Inconceivable! Read online

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  © 2015 Tegan Wren

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  ISBN 978-1-62007-937-9 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-62007-938-6 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-62007-939-3 (hardcover)

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  For Patrick; without you, there’d be no story.

  This book is also dedicated to all those who experience infertility. May you find a happy ending more beautiful than the one you’ve imagined for yourself.

  uck it up, Hatty. You can totally do this. It’s a bar full of booze hounds. No one’s going to remember this tomorrow. My mental pep talk tore a small hole in the fabric of my fear as I squeezed past the people who had front row seats to Kamikaze Karaoke.

  Eyes hungry for another disastrous performance peered over beer steins and wine glasses, waiting for me to trudge up the stairs at the side of the stage. On Saturday nights, Finn’s attracted close to one hundred people eager to gape at tipsy singers crashing and burning as they fumbled through whatever tune the random song generator selected. I was the next victim, a prospect that was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

  At least Plato was the DJ tonight, sexy as hell in his fitted black shirt and jeans. Yep, he’d have my back. Extending his hand to me, he smiled broadly and ushered me into the spotlight.

  “Go easy, okay?” I hissed at Plato, careful to stay back from the mic.

  He raised his eyebrows, shook his head, and spoke to the crowd. “Let’s see what the karaoke gods have lined up for Hatty.”

  Dear karaoke gods, please choose “I Will Survive” because I know it, and therefore I will, indeed, survive the next five minutes. Amen.

  I held my breath, watching the zigzag lines scroll across the screens positioned around the pub.

  My stomach sank when I saw the title flash in big black letters: “I Wanna Have Your Babies.” You’ve got to be kidding me―not this stupid pop song.

  Plato guffawed. “Hatty, are you ready to Kamikaze Karaoke?”

  People in the audience stomped their feet and clapped, cracking a whip that set my heart at a full gallop.

  I cleared my throat and stepped forward, determined to kick this ridiculous song in the ovaries. Someone whistled from one of the green pleather booths lining the wall. Thanks buddy. As the bouncing intro started, I focused on the cheesy music.

  While I waited to sing, Plato grabbed me, pulling me to the side of the mic. He whispered in my ear, but the noise from the crowd made it hard to hear. “Princess, set the bar!”

  “I’ll set it sky high,” I whispered back. His words of encouragement propelled my lips to the mic where I tasted the metallic screen moments before launching into the first line.

  When I paused to grab a breath, some guy wearing a hot pink sombrero shouted unintelligible words while giving me a big thumbs up. Emboldened by this visual reminder of how hammered people were, I yanked the mic out of the stand and pranced―yes, pranced―across the stage. I’d learned a simple rule during my childhood in the Missouri Ozarks: when tackling a challenge, go whole hog. Wagging my finger and shaking my hips, I was damn near hog wild.

  After I finished with the mmm-mmm-mmm’s at the end of the song, applause thundered through the room, rewarding my gutsy performance. I exhaled, full of relief that I’d kicked butt and taken names. Riding my wave of success, I blew a kiss, eliciting more cheers.

  “Whoomp, there she is!” The Irish accent and early nineties hip hop reference told me it was my friend Sara shouting her approval from the back of the room.

  Instead of joining her at our table, I strolled toward the bar for a fresh drink. Plato’s beau, Sam, met me halfway. The tall Frenchman wrapped me in his arms.

  “That was aces, Hatty! You’re the queen of Kamikaze Karaoke.”

  “Be sure to tell Plato you’ve upgraded me from princess.” I smiled, thinking again of Plato offering me that last-minute confidence boost.

  Sam gave me a peck on the lips before heading back to his table. I swaggered to the bar and plopped down on a stool.

  The young, eager bartender in his neat apron came over. “Riesling?”

  “Actually, I’d love a chocolate kiss.”

  He nodded, then turned away to make the pub’s famous hot drink.

  “That wasn’t bad… for an American.”

  My head snapped toward the guy sitting next to me. It was hard to see his face; he wore a scruffy brown cap and black horn-rimmed glasses that sat halfway down his nose. With his beat-up jacket and tattered maroon scarf, he looked like he rolled out of a field. Probably a farmhand from outside the city, though his accent was too formal. He kept his eyes glued to his beer.

  “I’d like to see you get up there and sing that stupid song,” I said, grabbing a napkin and dabbing the sweat that dampened my hairline.

  “I’m bad news on a karaoke stage.”

  “You’re in luck. I’m a reporter and I love bad news.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his full lips turn up in a slight smile. It was gorgeous.

  “Here you are, Hatty.” The bartender slid a steaming mug in front of me.

  “Thanks.”

  “A reporter?” Farmer Joe sounded skeptical. People always thought I was younger than twenty-two. Maybe it was my wavy brown hair that fell past my shoulders.

  “That’s right. I’m an intern at The Morning Dispatch. I graduate in May from Toulene’s Royal University with a degree in journalism.”

  “What kind of stories do you write?” He pulled down on the frayed bill of his cap, making the shadows darken across his face in the dimly lit pub.

  “My last story was a brief on road work in Roeselare. I do a lot of short pieces, which is fine. Gotta pay my dues before I can cover politics.” My head buzzed with leftover energy from my performance, giving me above-average courage to chat up this handsome stranger.

  He looked up at the TV behind the bar, the only one showing rugby highlights. The glow from the screen chased away most of the shadows obscuring his features. His eyes were big, alive. Underneath the accessories, his face had near-perfect symmetry, and I gave him extra credit for having lips that weren’t chapped. Lots of guys in northern continental Europe got chapped lips the moment the weather turned cold. He pushed his glasses higher on his face, then raised the off-white stein. I studied his lips perched on the edge of it, ready for a drink of dark beer. So kissable.

  “What’s so exciting about politics?” he asked.

  I gasped loudly, raising a hand to my heart in melodramatic horror at such a ridiculous question. “What’s so exciting about politics? Everything! Legislatures determine spending priorities and set public policy. We all have to live by their rules.” I leaned toward him and lowered my voice. “You know, everybody likes to focus on the executive―the president in the U.S. and the monarchy here. But they’re just a distraction. Sure, they have a role to play, but it’s comparatively boring. I’d rather cover the passionate debates among lawmakers.” I paused, embarrassed by my effusive nerdiness. “I can’t help it. I love the idea of being a statehouse reporter. I really want to stick up for people who don’t have a voice.”

  “Now you definitely sound like an American. Also, the charming accen
t gives you away.”

  Charming? Eek! He grinned, and my hands turned sweaty. But something was off. Maybe it was his accent. Definitely upper class Toulene.

  “Can’t help it. I grew up in Nixa, Missouri, about four hours southwest of St. Louis. It’s a small town, as American as they come.” For the first time, he rotated on his stool, and there was his face. Holy cuteness. His eyes reached inside me with a searing intensity, and I inhaled sharply.

  He leaned closer and sang softly. I recognized the opening lyrics to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.” His singing voice was soulful and sexy, and something deep inside me responded, making my heart beat a little faster.

  He stopped and looked me in the eyes. “That song’s about someone who’s alone. But that’s not you. You’re too lovely to be lonely.”

  A nervous laugh escaped my lips. “Are you kidding? Aren’t we sitting in a sanctuary for the lonely?”

  “I don’t feel lonely right now.”

  “Me either.” I blew into my mug, then took a sip. “Have you had one of these?”

  “I don’t think so. What is it?”

  “It’s called a chocolate kiss. It’s peppermint schnapps and hot cocoa.”

  He reached over and picked up the steaming mug. His movement conveyed authority while his neat fingernails screamed uppity. They looked better than mine, damn it. After taking a long pull from the cup, he handed it back. Our fingers brushed together, sending a flash of heat through my body.

  “Thanks for sharing a kiss with me,” he said, reaching over and lifting my chin.

  Our eyes met, and I couldn’t tear myself away from his gaze. Yowza. Was he going to kiss me? Did I want him to?

  “You guys know each other?”

  I flinched at Plato’s words―I hadn’t seen him coming toward us―and pulled back. I sloshed a healthy dollop of my drink onto Farmer Joe’s pants. We both reached for the stack of napkins, but I got there first.

  “Sorry. Here, let me,” I sputtered, dabbing at the wet patch.

  I blotted along his pants, and my hand moved a little too close to the inside of his leg. A burning sensation rose up behind my ears. “Umm. I’ll just let you do it.”

  I dropped the wad of damp napkins onto his open palm. Glancing at his face, I saw a half smile. I closed my eyes and touched my forehead, gently rubbing the area above my eyebrows as I always did when embarrassment overwhelmed me.

  “Hatty, this is John. John, this is Hatty,” said Plato.

  With a click, the last piece of the puzzle fell into place, explaining why he looked all wrong in this bar and wearing these clothes. He was Prince John Meinrad, Toulene’s most popular royal. Sitting in my favorite dive. Drinking from my mug. Listening to me babble.

  No. Freaking. Way.

  “So nice to meet you, Hatty. Thanks for letting me distract and bore you for a few minutes.” He emphasized the words I’d used earlier to describe the monarchy.

  “Nice to meet you too,” I choked out, mortified by my dismissive comment about his family. I cleared my throat, nervous and not sure what to say to a prince. So, I spoke to Plato instead. “You guys are a thing? Have a thing? You met how?” Ladies and gentlemen, my sudden inability to put together words.

  Before Plato answered, Prince John spoke up. “We met a couple of weeks ago at a poker game. Plato’s helping me brush up.” He removed a white handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his glasses.

  “Yeah, well he has a great poker face.” I turned to my friend. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this.”

  Plato held up his hands. “I gave you a heads up when I saw him walk in and sit at the bar right before you sang, but I don’t think you heard me.” Oh. The prince is at the bar. That’s what he’d said.

  “I asked him to keep it quiet,” John said. “It gets a bit dodgy when too many people know who my friends are.” Even after more than three years of going to school in this country, Toulenians’ intermittent use of British slang still delighted my ears. It revived my middle school thespian aspirations and I wanted to respond, “Eh, guv’nah?”

  “We’d better head to the back before anyone notices you’re here.” Plato reached over and grabbed my mug. In a couple of swallows, he erased the intimacy of the earlier moment―evidently my beverage was community property. “A couple of other guys are coming and we’re going to play a few hands. Do you want to join us?”

  “Maybe.” Translation: Spend more time with a hottie prince? Yes, please.

  Plato scuffed the toe of his shoe against the bar rail. “But just so you know, Jack’s coming.” My stinking ex-boyfriend ruins everything.

  “In that case, no thanks. I don’t want to bring any drama to your poker game.” I looked at the prince. “I don’t know if you’re friends with Jack but he’s a real jerk.” My fingers fidgeted with the edge of my sweater. I wanted to end this uncomfortable stroll down Relationship Lane, but I also longed to stay by the prince’s side a few more minutes. I coughed into my hand, again finding it hard to know what to say. “So, take care John. Or is it Prince John? Or Your Highness?” Awkward like a boss.

  “Just John. Have a good night, Hatty.”

  My name in his mouth awakened more butterflies in my stomach. John slid the glasses back into place as he and Plato moved quickly toward the back room.

  I made my way to Sara, stopping to say hello to two reporters from my newspaper. They made no mention of the prince―it seemed his disguise was effective.

  When I got to the table, Sara was putting on her coat.

  “You’re not going to believe who I just met.”

  “Prince John. I saw you talking to him,” Sara said with a wink. She was a world literature major and tireless romantic. “I can’t believe you got a private audience with His Royal Highness. Did he stare into your eyes and steal your soul? He has a reputation for doing that, you know.”

  “Nope. My soul’s still intact. Wait, how did you know it was him?”

  “Please. Someone photographed him two weeks ago wearing a similar disguise at a bar in Paris.”

  “Umm, you need an intervention because you’re spending way too much time reading Xpress. Did you know Plato’s friends with him?” It still hurt that he’d kept it a secret.

  “No, but I saw him walk with the prince to the back room.”

  “Did someone say my name?” Plato sidled up to Sara holding a couple of drinks. “Hatty, these are for you. Have a good night, my loves.” He handed me a mug and martini glass containing a sloshy pink liquid before heading toward the rear of the pub.

  “What’s that all about?” Sara took the mug and sipped from it.

  There was a napkin wrapped around the stem of the martini glass. I set the drink on the table, but kept the napkin. It was folded, not quite in half, and there was my name written in neat cursive. What the what? I flipped it open and read it. Feeling out of breath, I stuffed it in my pocket. “I guess Plato wanted to buy us another round. You drink up. I’ll be right back.”

  I darted to the bathroom, slammed into a stall, and opened the napkin. My heavy breathing is all I heard as I read the words again:

  I’ll see your chocolate kiss and raise you a flirtini. John

  Heat blazed across my cheeks. Digging in my purse, I pulled out a pen and a clean napkin I’d tucked away earlier and drafted my own note:

  Hope you have an excellent hand because I’ve got a royal flush.

  I texted Plato and asked him to meet me at the door to the back room. I trusted him to do me a solid and deliver my response to the prince.

  ere.” My editor, James, shoved an advisory for a press event across his desk.

  “What’s this?” So much for a work-in-the-newsroom kind of Wednesday.

  “The queen’s going to be at a preschool today. Heidi’s already there to cover the press conference. I want you to leave now and stake out a spot behind the building. Get as many photos as you can as she walks to her limo afterward. Got it?”

  “Su
re.”

  Just the mention of the royal family revived all the freakalicious feelings I’d had since Saturday night. Though I’d left the bar on a buzz-filled high after our coy napkin exchange, my euphoria faded in the harsh sunlight of Sunday morning. It was probably no big whoop for the prince to flirt with me. If the gossip magazine headlines were any indication, he was a ladies’ man. Every week, reporters photographed him with a different woman on his arm.

  “Get the snapshots with your phone. Do a good job and I’ll help you sell the ones we don’t run to the tabloids.”

  I nodded. James offered because he was a merciless mercenary, not because he wanted to do me any favors.

  His phone emitted a sharp buzz from its spot on the desk. Snapping it up, he stared at the screen. “Heidi says the prince is there instead of the queen.” My nerves flared in a frenzy, but I tensed my muscles, hoping to hide my reaction. James raised his eyes. “He never takes questions from reporters during his press conferences. See if you can get a quote from him afterward. Anything unscripted is better than whatever bullshit he’ll spew during his official remarks. Can you handle that?”

  “Absolutely.” I reached into my pocket and touched the napkin with the prince’s note on it, savoring the tangible takeaway from our brief flirtation. I confess: I’d slept with it under my pillow every night. My ability to nurse a crush was epic.

  On the short drive through Roeselare, I focused on taming my stomach, which refused to be quiet and still. Show the prince you’re a professional, not a spaz. Just do your job.

  Standing along the press line clutching my phone, I reeked of rookie. The more seasoned journalists had shiny black cameras mounted atop poles. We all prepped for a photo finish; the winner would be the journalist whose image of the prince got the most shares on social media. Smiling photos were good. Awkward snapshots were better. Much better. Catch him wiping his nose or making a weird face and you’d snag the grand prize: a fat check from Europe’s biggest gossip rag, Xpress. The tabloid forked over thousands of euros for the best worst photos of the royals. Faux pas means full pay, baby.