“I’m fine. We’re fine,” she corrected, patting her stomach gently.

  “Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?” he asked.

  “I don’t think it matters, as long as they’re healthy,” she said, then glanced at him. “Does it matter? From a succession standpoint, I mean?” It hadn’t occurred to her until now. Fervia, based on everything she’d discussed with the ministers and publicists, and the stupid etiquette lessons, was a very traditional culture.

  Did they only want a boy? The thought made her frown.

  “No, it doesn’t matter,” he quickly reassured her. “They will be next in line for the throne, regardless of gender. I simply wondered.”

  “Do you have a preference?” she probed.

  His expression grew sheepish. “Honestly, I’m just nervous about being a parent,” he admitted. “I haven’t exactly done a lot with my life, and I want to make sure our child is proud of me.”

  She startled, surprised at his admission. “You’re a prince,” she pointed out. “I’m fairly certain…”

  “Yes, but what have I done?” he countered, and his voice was sad. “I’ve partied around the world. I’ve never done anything that represented Fervia in any significant way. I’m thirty, and I’m only now trying to help my family rule the country.”

  He shifted his weight, propping his head up on one hand and staring at her, his blue gaze haunted. “You pointed out just how far off the mark I was. You’re right. I’m used to spending money as a way to either distract myself or buy my way out of inconvenience and trouble. I was actually spoiled enough to think how hard I had it, compared to the ‘normal’ people in the world. And there your family was, there you were, working all these jobs… for God’s sake, you were working when I was running around playing video games and complaining about my tutors, and playing pranks in boarding school! I’ve been so up my own arse about my position and my privilege, it’s embarrassing.”

  She huffed out a sigh. “You’re being too hard on yourself,” she tried, but he shook his head.

  “I’m not being hard enough, if I’m honest,” he said. “I promised my family, after my mother died, that I’d stop messing around, and finally become a responsible, productive member. I’d get my act together. Now that I’m going to be a parent, that seems even more important. I need to be an example.”

  He sounded so impossibly disappointed with himself, her heart hurt. “What was your mother like?” she asked, wondering how her death would’ve triggered such self-recriminations.

  He smiled, his eyes going hazy and unfocused with memories as he stroked her back, snuggling her closer. “She was wonderful,” he said, his voice choking slightly with emotion. “She always believed in me, no matter what crazy stuff I was into. I used to write little songs when I was a kid, and put on shows, and she listened every time, no matter what. And she loved the compositions I wrote in university. She actually said it didn’t matter that I wanted to pursue music in uni, actually,” he said, sounding sheepish. “To be fair, it’s not like I was trained or particularly skilled enough to do anything else in the kingdom, that much was clear. Pelle’s the perfect Crown Prince. I’m just there, you know, in case of emergency. But my mother thought that pursuing music was a perfectly acceptable major, or at least not a big deal. Some might say she was terribly indulgent of me.”

  He sounded like he was joking, but she knew he wasn’t—that edge of bitterness showed he wasn’t. “Some might say” meant someone did say his mother was indulgent of his passion for music.

  She frowned, picturing the stern, stoic Lion of Fervia.

  I can just imagine who that was.

  “It’s funny,” he murmured, in a tone that said it was anything but, “when I graduated, I was top of my class. I wrote an entire, fully orchestrated symphony, specially performed at the graduation ceremony.” He paused. “My mother was the only one who attended. My father had… I don’t know, something came up. Same for Pelle.”

  In that moment, Clara could have strangled his father and brother both. “They should have made time. It was important.”

  Erik shrugged, downplaying it.

  “Do you still write music? Do you still play?”

  “I play almost every day,” he said. “When I can, at any rate. It… centers me. And I still write. But just for myself, obviously.”

  “Why obviously?”

  He looked at her, surprised. “Because it’s not something princes do.”

  “You know, not everyone is cut out for politics,” she pointed out. “And that’s not a bad thing.”

  He stiffened, pulling away from her. “You don’t think I can handle it, either.”

  “No! No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying, if it doesn’t interest you, why force yourself?”

  He laughed, but it sounded wooden. “You, of all people, are asking why I should do something I don’t like?”

  She nodded, frowning. You, of all people?

  “You can’t possibly tell me that you adore your job of being a waitress,” he said, and she couldn’t help it—she bristled. “That doesn’t mean that you’re not good at it, or that it’s not worthwhile work. But you don’t do it because you’re passionate about it. You do it because it’s your job, and it covers your responsibilities.” He sighed heavily. “This is my job. I’m prince. And I’ve been spoiled and screwing off for long enough. I need to step up.”

  She bit her lip. She wasn’t quite sure what he expected to do, honestly. But she’d studied enough politics to know that if he wasn’t all in, if he didn’t have an aptitude and an appetite for it… it seemed like a recipe for disaster, or at least frustration and depression.

  She just didn’t know how to tell him that.

  “I miss my mother,” he said quietly. “A lot.”

  Her heart hurt, and she stroked his face. “I am so sorry. I worry about my mum, with the fibro. But to lose her, or my da… it would break my heart.”

  “I’m just sorry that she won’t be here to see the baby,” he said, closing his eyes.

  They lay quietly after that, wrapped in each other’s arms. She wanted to reassure him, to comfort him, but she didn’t know how. All she could do was hold him close and hope like hell that he didn’t push himself too hard, trying to prove himself in a way that would never work.

  11

  Erik and Clara returned to Fervia a week later. Rhonda was feeling much better, and he'd managed to meet her father and reassure him of his intentions, promising that Clara and the baby would be well taken care of. They'd spent every day either hanging out with Rhonda or prowling around London, and every night finding new and interesting ways to enjoy each other. It was idyllic, and he enjoyed every minute.

  He’d also had a chat with Clara about her parents’ finances. Given that she’d uprooted her whole life to be with him, including her job, he felt it important to contribute to the emergency fund that she’d started for her mother. She’d protested until he pointed out the cost of the jet and the hotel alone, and which point she winced and acquiesced. “Only because I want them taken care of, no matter what happens to me,” she said. “And while we’re talking private jets… let’s not use them anymore.”

  He quickly arranged for enough money to be deposited that her mother could take off the next ten years if necessary. When she marched up to him later, eyes wide, he pointed out that Rhonda was to be his mother, too, and that he wanted her protected no matter what happened between them, no strings attached.

  She nodded, eyes suspiciously bright. They didn’t speak of it again.

  Now that they were assured Rhonda was able to manage her latest flare-up, it was time to go back to his world—and royal responsibilities. They now sat in a private “receiving room” in the castle, one that was smaller and more intimate, before going to the larger ballroom for the actual press conference. It was a jumping off point.

  "All right. I've discussed it with the publicists, and we all agree it'll be better for you to have a one-on-one exclusive with The Fervian Times to start," Erik said to Clara, nervous knots tangling in his stomach.

  She blanched. "You won't be there?"

  "No, no. I will be there, I promise," he said, stroking her shoulder. "I wouldn't leave you to handle this on your own. But let's face it: they're not going to be interested in me. They're going to be interested in you."

  She leaned her cheek against his hand for just a second, sighing, and he felt ten feet tall. He wanted to take care of her, protect her. He'd had his share of press, both glowing and derisive, and he knew that the intensity could take its toll. He'd shield her from that, if he could.

  "All right," she said, straightening in her chair. "I've got the talking points: I know what I need to say. I can do this."

  "I know you can," he replied easily. "I believe in you."

  Her smile was warm, glowing, appreciative. He smiled back.

  Within minutes, his father and Pelle entered, trailed by the Minister of Communications, their head of publicity, and the family solicitor, Stanley, who still looked twitchy and nervous. It was the man's default state. His father sat in a chair, obviously intent on watching the proceedings, while everyone else stood to the side.

  A woman walked in, a notepad in hand, a professional business suit and equally professional smile on her face. "Your Majesty, Your Highnesses," she said with a little curtsy. "I'm Holly MacPherson, lead reporter for the Times."

  To Erik's shock, Clara's face burst into a wide, happy grin. "Holly!" She actually got up, crossing the room and meeting the woman halfway. "I didn't know you'd be the reporter with the exclusive!"

  "Clara, it's wonderful to see you," the woman—Holly—responded cheerfully. "I assumed that getting the exclusive was because of our personal connection. They didn't tell you?"

  "Not a word." Clara's whole expression relaxed, the tension leaving her body as she gave Holly a hug. "This should be fun! And we'll have to catch up." She paused, looking at his father, who was frowning slightly. "Um, obviously not now."

  "No, let's definitely get the interview going," Holly said, apparently catching the King's mild disapproval. They sat at a small table. Erik took a seat next to Clara, feeling a little awkward. "Your Highness, I understand congratulations are in order."

  "Call me Erik, please," he said, and saw his father's frown deepen to a scowl. "I've read several of your articles. I enjoy your work."

  Holly pinkened. "Thank you! That means a lot." She set up her phone. "I'm going to be recording this interview, if that's all right?"

  He glanced at Stanley, who sent over an almost imperceptible nod. "That's fine," Erik said.

  "All right. How did you two meet?"

  They'd practiced this. After much discussion with the publicists, they realized they couldn't and probably shouldn't hide Clara's "humble" background. Instead, they were simply going to adjust the initial meeting slightly.

  "Erik was at a wedding where I was a waitress," Clara said, as easily as breathing. She smiled at him, covering his hand with hers, a clear gesture of affection. "He was dazzling, but I'll be honest: I had no idea he was a prince!"

  Holly laughed. "No, really?"

  "Really." Clara's smile was expansive. "I couldn't believe he was interested in me, but he managed to convince me."

  "It is a bit sudden," Holly said, her expression carefully neutral. "And Erik, you have been dating a lot of women fairly recently. Why the engagement now?"

  He bristled. This was supposed to be their "soft, easy exclusive"? "Now, that's unfair..."

  Clara squeezed his hand, her eyes shining a warning. "Holly has to ask those kinds of questions, Erik," she said, her voice soothing. "If she doesn't, others will."

  Erik realized he wasn't coming off well and quickly bit his tongue.

  Clara took a deep breath. "It just seemed so... so unrealistic. Like a fairy tale, you know? That a prince would fall for a waitress." She leaned her head against him, and he instinctively wrapped an arm around her. "But the heart wants what it wants."

  This was easy enough to follow-up with. He pressed a kiss to her temple, squeezing her lightly. "I thought Fervia might be better served by a royal marriage that was stereotypical, with candidates that were more... traditional," he said carefully. His father was scowling by this point, even though they'd discussed these very talking points exhaustively prior to this interview. "But I kept coming back to Clara. We have a connection. I don't want to sacrifice that just because of outside expectations."

  "Oh! That's so romantic," Holly said with a smile. "Right out of a movie, really. And now, engagement! And a quick wedding." Holly's eyes were curious, and her question probing. "Any particular reason for the, ah, haste?"

  Erik gritted his teeth. He knew that there were going to be questions, but it still felt invasive. He cared about Clara, and felt more for her than he'd felt about any woman he'd ever been involved with. His protective instinct had kicked into overdrive.

  But Clara looked like a princess, straightening. She shot Holly a rueful but affectionate smile. “We knew we were right for each other,” she said with a firm but friendly smile. “And while some might think it’s a bit fast, we don’t want to let outside opinions and judgments stop us from doing what we feel is best.”

  Erik swallowed. She'd handled that like a pro. Hell, she'd handled it better than he would have. It was a bit demoralizing. "We're thrilled," he added instead, hoping that his expression was as composed. "I can't wait to be married to this woman."

  Holly looked happy with this answer. After some more back-and-forth, the doors to the sitting room opened. Erik was surprised to see his friends Nic and Ben enter. He got up, hugging them in greeting. "What are you two doing here?"

  "The trade summit, remember?" Nic's smiled. He couldn't remember the last time he saw his good friend so relaxed, in fact. Of course, meeting his own bride, discovering he was the father of a toddler, and giving up medicine to focus on his princely duties (and being a dad) were probably contributing to that.

  "Oh, good, you're here," Holly said. "I was just finishing up here. We'll shift focus to the trade summit exclusive—the princes who are going to be representing their countries." She looked at her notebook, ticking off things with a pen. "So I'll need, ah, Prince Nicolas, Prince Ben, and of course Prince Pelle."

  Erik blinked. "I'm going to be at the trade summit, as well," he pointed out, trying not to feel affronted.

  "You are?" Holly asked, then blushed. "I'm so sorry, I didn't realize. Historically, you haven't really, um, participated in trade talks?"

  Erik felt embarrassment curl through him like smoke. It was mortifying. "Well, I couldn't just be a party boy forever," he said, his words edged in bitterness. He could see the publicists' eyes widening and Stanley grimacing. His father looked like he was chewing on nails.

  "Erik's deciding to be more hands-on," Ben said, patting Holly on the shoulder. "It's good to see you again, Holly."

  Did everyone personally know this woman but him? Erik felt completely out of his depth.

  "Ben! Great to see you," Holly said. "You ready for this interview?"

  "I've been around journalists enough to know I’m never really ready," Ben said with a half-laugh. "That said, I don't suppose you have any juicy gossip or news I need to know about?"

  "You never change," she said, shaking her head, her tone amused. "We'll touch base later, as well."

  From there, the interview shifted to the details of the trade summit. Erik fought to stay focused. If just the interview was this boring, how was the actual summit going to be?

  He noticed that Nic and Ben, and of course Pelle, were all making insightful comments about the economies and different consequences to different industries. Even Holly was interjecting here and there with her own observations. And all he could think was he'd rather dig out his own intestines with a spoon than talk about economics on a regular basis.

  Suck it up, he scolded himself. He was a prince, dammit. And he'd promised.

  This was his life now. He needed to step up and live it.

  After their exclusive one-on-one, the princes went off to one side to hang out and catch up, including Erik, who looked happy to be reunited with his friends. King Elias was conferring with the minister and various publicists, his stern face looking hard to read. Clara had thought she did a reasonable job with the interview. Now, Holly was tucking away the phone she'd recorded the interviews on, and put her notebook away in a cross-shoulder messenger bag. "How'd I do?" she asked Holly, feeling unsettled. "Did I sound, you know, potentially royal?"

  "You did wonderfully, don't worry," Holly reassured her. "Trust me, I've interviewed princesses who couldn't hope to sound half as composed and, well, regal as you did."

  Clara almost collapsed with relief. "I guess all those pressers I helped out with at the party headquarters will actually come in handy," she joked.

  "Are you all right?" Holly asked, sobering. "How are you holding up?"

  Clara immediately stiffened. "I'm fine. Why? Do I not seem fine?"

  The minister and the King had decided it was too early to mention the pregnancy, but she wondered if Holly could tell somehow. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, and she kind of hoped that she could at least share with Holly off the record. She was feeling pretty isolated here in Fervia, except for Erik... it would be nice to have a friend here on the island, someone who wasn't a servant or her in-laws.

  "I think you're putting up a brave front," Holly answered slowly. "But then, I know you. You're fantastic in a clutch; you never let them see you sweat, you know? But when it's all said and done, you collapse."

  "Well, I don't think I'll be collapsing," Clara said, forcing a laugh.

  "I meant more metaphorically," Holly said, and Clara realized that Holly did not realize she was pregnant. "I think you're very capable—I always admired that about you, on the campaigns. But there's a big difference between being a supporting player in strategy and publicity, and being in the crosshairs of a tabloid that's eager to sniff out some gossip."