Crown Jewels (Off-Limits Romance #1)(15)

It’s a big box, which is good, because I’ve got a heap of mail.

I turn the music down and start the song “This Love” off TaySwift’s 1989 album as I pass what we Georgia girls would call the “big house” on my right. It’s a two-story ranch home belonging to Frank and Frieda Smith, a champion horse breeding team and good friends of my dad’s from college.

Maurice, one of the ranch hands, lives in the small cabin nearest to them. I pass the homes of Bucking Bill, the cook; Sheila Adamson, a real-life horse whisperer and part-time palm-reader; and Juan Fernandez, the cattle guru, before winding onward down the road, into the trees at the base of the foothill, to my own place: Flagstaff Inn, a Gold Rush-era mansion that was, in the late 1800s, a resort for people with pulmonary disease.

A rocky creek with ice-cold water flows behind the home. I can see birds flying from their perches in the trees as I park between two firs.

More recently, the house was a bed and breakfast, but Frank and Frieda closed it after Mom and Dad told them in spring ’15 that I wasn’t doing well (I had transferred from Rhodes to UGA to room with Amelia, and still couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed) and had mentioned a desire to work with horses.

I’d ridden at Flagstaff Ranch a few times during vacations and competed in horseback competitions since I was 8, so I think my family felt relieved when I mentioned it. Amelia and I left UGA at Spring Break and drove out here together, and she stayed an extra week with me, making sure I was okay before she headed back.

Since then, I’ve spent the better part of most days with Frank, Frieda, or both, learning the finer points of equine sexy times, foal delivery, and training. A little about racing, too. This summer, we have Dear Abby (Please Help) on the ranch. She was one of the runners up at Belmont in 2014.

I climb the porch steps slowly, dragging my rolling suitcases, nearly getting strangled by the Vuitton duffel bag slung over my arm and around my neck. I set Grey’s carrier down, then dump everything else onto the porch, unlock the door, and punch the passcode into the alarm system.

I step inside and inhale deeply. This house smells amazing, like the lavender I have in one of the front windows, old wood, suede, and fireplace. It’s the perfect “Western” retreat, and I feel fortunate I’m able to rent it for a while longer.

Some people might think it feels lonely, but to me it’s perfect. I put giant puzzles together at a table by the fireplace in the front parlor. I spend hours in the old-fashioned library, sipping whiskey sours from a crystal tumbler.

There’s a little nook under the stairs, with a velvet-covered bench and a bunch of pillows and a lantern-looking lamp on the wall, which is papered with a leaf pattern. I have no idea what it’s for exactly, but sometimes when I want to feel snug, I take a book in there and sit cross-legged on one of the pillows.

The kitchen is enormous and not updated—in the most charming of ways. Since bed and breakfast guests were never going to see it, it’s all chipped hardwood and big trough sinks. The refrigerator is pale aqua, manufactured in 1974, if the sticker inside the door can be believed.

I drag my luggage inside the foyer, then sit on the rug in the entry hall and free Grey from his carrier. He gives me a pissed-off look, then scampers off.

“Welcome home to you, too.”

I spend the next few minutes wandering through the downstairs, touching little things I missed seeing and looking at the way the dimming sunlight falls through windows.

Home.

This feels like home for me right now.

I waltz into the bathroom off the cozy living room and smile at myself in the mirror. I look peaceful. Healthy. I feel good. It’s…weird. And awesome.

While I pee, I go to Snapchat and watch a video Prince Liam’s cousin shot on what appears to be a catamaran. I’m not looking when I reach for the toilet paper. My fingertips brush the cardboard roll a few times before I lower my phone and blink around.

“Hmm.” I lean forward, opening the cabinet right in front of me. There’s nothing in my freaking reach but a box of tampons.

Tampons…

My mind flashes to my suitcase as I packed last night, to the small, unopened box zipped into my underwear compartment.

In the mirror, I see my face twist.

I think I’m going to be sick.





SIX Lucy





Two lines.

Two motherfucking lines.

Two little pink lines on the stick.

Oh my God.

Just. Oh my God.

I’m PREGNANT!

I drop the stick on the ledge of the counter in my upstairs bathroom and back slowly away from the mirror. I put my hand up to my face, just to confirm that this is real life. My fingers shake against my cheek.

I walk numbly into my room and stand beside the bed. I don’t even fully realize I’ve called Am until the phone starts ringing in my ear.

“Hello lovely.”

“Amelia?” I sound breathy.

“Luce? What’s wrong?”

I start to laugh maniacally. “Amelia, oh my God. My fucking God.”

“Are you okay?”

“Not at all! I’m PREGNANT!”

“You’re—what?”

“Pregnant,” I wail. “With Prince Liam’s baby! Oh my God I’m—”

“Sit down. Lucy, are you sitting down?”