? I don’t want my clothes to be here. I want them tucked away in the closets and cupboards, next to the lilac sachets I bought at the farmer’s market, back at the townhouse I share with Nick.”
“I wanted a pony for Christmas when I was six,” he said. “I got a book on arithmetic and the board game Clue. We take what is given to us, find the silver lining, and get the job done. Surely you, of all people, know that.”
“Yes, but—”
“I’ve been tasked with getting you organized.” He frowned so hard his jaw muscle popped in his cheek. “The layout of Prince Cristoph’s place is a mirror image of the townhouse you share with Nicholas. This time, however, you’re not occupying the master suite. We’re setting you up in the primary guest room. Follow me.”
“Hang on. Let me check my Fitbit. Thirty-four thousand steps. Yup, the marching took a lot out of me.” I trod back to the kitchen island and grabbed my plate of crackers and cheese from the countertop. “I’m following you. Right on your ass, actually.”
“We seem to have taken a few steps back in the etiquette department with the potty mouth, Lucille.”
“You’ll have to deal with the potty mouth, Philips. I seem to have developed a bit of an anger problem recently, and I fear it’s not going away any time soon.”