His Christmas Princess by Kathleen O'Brien

Author:Kathleen O'Brien
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tule Publishing
Published: 2017-10-25T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

A few hours later, Emory sat with Ronan and Luke on the balcony behind the private living room. He propped his feet on the railing and took a deep breath of the clean, chilly night air. “I’ve got to be honest with you, Ro. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat cenone again.”

Ronan laughed. “I’m not sure I’ll ever eat anything again.”

Luke just groaned.

They were only partly joking. After the big announcement, they’d spent half an hour watching Brenna and Willow hug each other, simultaneously laughing and crying about the bombshell baby news.

Half an hour.

It wasn’t that the men didn’t agree a baby was fabulous, especially Emory, who was so happy for his little brother he nearly broke a rib hugging him. But within a couple of minutes, the three of them had exhausted the subject and were ready to eat.

But no one budged, because then, God help them, Esme asked about names. The women instantly pulled out their cell phones, opened Google, and typed in “baby names.”

Fatal mistake. That was a rabbit hole so deep they’d never come out. An hour later, they’d only made it through the Gs. And only the boy names.

So Emory had stood up.

Esme gave him a raised brow. The queen was supposed to set the pace of any function she attended—he’d learned that as a toddler. But he didn’t care. He’d rather be rude than starve to death.

“Okay,” he said briskly, “we’ve bravely eliminated three whole names. Galahad has too much baggage, Gervase is gooey, and Gonagulla is just plain nuts. Good start. But I’m hungry. We’ll have to do the Hs after dinner.”

Esme tsked, clearly annoyed, but she rose and led the way. Over her shoulder, she impaled Emory with a pointed look that said he was a walking, talking man cliché.

Again...didn’t care.

As they reached the dining room, where the huge, traditional cenone feast of spaghetti, turkey, anchovies, fish, broccoli, and more had been arrayed, the aromas had hit him like a blast of pure relief.

But then, halfway through the meal, Brenna decided to have an all-out attack of morning sickness.

At eight o’clock at night.

All over her plate of spaghetti.

And, of course, no one was hungry anymore.

Ronan fussed adorably over his wife, acting as if he suddenly thought puking was cute. He cleaned her up and put her in bed. Then he came back out while Brenna and Maisie went in to tell her good night.

Frowning, Emory looked at his watch. That had been an hour ago.

“She won’t just go home straight from your suite, will she? She’ll come back here to say goodbye?”

“No telling.” Ronan sounded sleepy and indifferent. “She might not. Maisie looked wiped. And she’d already said her thank-yous to Mother, I’m pretty sure. Didn’t she, Luke?”

“She did.” Luke balanced his chair on its back legs. He stared out at the pewter moon, outlined crisply in the clear black sky. “She said good night to everyone.”

“Not to me.”

As soon as Emory said it, he knew he shouldn’t have.

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