They’d spent the rest of the night, almost all the way to dawn, exploring and enjoying each other. Her smooth skin had been hot under his fingers, her body arching under him as she made the most gorgeous sounds of approval and pleasure. She was stunning. She was fantastic. She was everything he wanted, and more.

  Too bad you have to leave.

  He winced, glancing at the clock. His flight home was in a few hours.

  He hadn’t meant to have a one-night stand with anyone, much less her. Not that he had anything against them. He’d had plenty of brief interludes, where both parties were well aware it was a temporary, fun arrangement. But Clara was different, on so many levels, from the women he usually interacted with. Most importantly because she had no idea who he was.

  And he needed to keep it that way.

  He’d promised his father when he took this gig to help his friend Timothy that no one would find out: no press, no paparazzi. The band and the entertainment arrangers at Kew Gardens all signed nondisclosure agreements, and since the wedding was for some foreign, wealthy family he’d never heard of that was careful about their privacy, they’d confiscated everyone’s cell phones and cameras. There were no selfies or videos (outside of the official photographer who apparently left after the ceremony) or any other evidence that he was there, doing something so crass and undignified as being a wedding singer. He couldn’t let any of the staff know who he really was. So far, he’d been able to keep that promise. Everyone had expected a wedding singer when they looked at him, and no one seemed to suspect anything beyond that. Hiding in plain sight really did work.

  But now, looking at how beautiful Clara was, tangled in the sheets, he felt a pang of regret. He would’ve liked to keep in contact with her. He would’ve liked more than one night.

  He sighed, then got up quietly, making his way to the bathroom. He showered, put on one of the hotel’s plush bathrobes, then made a quick phone call down to room service. Within fifteen minutes, he had accepted the cart and brought it inside. As quiet as he’d tried to be, Clara woke, rubbing at her eyes and stretching. He took a second to enjoy the view with a smile.

  “What’s all that?” she asked, with a responding smile.

  He started removing trays from the various dishes. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want,” he said, “so I got an assortment. Let’s see… eggs Benedict, or egg royal if you prefer… oat porridge… waffles… French toast… and of course, fresh fruit, coffee, tea.”

  Her eyes went wide as saucers. “All that? Are you mad? We’ll never eat it all!”

  He felt a wave of embarrassment hit him. He hadn’t really thought it through—he just wanted to surprise her, and he wanted to make sure she was happy. “Well, we’ll do the best we can,” he said.

  “That must’ve cost a fortune.”

  Ah, right. “Included with the contest,” he lied glibly. “I’ll get this set up at the table, shall I? And you can…” He gestured to the bathroom.

  She nodded, retreating to get herself sorted out. He opened the curtains, revealing that gorgeous view of London—one he’d honestly seen a thousand times, but hadn’t really enjoyed as much as he had with her, watching her lips drop open in pleased shock as she took it in.

  She popped out of the bathroom with a matching robe, her pretty feet bare. She smiled shyly, all makeup washed off her face, making her look younger and somehow more vulnerable. She tucked a long lock of hair behind her ear, and he noticed for the first time a line art tattoo of a bluebird, hidden just behind it.

  He wanted to ask her about it. He wanted to ask her about everything: her life, her past, her future.

  Instead, he gestured to the chair opposite him, at the table set in front of the windows. “Please.”

  “This is delicious,” she said, as she nibbled at various dishes, making yummy noises that reminded him of other noises he’d particularly enjoyed. “You are spoiling me.”

  “And it’s my pleasure to do so,” he said, glad to finally be honest for a moment. “Am I keeping you from anything? I forgot to ask earlier, and we’ve woken up a bit late.”

  “Yes, well, we were up quite late,” she said, her cheeks going pink, a small, mischievous smile dancing around her lips. He felt his body going taut at the thought but suppressed it. There was simply no time for a second round. “But no, I have today off. This is usually my day to go to the shops, and I’ll probably visit my parents later. I don’t work again until tomorrow.”

  “And you work at Kew Gardens?”

  “At one of their restaurants, yes,” she said. “I have for a few years now. I sometimes pick up extra work, either at receptions there, or with a caterer.”

  “Do you want to be a caterer?”

  She shook her head, laughing. “God, no. I’m just saving up to go back to university to finish up my degree. Hoping I can go in the next year or two. Sure, I might be almost twenty-seven by then, but I’ll appreciate it even more than when I was eighteen, you know?”

  “That’s brilliant,” he said, loving the way her face lit up. “What were you studying?”

  “Politics,” she said, and he felt his stomach clench a little. Well, that’s ironic. His dignified father would’ve turned cartwheels if he’d chosen to study politics. “I want to make a difference, you know? To be involved in things that affect everyone, that would change the world.”

  “Why not just take out a loan?”

  She looked at him, one eyebrow quirked. “Because I don’t want to take on debt in case anything else goes wrong, thank you very much.” The light in her expression dimmed. “I’m almost at my goal. But what about you? Are you pursuing music? Have your own band back home?”

  “Ah, no,” he said. “I… ah, did some singing a long time ago, but nothing serious. Really just for fun.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  Of course she’d ask, wouldn’t she? He silently berated himself for not anticipating that, too focused on finding out about her. “This and that,” he hedged. “I’ve been traveling for the most part over the years.”

  “See, I couldn’t do that, not for years,” she said, sipping her tea. “I like to be settled.”

  He smiled, his heart clenching a little. “At this point, I’m putting traveling behind me,” he found himself admitting.

  “Oh? Why?”

  He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. “My mother died. Three months ago.”

  “I am so sorry.” She reached over, taking his hand and squeezing it. “It must have been hard.”

  “I realized that maybe it was time to stop being a nomad, grow up a bit. See if I couldn’t help my family more.”

  “Family business, then?”

  “You could say that,” he said. “I have to fly back this afternoon.”

  They were quiet for a long moment. Then she looked at him, her expression unflinching.

  “I’m not going to see you again, am I?” she asked, her tone wry. “This was a… a one night only performance.”

  He couldn’t help himself; he chuckled at her dry wit. “It’s a bit complicated.”

  She stood, then leaned over and kissed him, gently, on his cheek. “Don’t be sad,” she said. “You’re an ice cream sundae.”

  “I’m a what?”

  “You’re a ‘sometimes’ treat,” she explained, eyes twinkling. “Something delicious and decadent… and something you absolutely can’t have every single day.”

  He burst out laughing, surprised. “You are delightful.”

  “Bet on it,” she said with a wink. “Thank you for last night, and this morning, Erik. I needed a break.”

  “No,” he said, kissing her gently, then pulling away. “Thank you.”

  He was still thinking about that kiss when he returned to the Royal Palace of Fervia. He’d already stopped at his own royal apartments, dropping off his luggage, but his brother Pelle had insisted that he head for Pelle’s wing as soon as possible—which, honestly, was odd. It wasn’t like he was needed for anything. Pelle was the Crown Prince, after all. Pelle was the one that would inherit their father’s throne someday. And he was married, so no doubt the pitter-patter of little feet was following at some point, making Erik’s tentative position as “spare” even that much more pointless. Still, Pelle said it was imperative that they talk, in person, and soon.

  What could he possibly need from me?

  As much as he loved his father and brother, it was painfully obvious that they expected precious little from him—his talents had always run towards the creative, more music than statecraft. Maybe his brother wanted him to compose some official royal fanfare, to be trumpeted before he entered a room. At least he could trust Erik with that.

  Erik sighed. That was uncharitable. Pelle loved him, and he looked up to his older brother. It wasn’t Pelle’s fault that Erik’s talents seemed to fall outside the skill sets that would be valuable in a ruling family.

  He wandered through the building, back towards the Crown Prince’s apartments. His brother and his wife lived in one wing; his father, the king, were in the other. Erik occupied a tower suite far from either of them, so it was a bit of a hike to get to Pelle. He knocked on his brother’s door.

  His brother looked like an older version of himself. He had light brown hair, rather than dark blond, and they both had blue eyes. His brother’s face was more careworn, some wrinkles bracketing his eyes and creasing his forehead, probably from frowning. He always seemed so worried.

  “There you are,” Pelle said, sounding agitated. Erik shrugged, wishing his brother would, for the love of God, lighten up.

  “Here I am,” Erik agreed. “I came as soon as I could. Is everything all right?”

  Pelle gestured to a settee, taking a seat himself in an opposing chair. He rested his hands on his knees, leaning forward a little, then shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice heavy. “Everything is not all right.”

  Erik’s nonchalance evaporated, and his heart clenched. The last time something wasn’t “all right” was when they’d found out about his mother’s illness. “You’re healthy? Is Father all right? Is Aliana sick?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that,” Pelle reassured him, and Erik’s heartbeat steadied. “As to me… I am healthy, but there is a problem. One I’m going to need your help with.”

  Erik found himself sitting straight, intent. It might be the first time Pelle had ever requested anything important from him, ever. “Of course I’ll help,” he said immediately. “Ever since Mother’s death, I’ve told you, I’m committed. Whatever you and Father need, I’ll do.”

  “You did say that,” Pelle said, a small smile finally breaking on his face.

  “So… is it something diplomatic? Um, policy work, or some such?” Of course, he had no experience with anything like that, but he felt sure he could pick it up. How hard could it be? And if he got in over his head, then he could always call his friend Nic, the prince of the neighboring island of Mynia. Nic was a wizard when it came to all things administrative. “I’m up for the challenge. Let me help.”

  “Erik, I’m sterile.”

  Erik reared back. “I’m sorry?”

  “So am I, believe me.” Pelle’s expression was glum. “Father and I spoke with several of the ministers, after I got the diagnosis—and several second opinions. It gums up the line of succession something awful.”

  “Line of succession…?” Erik was so stunned, he felt like he wasn’t understanding anything. “You mean…?”

  “If I die, the crown goes to you,” Pelle expanded. “But you’re only a few years younger than me, Erik. We need the next generation, to truly ensure the bloodline and the Fervian rule.”

  Erik blinked several times. Then he shook his head, as if shaking out cobwebs. “I apologize. What, exactly, are you asking me to do here?”

  “I—we—need you to have a child,” Pelle said firmly. “We need you to secure the succession. The sooner, the better.”

  3

  Two months later

  Clara sat at a desk at her local party campaign office, stuffing letters. The repetitive, almost hypnotic physical motions should have been soothing, but she got the feeling no amount of administrative busywork was going to stop the chaotic hurricane of thoughts that was threatening to shut her down.

  I’m pregnant.

  The morning sickness started not long after she missed her first period. She’d tried to pass it off as indigestion, maybe some bad takeaway, but deep down she knew the truth. There had been a moment with Erik where they’d been a little more amorous than careful, and even though they’d addressed the situation soon afterward, apparently a few minutes were all it took.

  And now here we are.

  Or rather, here she was. Once the doctor had confirmed her pregnancy via blood test (as if the six over-the-counter tests could somehow be wrong!), she’d gone to the head of entertainment at Kew Gardens and asked about Moonlight Serenade, the band Erik had sung with. Surely, they’d know how to find him? But the director had been curiously tight-lipped. She’d finally tracked them down on their website, and when she said she was looking for Erik, they’d simply stopped replying to her emails and blocked her on social media. Probably thinking she was some sort of crazed groupie, she thought bitterly. Now, she had no way of letting the man know she was expecting his child. She was on her own.

  She bit her lip. She hadn’t told her parents quite yet because she was trying desperately to figure out what her next move was. Waitressing was what she knew, what she had the most experience in. She was good at it, even if it wasn’t what she wanted to do forever. But she couldn’t exactly pick up a double shift with a baby waiting at home. And how was that supposed to work? Up until recently, she’d been giving most of her spare money to her parents to help make up for her mother’s time off, and now anything extra had been going into her barely-there savings.

  She paused in her envelope-stuffing. University. Was that dream dead again? Even if she could secure a scholarship again, how in the world could she juggle taking care of her baby, taking classes full-time, working a living wage, and paying for all the other unplanned expenses that always seemed to crop up?

  Her heart sank, and she felt her eyes start to prick with tears she quickly blinked away. The obstetrician had warned her that pregnancy hormones were going to start playing havoc with her emotions and her energy levels, and she was a walking infomercial for the damned symptoms.

  She stuffed the envelopes more quickly, more violently. She couldn’t ask her parents for help; they’d be happy to offer, but they were barely back on track themselves. And with her mother’s fibromyalgia, there was no way she could ask her or her father to watch a baby when she wasn’t working. It was simply too much. Which meant she’d have to pay for childcare of some sort.

  She felt her breathing start to go shallow and panicky, and forced herself to calm down as best she could.

  She’d already decided this was going to be her last week working for minimum wage at the campaign office. For pity’s sake, she usually helped with strategy, phone calls, canvassing. Today, between “baby brain” and her sloth-like energy levels, not to mention the lingering morning sickness, she was lucky to be able to manage the damned envelopes.

  What am I going to do?

  Surely there was an answer. She just wasn’t seeing it.

  “You all right over there, Clara?” the campaign field officer, a kind woman in her sixties named Olivia, asked. Her eyes were compassionate but shrewd. Clara felt her cheeks heat with a blush, wondering if the other woman suspected her condition. “Maybe you should go to the break room, fix yourself a cup of tea.”

  “That sounds lovely,” Clara agreed quietly. The campaign office wasn’t exceptionally large or well appointed, but it did have a nice break room. The electric kettle was (usually) full, and people brought in crisps and biscuits. There was a window that had a view out to the street and Big Ben beyond (okay, if you tilted your head a bit).

  Best of all, Olivia was a fan of the printed word, which meant the break room’s table was stacked high with magazines and newspapers from around the world. She thought it was important that their people stay abreast of the political climate abroad, and that online coverage was simply too overwhelming, and often sub-par. Clara flipped her way through the glossy mags before settling on the newspapers. She skimmed headlines, but after several stomach-turning disasters and scandals, she decided to find something a bit brighter. She had enough disaster right now, thank you very much.

  She was gratified to find The Fervian Times, a newspaper from a small island kingdom off the coast. She would barely have registered it if her friend Holly hadn’t up and moved there to pursue her dream of being an investigative journalist. She’d met Holly here at the party headquarters, actually, when Holly was doing research for a story, and they’d become friendly. She scanned the front page, and for the first time that day, she broke out into an unrestrained smile.

  There Holly was, her byline front and center. Holly had covered some upcoming trade conference that the country was going to be entering, using the two other neighboring island kingdoms as a consortium. It sounded interesting, certainly a good boost for the local economy. And Holly’s smarts and skills as a journalist were certainly on display. Clara squelched the quick feeling of envy she felt.

  Holly’s pursuing her dreams. When am I going to be able to follow mine?

  Absently, she rubbed her still flat stomach. At this rate, it was going to be a damned long time. She tried not to let that feel as crushing as the lead weight in her chest would suggest.

  “Now, now. None of that,” Olivia said, surprising her.

  Clara startled, dropping the newspaper. “I’m sorry?”