A Prince of a Guy (Red Hot Royals #1)(40)

Whether Sean wanted to talk to her or not, she had to tell him.

Determined to keep relaxed, she reached for the stack of newspapers she’d left on a stool next to the tub.

The Washington Post didn’t intrigue her. Nor did the Los Angeles Times. She tossed away the New York Times, as well, and even knowing it would kill her, she reached for the much smaller Santa Barbara paper.

The memory of Sean’s nanny ad made her mouth curve and her throat burn, but as was her habit, she skimmed the columns anyway…and abruptly sat up in shock.

Her gasp echoed against the tile and bounced back to her. She jerked the paper closer and read again.

“Wanted—What I was stupid enough to let go. A warm, funny, loving, intelligent, gorgeous caretaker for my heart and soul. Come back, Carly. Please come back.”

Her heart had stopped, just stopped. Now it started again with a rapid beat. Her stomach sizzled with nerves.

Or maybe that was morning sickness.

He wanted her back?

And what would he say when he learned it was no longer just her, that she was carrying a baby? Their baby.



SEAN STOOD by the pool. His stress level dictated a swim, but lately doing laps had lost its appeal.

Inside, his doorbell rang, and he sighed. He had no idea if it was the courier bringing him a crucial set of plans or the pizza he’d ordered, but the swim would have to wait.

Flipping through his wallet, he opened the door, distracted by the fact that he had far less cash than he thought, which meant Melissa had picked him nearly clean last night before he’d caught her playing with his wallet.

He shuddered to think of her in another few years even as he smiled fondly at her audacity. Watch out, world.

“Sean.”

At the unbearably familiar, soft, feminine voice, Sean looked up, sure he’d been hearing things, because no way could Carly be standing there delivering his pizza.

No pizza, but she was most definitely standing there, with her sleek blond hair and gorgeous green eyes. She wore hardly any makeup, revealing her elegant, beautiful features and her clothes fit her willowy curves.

For a ridiculous moment he stared at her, certain he’d conjured her up.

She stared back.

Then normal daytime sounds broke the silence. A car revving. A bird in a tree.

Mrs. Trykowski humming from the other side of the fence, probably at this very moment climbing a tree to spy on them.

“Hi,” Carly finally whispered.

“Hi,” he whispered back, his voice rough with the knot of emotion stuck in his windpipe.

“You’re…not wearing much.”

He looked at himself and realized he stood there in only his swimming trunks.

Her eyes ran over him hungrily, like a caress, and he felt his body tighten. He was afraid to hope, was his first thought, and his second was, would she care if he just grabbed her and hauled her close?

It wasn’t easy to reconcile this worldly woman, the one he’d seen on television and in the papers, with the more whimsical, earthy woman he’d lived with for weeks.

“I’m very glad to see you,” he said in the understatement of the year.

She stood very, very still. “Are you sure, Sean? Because the last time I saw you, we—”

“Very sure.” Did he invite her in, he wondered, or just ravish her on the spot, Mrs. Trykowski be damned?

Carlyne took the matter entirely out of his hands by losing all the color in her face. Weaving slightly, she reached for the doorway.

Sean tried to grab her, but she shook him off. “I’m okay.”

No, she wasn’t. No one that white could be okay. “What’s the matter?” Urgency roughened his voice, but she didn’t answer. “Carly?”

When her eyes rolled back in her head, he grabbed her.

“Don’t,” she murmured as he scooped her up. “I can walk.” But her head lolled against his chest.

“Shh.” He couldn’t talk and carry her—he felt absurdly weak with worry. She’d lost weight, and right now her skin was nearly transparent.

What was wrong?

Kicking the front door shut, he stood there, reluctant to let go of her now that he finally had her in his arms.

“I’m fine,” she insisted.

“Yeah. So fine, you’re blacking out.”

“Honest, I can walk—”

Ignoring her, he settled her on the couch.

“You’re white as a ghost, Carly,” he said as lightly as he could with his heart in his throat. “You look awful.”

“Thanks.” She closed her eyes.

“What’s the matter?” He sank to his knees on the floor and put a hand on her hip. “Are you sick?”

Turning away, she curled into a little ball. Her hair fell away from her neck, making her look all the more miserable and vulnerable. “I’m just not feeling well.”

“The flu?” he demanded.

“Feels like it,” she muttered, and when he slid his hand up her body to feel her forehead, which was not warm, but terribly clammy, she lifted her own to cover his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, eyes still closed. “I want to talk, we need to talk, but…”

Her voice trailed off, and unable to help himself, he stroked his hand down her slim spine. “It’s okay.”