Pregnant!: Prince and Future...Dad? / Expecting! / Millionaire Cop & Mum-To-Be

Liv woke to a muffled clicking sound—someone tapping on computer keys.

Brit. Liv’s sister had opened the ornate Victorian-style secretary at the foot of Liv’s bed and set up her laptop on the desk within. She was typing away, her pale hair anchored in a messy knot at the back of her head, shoulders slightly hunched, strong chin jutting toward the screen in fierce concentration. Next to the keyboard sat an open bag of peanut M&M’s. Brit loved her M&M’s.

Liv watched her for a while. The sight was soothing, somehow: her baby sister working on her novel—which novel, Liv hadn’t a clue. Brit had started writing novels before she even reached her teens—and started was the operative word. Brit had begun ten or fifteen of them, at least. When she got bored with one, she’d drag out another and type away at it for a while. To Liv’s knowledge, Brit had yet to actually finish any one of them.

With a sigh, Liv turned to the travel clock she’d set on the marble-topped nightstand. Past two in the afternoon. My how time did fly when you were passed out drunk.

Brit must have heard the sigh. She turned in her chair. ‘‘Sleeping Beauty awakes.’’

Liv dragged herself to a sitting position. ‘‘Ugh.’’

‘‘Coffee? Toast?’’

Liv pushed her tangled hair out of her eyes. ‘‘I suppose I’d better.’’

The skinny, sneaky chambermaid was summoned and returned a short while later with a tray.

Brit played nurse, plumping Liv’s pillows, getting Liv’s tray arranged just so. Then she dropped into the claw-footed velvet wing chair next to the bed. ‘‘Want to talk about it?’’

Liv shot Brit a look over the rim of her eggshell-thin china cup. In spite of their differences, the sisters loved each other and trusted each other implicitly. There was no one, outside of their third sister, Elli, in whom Liv would rather confide.

And she needed to confide, after what she’d done. The more levelheaded Elli, leaving that day on her wedding trip, wasn’t available to lend an ear.

So Liv told Brit. Everything. Brit, who was wearing a pair of short-short cutoffs and a tight semi-tube knit top that tied on one shoulder, dragged her long bare legs up, rested her chin on her knees and listened patiently to the whole story.

‘‘Oh, I am so disappointed in myself,’’ Liv cried once she had told it all.

Brit swiped at a swatch of hair that had fallen into her eyes. ‘‘Oh, come on. I think it’s great.’’

Liv sat up straighter, deeply offended. ‘‘Great?’’

‘‘That’s what I said. G-r-e-a-t.’’

‘‘What, may I ask, is great about what I did?’’

‘‘Well, just that you busted out a little, Livvy.’’ Brit shifted in the chair, letting go of her legs, stretching them out and studying the polish on her toes. ‘‘That you had yourself a wild, hot, monkey-sex night.’’

‘‘Monkey sex?’’

‘‘Is there an echo in here?’’

‘‘Is that really what it’s called?’’

Brit dropped her feet to the floor and lifted a shoulder—the bare one—in an elaborate, oh-so-cool shrug. ‘‘Monkey sex. Jungle sex. Crawl-all-over-each-other sex. Am I making myself clear?’’

‘‘Unfortunately, yes.’’

‘‘Admit it. You loved it.’’

‘‘Oh, puh-leese. You’re practically salivating. I don’t need this.’’

‘‘Slurp, slurp. And, IMO, you do need it. Why beat yourself up? Why not just accept that you did it and admit it was great?’’

Liv slumped back to the pillows. ‘‘I can’t. I hate myself for it. And I have to say it would be more appropriate if you could just…well, sympathy is all right. But don’t tell me it’s great. It’s not great. It’s awful.’’

Brit shook her head. ‘‘Livvy, give it up. I know you want to run the world, but you’ll never run me. I get to have my own opinions and I also get to express them.’’

Liv made a growling sound and picked up her nearly empty cup. She gestured with it, frustrated. ‘‘And what about poor Simon?’’ She sipped, swallowed, set the cup down. ‘‘He’ll be crushed when he hears about this.’’

‘‘Don’t tell him. Simon doesn’t own you.’’

‘‘Well, of course he doesn’t. But still, it’s only right that I tell him.’’

‘‘You have some agreement with him that you won’t see other people?’’

‘‘No. But we are very…close.’’

Brit lifted one eyebrow but kept her mouth shut.

Liv glared at her. She knew what Brit thought of Simon—and if she hadn’t known, she could have figured it out just by looking at her face right then. ‘‘You never liked Simon,’’ she muttered accusingly.

‘‘That’s so not true. I think Simon’s a fine man. He’s just…not the man for you.’’

‘‘And why not?’’

‘‘Oh, Liv. Because he doesn’t thrill you, that’s why.’’

‘‘Thrills aren’t everything.’’

Brit looked thoroughly put-upon. ‘‘Haven’t we been through this before?’’

‘‘Simon,’’ Liv couldn’t stop herself from insisting, ‘‘is a good man.’’

‘‘He certainly is.’’ Brit sat up straighter and offered with nerve-flaying cheerfulness, ‘‘More coffee?’’

Liv huffed out a breath and wrinkled her nose. She felt out of sorts to the max, disgusted with being in her own skin. She knew she was a fight looking for a place to happen. And Brit really did seem to be trying to keep from getting into it with her. She felt a wave of warmth and gratitude toward her baby sister.

‘‘Sorry.’’ Liv held out her cup.

‘‘Forgiven. You know that.’’ Brit took the small silver pot to the suite’s kitchen and returned with it. She poured more for Liv and a cup for herself.

Liv nibbled her toast. She really was feeling better. The toast—lightly buttered with a dab of marmalade—tasted good. ‘‘At least this is it. We’re out of here tomorrow. If I’m lucky, I won’t have to see Finn Danelaw’s face again.’’

Brit was significantly silent.

Liv let out a groan. ‘‘Oh, just say it, why don’t you?’’

So Brit did. ‘‘Don’t blame poor Finn for giving you what you wanted. And face it. You had a fabulous time.’’