Getting Schooled, Page 22

  "Remember--Michelle is a beautiful girl's name!"

  The football game has temporarily stopped and as I carry Callie down the stands, everyone claps and cheers and wishes us good luck--even the refs and the opposing team's players. Callie smiles and waves like the homecoming queen she was.

  I jog towards my black SUV--I got rid of the Jeep--my precious cargo needed a safer ride.

  I look down at Callie. "You doing okay?"

  She rests her head against my shoulder, smiling serenely. "I'm in your arms, Garrett--that means I'm great."

  Twelve hours later? Not so much.

  "Uhhh!!" Callie collapses back against the pillows after contraction number seventeen-thousand rips through her.

  "You're doing so good, Cal." I dab her forehead with a cold cloth. "Remember, visualize the win. See it happen--"

  "Oh, fuck your visualization!" Callie yells in my face.

  At this particular point in our relationship--and her labor--I know not to argue with her.

  "Okay, you're right--fuck the visualization--you don't need it. You got this, Callie."

  Her face crumples and she sobs.

  I think my heart may literally be breaking for her. I hate this--it kills me that she's hurting and there's dick all I can do to make it better. I wish I could do this for her, take the agony for her.

  She shakes her head, pitifully. "I don't got this, Garrett."

  I shift closer from my chair next to her bed, gathering her in my arms, pressing my head against hers. "Yes you do. Yes you do, baby. You're so strong, I'm in awe of you. And I'm right here with you. I've got you . . . we've got this together."

  Callie closes her eyes, breathing me in. And my words seem to calm her. I brush her sweat-soaked hair back, off her face.

  "We're gonna have a baby, Callie. Our baby. Focus on that, sweetheart. You're almost there; you're so close."

  She nods against me. And when she opens her eyes, the determination and strength is back in their emerald depths. "Okay . . . okay . . ."

  I nod and squeeze her hand. "Okay."

  "Another contraction coming," Sue, the nurse, announces.

  I help Callie sit up, one arm around her back, the other holding her leg, under her knee. And when the contraction hits, she tucks her chin, grabs her knees, and groans long and loud, pushing with everything she has.

  And a few seconds later, an indignant, truly pissed-off cry fills the room.

  "Here he is!" Dr. Damato announces. "He's a boy!"

  And he lays the wet, squirming, amazing bundle on Callie's bare chest. My whole world shifts and goes blurry as more tears come--from Callie's eyes and mine.

  "You did it, Cal. You did so good."

  I hold her and we laugh and cry and gaze down at the pure perfection we made together.

  Later on, after everyone is cleaned up and settled, I lie next to Callie on the hospital bed, with our swaddled little guy between us. Callie looks tired and so damn beautiful, my chest aches.

  We've been kicking around a few names, but decided to hold off on a final call until he got here. "Okay--first round picks for his name on three," I tell Callie. "Three . . . two . . . one . . ."

  We both say it at the same time.

  "William."

  Callie's smile grows and new tears spring up in her eyes.

  "Will Daniels," she says softly. "It's a good name. A handsome, strong name . . . just like his daddy."

  Will's fist wraps around my finger, holding on tight.

  "He has your hands," my wife notices. "I wonder if he'll play football?"

  It would be awesome if he plays--I love the game--and I hope he'll love it too. That it'll bring him the same joy it's always brought me.

  On cue, Will lets out a healthy squawk.

  "He has your voice. It projects." I laugh. "He might like theater."

  Whatever he wants, as long as he's happy, I'll be good with it.

  Callie gazes at me with her big, green, adoring eyes. "I love you, Garrett."

  "I know." I lean over and kiss her forehead. My voice is a hushed, sacred whisper. "I love you too, Callie."

  Epilogue 3

  Us

  Callie

  I walk out of the auditorium where the Lakeside Players Group just finished meeting and planning the dramas and musicals we'll be performing this year. I head up to the practice field, where my hot coach of a husband is running his August football practice.

  "Hey, Mrs. Coach D." Addison Belamine, a senior and captain of the cheerleading squad, waves as she passes me.

  Yes, that's what Garrett's kids--his students and the cheerleaders and the football players--call me. I think it's cute--it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. And Garrett loves it . . . he gets that sexy, tender, possessive-caveman look in his eyes whenever he hears it.

  "Hi, Addison." I wave back as I make my way up the path.

  And speaking of sexy . . .

  There is nothing that turns me on more than seeing Garrett on a football field, holding our son. I suspect he knows this, which--besides the obvious benefit of hanging out with his boy--is another reason I think he brings Will to practices every chance he gets. My beautiful, dark-haired son chews on his hand and watches the players with rapt attention, from his outward facing spot in the carrier on Garrett's chest.

  "What the fricking frack, Damato?" Jerry Dorfman yells. "Wrong play--get your head out of your butt!"

  Garrett and the coaches have been pretty great about watching their language when Will's around. His first word was "Da"--but God only knows what it would've been otherwise. Probably dumbass.

  "No, no, no!" Garrett waves his arms at a player on the sidelines. "Jesus Christ--you're fumbling because you're holding the ball too tight!"

  "No, no, no, no, no, no . . ." Will chants. That was his second word.

  "It's god damn genetic." Garrett shakes his head.

  That would be Patrick O'Riley. He's a clencher--like his older brother Nick before him.

  Garrett takes Will out of the carrier and holds him with one arm, his head in Garrett's large hand, tucked against his side. "This is how you hold the ball--this is the amount of pressure you use to keep the ball."

  Then Garrett puts our ten-month-old in the sophomore's arm and points.

  "Now run."

  Will giggles as he's jostled around, having a blast. And I'm not concerned, because I know that Garrett would cut his arm off before he ever put our son at risk.

  Still, as the football player jogs past me, I add my two cents.

  "You drop my kid, O'Riley, I'll hurt you."

  "Don't worry, Mrs. Coach D., I won't drop him."

  Garrett smiles as I approach, his eyes sliding up and down over me and liking what he sees. "Hey, you. You all done with your meeting?"

  "Yep. I'm going to head home with Will. We'll take Woody for a walk around the lake."

  Garrett nods, his dark hair falling over his forehead in my favorite way. "We'll be done here soon too--another hour." He wraps his arm around my lower back, pulling me closer. "Let's go out tonight. Twelfth Night is playing at the Hammitsburg Theater. You can get dressed up, we'll enjoy the show . . . then I'll take you home and undress you."

  I giggle. "Hmm . . . who's going to watch the baby?"

  "My parents have Ryan and Angela's girls, and Connor's boys--he's got a date tonight . . ."

  Connor's divorce from Stacey was finalized last year. He's got his own house in town now and he's been trying to get back into the dating scene. It's been . . . adventurous.

  ". . . so I figured we'll drop Will off with them too--give them a full deck of grandchildren. They live for that shit."

  I rest my hands on my husband's broad shoulders.

  "You have the best ideas."

  He wiggles his brows, his pretty brown eyes full of love and filthy thoughts.

  "Baby, I've got ideas for tonight that'll blow your mind."

  Garrett does a quick scan of the field--making sure his players are all otherwi
se occupied. They are. So he slides his hands into the back pockets of my jeans, giving my ass a playful squeeze, then he bends his head and kisses me.

  And this is us. This is our home, our life, our love . . . this is our always.

  The End

  About the Author

  New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, Emma Chase, writes contemporary romance filled with heat, heart and laugh-out-loud humor. Her stories are known for their clever banter, sexy, swoon-worthy moments, and hilariously authentic male POV's.

  Emma lives in New Jersey with her amazing husband, two awesome children, and two adorable but badly behaved dogs. She has a long-standing love/hate relationship with caffeine.

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  Also by Emma Chase

  THE ROYALLY SERIES

  Royally Screwed

  Royally Matched

  Royally Endowed

  Royally Raised

  Royally Series Collection

  THE LEGAL BRIEFS SERIES

  Overruled

  Sustained

  Appealed

  Sidebarred

  THE TANGLED SERIES

  Tangled

  Twisted

  Tamed

  Tied

  Holy Frigging Matrimony

  It's a Wonderful Tangled Christmas Carol

  Getting Schooled

  Coming next from Emma Chase,

  ROYALLY YOURS

  a sexy new standalone royal romance!

  Releasing in ebook, print and audiobook August 14th

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  Turn the page for a free excerpt of

  ROYALLY SCREWED

  Now available in the newly released

  ROYALLY SERIES COLLECTION

  ROYALLY SCREWED

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  EMMA CHASE

  PROLOGUE

  MY VERY FIRST MEMORY isn't all that different from anyone else's. I was three years old and it was my first day of preschool. For some reason, my mother ignored the fact that I was actually a boy and dressed me in God-awful overalls, a frilly cuffed shirt and patent-leather brogues. I planned to smear finger paint on the outfit the first chance I got.

  But that's not what stands out most in my mind.

  By then, spotting a camera lens pointed my way was as common as seeing a bird in the sky. I should've been used to it--and I think I was. But that day was different.

  Because there were hundreds of cameras.

  Lining every inch of the sidewalk and the streets, and clustered together at the entrance of my school like a sea of one-eyed monsters, waiting to pounce. I remember my mother's voice, soothing and constant as I clung to her hand, but I couldn't make out her words. They were drowned out by the roar of snapping shutters and the shouts of photographers calling my name.

  "Nicholas! Nicholas, this way, smile now! Look up, lad! Nicholas, over here!"

  It was the first inkling I'd had that I was--that we were--different. In the years after, I'd learn just how different my family is. Internationally renowned, instantly recognizable, our everyday activities headlines in the making.

  Fame is a strange thing. A powerful thing. Usually it ebbs and flows like a tide. People get swept up in it, swamped by it, but eventually the notoriety recedes, and the former object of its affection is reduced to someone who used to be someone, but isn't anymore.

  That will never happen to me. I was known before I was born and my name will be blazoned in history long after I'm dust in the ground. Infamy is temporary, celebrity is fleeting, but royalty...royalty is forever.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Nicholas

  ONE WOULD THINK, as accustomed as I am to being watched, that I wouldn't be effected by the sensation of someone staring at me while I sleep.

  One would be wrong.

  My eyes spring open, to see Fergus's scraggly, crinkled countenance just inches from my face. "Bloody hell!"

  It's not a pleasant view.

  His one good eye glares disapprovingly, while the other--the wandering one--that my brother and I always suspected wasn't lazy at all, but a freakish ability to see everything at once, gazes toward the opposite side of the room.

  Every stereotype starts somewhere, with some vague but lingering grain of truth. I've long suspected the stereotype of the condescending, cantankerous servant began with Fergus.

  God knows the wrinkled bastard is old enough.

  He straightens up at my bedside, as much as his hunched, ancient spine will let him. "Took you long enough to wake up. You think I don't have better things to do? Was just about to kick you."

  He's exaggerating. About having better things to do--not the plan to kick me.

  I love my bed. It was an eighteenth birthday gift from the King of Genovia. It's a four-column, gleaming piece of art, hand-carved in the sixteenth century from one massive piece of Brazilian mahogany. My mattress is stuffed with the softest Hungarian goose feathers, my Egyptian cotton sheets have a thread count so high it's illegal in some parts of the world, and all I want to do is to roll over and bury myself under them like a child determined not to get up for school.

  But Fergus's raspy warning grates like sandpaper on my eardrums.

  "You're supposed to be in the green drawing room in twenty-five minutes."

  And ducking under the covers is no longer an option. They won't save you from machete-wielding psychopaths...or a packed schedule.

  ~

  Sometimes I think I'm schizophrenic. Dissociative. Possibly a split personality. It wouldn't be unheard of. All sorts of disorders show up in ancient family trees--hemophiliacs, insomniacs, lunatics...gingers. Guess I should feel lucky not to be any of those.

  My problem is voices. Not those kinds of voices--more like reactions in my head. Answers to questions that don't match what actually ends up coming out of my mouth.

  I almost never say what I really think. Sometimes I'm so full of shit my eyes could turn brown. And, it might be for the best.

  Because I happen to think most people are fucking idiots.

  "And we're back, chatting with His Royal Highness, Prince Nicholas."

  Speaking of idiots...

  The light-haired, thin-boned, bespeckled man sitting across from me conducting this captivating televised interview? His name is Teddy Littlecock. No, really, that's his actual name--and from what I hear, it's not an oxymoron. Can you appreciate what it must've been like for him in school with a name like that? It's almost enough to make me feel bad for him. But not quite.

  Because Littlecock is a journalist--and I have a special kind of disgust for them. The media's mission has always been to bend the mighty over a barrel and ram their transgressions up their aristocratic arses. Which, in a way, is fine--most aristocrats are first-class pricks; everybody knows that. What bothers me is when it's not deserved. When it's not even true. If there's no dirty laundry around, the media will drag a freshly starched shirt through the shit and create their own. Here's an oxymoron for you: journalistic integrity.

  Old Teddy isn't just any reporter--he's Palace Approved. Which means unlike his bribing, blackmailing, lying brethren, Littlecock gets direct access--like this interview--in exchange for asking the stupidest bloody questions ever. It's mind-numbing.

  Choosing between dull and dishonest is like being asked whether you want to be shot or stabbed.

  "What do you do in your spare time? What are your hobbies?"

  See what I mean? It's like those Playboy centerfold interviews--"I like bubble baths, pillow fights, and long, naked
walks on the beach." No she doesn't. But the point of the questions isn't to inform, it's to reinforce the fantasies of the blokes jerking off to her.

  It's the same way for me.

  I grin, flashing a hint of dimple--women fall all over themselves for dimples.

  "Well, most nights I like to read."

  I like to fuck.

  Which is probably the answer my fans would rather hear. The Palace, however, would lose their ever-loving minds if I said that.

  Anyway, where was I? That's right--the fucking. I like it long, hard, and frequent. With my hands on a firm, round arse--pulling some lovely little piece back against me, hearing her sweet moans bouncing off the walls as she comes around my cock. These century-old rooms have fantastic acoustics.

  While some men choose women because of their talent at keeping their legs open, I prefer the ones who are good at keeping their mouths shut. Discretion and an ironclad NDA keep most of the real stories out of the papers.

  "I enjoy horseback riding, polo, an afternoon of clay pigeon shooting with the Queen."

  I enjoy rock climbing, driving as fast as I can without crashing, flying, good scotch, B-movies, and a scathingly passive-aggressive verbal exchange with the Queen.

  It's that last one that keeps the Old Bird on her toes--my wit is her fountain of youth. Plus it's good practice for us both. Wessco is an active constitutional monarchy so unlike our ceremonial neighbors, the Queen is an equal ruling branch of government, along with Parliament. That essentially makes the royal family politicians. Top of the food chain, sure, but politicians all the same. And politics is a quick, dirty, brawling business. Every brawler knows that if you're going to bring a knife to a fistfight, that knife had better be sharp.

  I cross my arms over my chest, displaying the tan, bare forearms beneath the sleeves of my rolled-up pale-blue oxford. I'm told they have a rabid Twitter following--along with a few other parts of my body. I then tell the story of my first shoot. It's a fandom favorite--I could recite it in my sleep--and it almost feels like I am. Teddy chuckles at the ending--when my brat of a little brother loaded the launcher with a cow patty instead of a pigeon.