The road blurs as my eyes well over. “Eight or something.”
“So you’ll go to Canada first, and stay with my Grandma Elinor. You know she would love to have you. Stay a week. Go hiking like you like to do. You’ll be nine weeks then. That’s far enough along that you could fly to Gael and tell him. This makes sense,” she says enthusiastically. “Don’t you think he should find out in person anyway?”
I shake my head. I can’t think about it. Not right now.
But I can protect my baby.
An hour later, I call a charter company and arrange to fly to Edinburgh. I’ll visit Amelia’s Grandma Elinor later. Maybe on the way home. First, I’ll tour Scotland and Gael. I’ll get myself to ten weeks. Then I’ll tell him.
THIRTEEN Lucy
You know those barf bags they still have on some commercial flights? They don’t have those puppies on chartered planes. If you get sick, it’s the ice bucket or the toilet.
For me, it starts over Iceland.
I’ve had lamb chops and asparagus, plus those little red potatoes, and some water with a lemon after I turned down a glass of wine. I’m scrolling through my Kindle bookshelf, trying to choose something to read, thinking how much my story seems like fiction—sad, ridiculous fiction—when it hits me.
I jump up so fast, Grey hisses from his carrier in the seat beside mine. I make it to the bathroom just in time to aim for the sink. After that, the stewardess, a model-gorgeous girl from Bangladesh, makes me hold the leather ice bucket.
At least once, she catches me laughing between barfing. Because, seriously, what could be worse than this?
He hasn’t called or texted me again—Prince Liam. I’m not really surprised. Guys like him are like my Grandma Rhodes, a career vineyard tourist and every-Thursday-night-and-sometimes-Fridays-too wine bar hopper. Liam likes to try a little sip of everything. He sampled me, got his fill, and moved on to another flavor.
What will he do when I show up on his doorstep?
I decide as the plane lands in Edinburgh that it doesn’t matter. Amelia is right. I owe it to him to tell him the big news in person. He’s a prince. I don’t know for sure, of course, but I’d imagine learning that he knocked someone up—especially someone in the public eye, like me—will not be welcome news.
I look down at my stomach, invisible underneath the red sheath blouse I’m wearing with charcoal skinny jeans and black ballet shoes. I wouldn’t figure the baby would have a claim to the throne of Gael. I sure hope not. Sounds like a big pain in the ass, if you ask me. I don’t want Gael taking my baby.
I laugh a little to myself, drawing the brown eyes of the stewardess once more as the plane taxis to a stop. What will I be called? Like…a mistress of the prince? Not even a mistress, really. I’m a one-night stand. The thought is a little depressing, until I remember how seriously helpful the sex was. How it helped me get over my dry spell. If being slammed in the media for having a child by Prince Liam is the price I have to pay to get my mojo back, I guess maybe it’s worth it.
Of course, I’ll be getting all big and stretch-marked, so maybe having my mojo back won’t even matter. Whatever. Who cares.
I’ve decided to go to Gael first, and then Scotland. I figured it might be helpful when I break the news to Liam if I learn a little more about his country first. I have an escort from the airport to my ferry, which I’m taking because the plane from Edinburgh to Gael was going to be teeny tiny—like, a two-seater. No thank you, ma’am. I’m not looking to pull an Amelia Earhart.
I shudder in the back seat of the Mercedes, en route from the airport to the eastern Scottish coastline. After texting practically my whole phonebook, letting everybody know I’m still alive, I try to distract myself from my churning stomach by petting Grey’s nose through the slats of the carrier, then looking out the window at downtown Edinburgh. It’s a beautiful city, one I’ve always liked, with lots of stone buildings; clean, tree-lined streets; and a general “Scottish” sort of look: orderly and tidy, and lush and stately at the same time.
My escort/guard’s name is Herb. He’s red-haired, pale-skinned, and freckled, maybe five or six years older than me, with faded-looking blue eyes, thin lips, big ears, and a bulky body that doesn’t go with those features at all. He’s like the love-child of Chris Hemsworth and Rupert Grint.
I guess he’s paying attention to me behind his sunglasses, because right about the time I start feeling pretty sure I’m going to hurl, he pulls over at a gas—no, petrol—station, holds up one finger, and locks me in the car.
“What the fuck?” I moan in the silent car.
Herb returns with saltine crackers and a can of ginger ale. I take them gratefully, then blink as he holds out the plastic bag, one eyebrow arched.
Oh.
“Thanks.”
Three crackers, eaten in the universe’s smallest increments, and a bunch of well-timed sips of ginger ale prevent me from ruining the inside of Herb’s car. When he parks at the ferry station, he turns and gives me a quick thumbs up before getting all my luggage. I follow behind him, clutching Grey’s carrier, feeling like Madeline on an outing from the orphanage as he gets us checked in and leads me onto the ferry.
We must have boarded early, because no one else is around. And it appears we have some kind of ferry penthouse. We have to climb a bunch of stairs to get to it. It’s just a box room with dark glass window-walls and a stomach-churning view of the ocean.
Ugh.
I’m grateful when Herb excuses himself, mostly so I can puke in peace in the tiny bathroom. I dig around in my purse for the small bottle of rose water I keep on hand and spray the bathroom, then our room. When he’s still not back, I quickly brush my teeth and wash my face, throwing the wash cloth away because I’m not putting that back in my bag. I’m murmuring to Grey, whose carrier is on my lap, and feeling like death when Herb returns.
“You’re from that Rhodes show!” he says the moment he steps in, holding a drink.
“Is that a beer?”
He’s clutching the handle of one of those giant glass mugs, and has the grace to look embarrassed. “Do yeh mind?”
“Does it matter?” I laugh, semi-shocked.
“I’ll toss it if you want,” he says, taking more care this time to hide his thick accent.
I roll my eyes. “Drink away, captain. Drink for both of us.”
“Yeh can’t drink?”
“I can,” I say sharply. “But I have a stomach bug, so it wouldn’t be smart.”
“So are you her? The little one? Er, the youngest, that is?”
I lean my head back, peering at the ceiling, which is made of square sheets of metal, welded together and then white-washed. “The little one.” I scoff. “How did you get a job as my security detail without knowing who I am?”
He shrugs. “My boss doesn’t tell me. We Scots value discretion.”
About an hour later, when Herb is on his third giant mug of beer, his feet propped on the wall, his big arms stretched behind his head, I’m starting to doubt that.