His Pregnant Princess Bride

Silence fell from the other end of the receiver for what seemed like an eternity.

“Mother?” she asked, uncertainty creeping into her voice.

“Twins, Erika? Are you certain?”

She nodded, as if her mother could see. “Yes, Mother. I’m certain. I went to the doctor two days ago and heard the two distinct heartbeats with my own ears. The tradition of twins lives on in the Mitras family.”

“Who is the father?” Her mother’s interest pressed into the phone.

“Gervais Reynaud, the American football team owner—” she began, but her mother interrupted.

“A son of the Reynaud shipping empire? And Zephyr Cruise Ships? What an excellent match, Erika. American royalty. The press will love this.”

“Right, but, Mother, I wanted to—”

“Oh, darling, have you considered what this could mean for the family? If you have boys, well...the royal line lives on. This is wonderful, my love. Hold on, let me get your father.”

Rustling papers and some yelling came through over the phone. Erika’s stomach knotted.

“Your father is on speakerphone. Tell him your news, my love.” Her mother cooed into the phone, focused on all the wrong things.

“I’m going to have twins, Father. And I’m just—”

“Twins? Do you know what this means? You could have a boy. Maybe two.”

Erika nodded dully into the phone, the voices of her parents feeling distant. As if they belonged in someone else’s life. The way they had when she was a child. The image of the royal family always seemed more important than the actual well-being of the family itself.

They weren’t interested in hearing what she had to say but were already strategizing how to best monetize this opportunity. The press was about to have an all-access pass to her life before she even knew how she was going to proceed.

“Mother, Father,” she said, interrupting their chatter, “I’ve had quite the morning already.” They didn’t need to know how much it taxed a woman to daydream about Gervais just when he’d decided to pull back. “Do you mind if I call you later, after I’ve rested?”

Tears burned her eyes for a variety of reasons that shouldn’t make her cry. Pregnancy hormones were pure evil.

“Of course not, my love.”

“Not at all, my dear,” her father said. “You need your rest if you are going to raise the future of the royal line. Sleep well.”

And just like that, they were gone, leaving her cell phone quiet as the screen went dark. They had disconnected from the call as abruptly as they often did from her life, leaving her all alone to contend with the biggest challenge she’d ever faced.

* * *

“Well, we’re surprised to see you so early, that’s all,” Dempsey said from a weight bench, his leg propped up on a stool. He pressed around his knee, fidgeting with the brace. An old injury that had cost him his college football career. It was flaring up again. Most days, it didn’t bother him. But then there were days like today.

Gervais understood Dempsey’s position. He’d been sidelined from the field, as well. One too many concussions. But quite frankly, he enjoyed the business side of owning the Hurricanes.

There were new challenges, new ways of looking at the game and new styles of offense to develop as players came up stronger and faster than ever before. And he was still involved in football, which had been his ultimate goal anyway. This had just been another way to get at the same prize.

As an owner, he would not only strategize how to field the best possible team, he would also make the Hurricanes the most profitable team in the league. Corporate sponsorships were on track to meet that goal in three years, but Gervais had plans that could shorten that window to two. Maybe even eighteen months. The franchise thrived and the city along with it.

“I’m not sure what you two find so fascinating about my night out with Erika.” Gervais curled the dumbbells, sweat starting to form on his brow as they worked out in a private facility within the team’s training building.

The team lifted in a massive room downstairs, but Gervais had added a more streamlined space upstairs near the front offices.

“We just want to know what’s going on in your life. With the baby. And you,” Henri, their father’s favorite, added. Theo had high hopes that Henri would one day wear a Super Bowl ring for the Hurricanes and continue in the old man’s footsteps as a hometown hero.

The whole family was here, with the exception of their father and their brother Jean-Pierre, who played for a rival team in New York and didn’t get to Louisiana much during the season.

And while Henri technically worked out with the team, he never minded putting in some extra hours in the upstairs training center to try to show up his older brothers in the weight room.

“That offer still stands, by the way, if you want it to,” Henri said, his voice low enough so only Gervais could hear. Gervais knew that things had been hard for Henri and his wife since they hadn’t been able to conceive. It affected everything in their marriage. But Gervais wasn’t about to give them his unborn children. He wanted to raise them, to be an active part of their lives. To be the opposite of their father.

“Hey now, secrets don’t make friends,” Dempsey snapped, his face hard. Henri rolled his eyes but nodded anyway.

“So, Pops—” Dempsey shot him an amused grin “—have you decided what you are going to do?”

“Yeah, how are you going to handle fatherhood in the public eye with a princess?” Henri teased, huffing out pull-ups on a raised bar.

“I told you both, I’m taking care of my children.” And Erika, he added silently. His main goal as they got ready for the game in St. Louis was to show her that they could be together. That they were great together. An unconventional family that could beat the odds. He was prepared to romance her like no other. And he might have shared that with Henri and Dempsey, if not for the man that rounded the corner, stopping in the entrance to the weight room.

From the door frame, a familiar booming drawl. Theo. “I’m here to meet the mother of my first grandchild.”

Eight

As the limo driver faded from view, Erika sped into the Hurricanes’ office building. She moved as fast as her legs would carry her, feeling less like royalty and more like a woman on a mission.

Twenty minutes ago, Gervais had called her. Urgency flooded his voice. He needed her in the office stat.

Pushing the heavy glass door open, she took a deep breath, feeling ever so slightly winded. The humidity was something she had yet to fully adjust to, and even small stints outside left her vaguely breathless. The rush of the cool air-conditioning filled her lungs as she crossed the threshold, a welcome chill after the New Orleans steam bath. Striding beneath the black-and-gold team banners hanging overhead, she struggled to figure out what was wrong that he needed her here.

Taking the stairs two at a time, she made it to the second floor and hung a right. Headed straight for the glass wall and door with an etched Hurricanes logo.

The secretary smiled warmly at her from her desk. Adjusting her glasses, she stood. “Princess Erika, Mr. Reynaud is expecting you—”

Extending a manicured hand, she gestured to another door and Erika didn’t wait for her to finish. Hurrying forward, she reached the polished double doors made of a dark wood. And heavy. She gave one side a shove, practically falling into the huge office of the team owner.

Currently an empty room.

Erika looked around, heart pounding with nerves. And, if she was being honest, disappointment.

Spinning on her heel, she practically ran into the secretary. Grace was not on her side today.

“My apologies, ma’am,” the secretary started in a quiet voice. “Mr. Reynaud will be back in a few minutes, but please make yourself comfortable. Can I get you anything while you wait? We have water, soda, tea. And of course enough Gatorade to fill a stadium.”

“Thank you.” As the words left her lips, she settled down. Slightly. “I’m just fine, though.”

“Of course.” The secretary smiled, exiting the room and closing the door with a soft click.

So she was here. In his office without him. While not ideal, it did give her a chance to feel out what sort of man he was. At least in the business sense.

A bank of windows overlooked the practice field below, the lush green grass perfectly manicured with the white gridiron standing out in stark contrast. Silver bleachers glimmered all around the open-air facility with a retractable dome. Funny they didn’t have the stadium roof on today when it was so beastly hot outside, but perhaps the practice had been earlier in the day as there were no players in sight now.

Turning from the wall of windows, she paced around the office. She noted the orderly files, the perfectly straightened paper stacks on the massive mahogany desk. The rows of sticky notes by the phone. The walls were covered with team photos and awards, framed press clippings and a couple of leather footballs behind glass cases. The place was squared away. Tight.