Royally Pucked: A Royal / Hockey / Accidental Pregnancy Romantic Comedy Read online

  Royally Pucked

  Pippa Grant

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Pippa Grant’s Full Book List

  Copyright

  Introduction

  A hockey-playing prince, a most improper lady, and one accidental pregnancy…

  When you’re an heir so spare that getting attacked by a shark is more likely than you ever wearing the crown, you’re only allowed certain liberties. Yet still, those liberties can bite you in the ass.

  Good thing I’m such a charming devil.

  Even then, I’ve been banished to America for a year under the pretense of playing professional hockey while my father cleans up my latest mess. But trouble follows me wherever I go. Generally trouble of the beautiful female variety, and Gracie Diamonte is no exception. Or possibly, she’s the best exception.

  Until the dinosaur suit. The cookie incident. And the accidental pregnancy.

  Of course I’ll do the right thing.

  Just as soon as I solve that pesky problem of my royal betrothal.

  I’m about to be the biggest scandal to rock my country and there’s a good chance my father may throw me to the sharks after all. The funny thing is I’ve heard that raising children may not be so different from swimming with the sharks. So no matter how you look at things I am Royally Pucked.

  Royally Pucked is a hilariously wrong romance between a spare heir and the lady least likely to ever wear a princess crown, complete with dirty cookies, an emotional support monkey, and lots of pucking around. This romantic comedy stands alone with no cheating or cliffhangers and ends happily with a family of…more than two.

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  Books by Pippa Grant

  Mister McHottie (Chase & Ambrosia)

  Stud in the Stacks (Parker & Knox)

  The Pilot and the Puck-Up (Zeus and Joey)

  Royally Pucked (Manning and Gracie)

  Beauty and the Beefcake (Ares and Felicity)

  Exes and Ho Ho Hos (Jake and Kaitlyn)

  And more…

  1

  Manning Frey (aka a royal heir so spare he’s been donated to the NHL for a year, and the fourth in line behind his brothers and nephew for the crown of Stölland, a Viking country in the Norwegian sea)

  Spare heirs are rarely well behaved. Causing scandal is practically an extension of our otherwise stodgy and superfluous royal duties. Dress the part, kiss the king’s knuckles, get caught with your trousers around your ankles to give the world some juicy gossip.

  Hockey may be my first love outside the palace walls—and sometimes inside as well, though it’s been years since I pulled off icing over the throne room floor—but enjoying myself comes in a close second. So it’s safe to say I’ve seen a variety of interesting things in a variety of interesting places.

  An eight-foot-tall inflated Tyrannosaurus Rex holding a bakery bag and walking in place in the tunnel leading out of a hockey arena?

  This is a new one. So is the stirring in my royal jewels at the sight of said T-Rex.

  I lift a finger to tell my royal guard to halt. In principle, were I nearer the top of the list to inherit the crown one day, I might agree that a suspiciously cloaked—or dinosaured—figure in a secured part of a hockey arena should be investigated. However, I’m fourth in line to the crown, destined only to a small dukedom created solely to provide the youngest son of the king a dukedom. I’ve also been banished to America for a year on the pretense of drumming up interest in my country by playing professional hockey with the Copper Valley Thrusters, when in fact, my father is smoothing things over with all the politicians, royal ass-wipers, and the father of my betrothed—not my choice, believe me—all of whom are appalled by my lack of judgment in, shall we say, keeping appropriate company.

  In other words, I’m rather expendable at the moment.

  My teammates and I have just finished a pre-season game in Nashville. Neither team uses dinosaurs for mascots or crowd entertainment, which is one more reason my guard has reason for concern.

  But this particular T-Rex is sporting the most brilliant platform trainers I’ve ever seen.

  There’s a whole bloody rainbow under those casual shoes. Six layers of colors, each thick as a normal sole, so that the T-Rex is literally walking on half a foot of rainbow.

  I know a lovely young woman who would favor such a pair of shoes, and who also cannot stand still for the life of her, a fact which amused me beyond reason when we first met at a charity fundraiser a month ago.

  And as luck would have it, I have plans to rendezvous with said young woman after the game tonight.

  For cookies that, in theory, could be delivered in exactly such a bag.

  Hence the stirring in the royal jewels.

  If someone’s stolen her shoes—and her bakery bag, and I suppose her unexpected dinosaur costume—well, as we say back home in Stölland, the sheep shall bleed tonight.

  “Pleasant night for a raw leg of lamb,” I say to the dinosaur. “Or perhaps a meaty bite off a hockey player.”

  “Shove it,” comes the muffled voice of one Gracie Diamonte. Her order is colored with that subtle Southern dialect of hers, as though even telling someone to shove it cannot possibly be done without a relaxed tongue and take-your-time drawl.

  I’m fond of smiling—it’s my fourth favorite pastime behind hockey, sex, and tormenting the hell out of nearly everyone I meet—and her voice, which I’ve missed these last few weeks, prompts my lips to spread wide enough to make my damned bloody nose ache.

  In the best possible way, of course. I earned that bloody nose fair and square on the ice by insulting Zeus Berger’s girlfriend when the brute tried to stop me from scoring.

  “This is literally the only thing I have in my closet that my sister wouldn’t recognize,” Gracie continues, “and she’d shit a brick if she knew I was meeting you here to swap cookies.”

  She makes our plans sound so wonderfully filthy. I’d happily swap cookies with this woman if I weren’t on such a tight leash. My royal guards have been instructed to keep me from causing any more scandal while I’m abroad.

  Alas, a lack of opportunity—and, unfortunately, a lack of interest on
her part—have waylaid my fantasies. Last month when we met at the charity event, during a delightful stroll across a golf course under a starry sky, she confessed to her interest in me being a ruse to irritate that dear sister of hers.

  And a fact I may have lied about on the ice tonight, since her sister is Zeus Berger’s girlfriend.

  Both of whom are so very, very easy to bait.

  Gracie, however, seems to be the only woman in the world immune to my charms. She refused all suggestions of meeting me here tonight until I ordered four dozen cookies and asked for delivery.

  Yes, delivery of pastries. How far I’ve fallen in my quest for fun.

  Damn bloody leash.

  I nod to the bag and wonder if Gracie can actually see me. “Let’s have a taste then.”

  She tries to grasp a door handle off the hallway with her adorable little Tyrannosaurus arms and fails with a sweet combination of grace and muttered profanities. The grace, I’m certain she’s gotten from her name. Having spent a fair amount of time with her sister, I have strong suspicions about the origins of the profanity as well.

  “Allow me, my lady.” I easily turn the knob and gesture the dinosaur into an empty locker room. It smells of sweat, sticks, and bloody noses—no, wait, that’s mine again.

  The locker room also smells of my royal guard not being allowed to join us. Viktor’s a decent man, and it’s hardly his fault my father insists he shadow me everywhere—no, that would be my own bloody doing—but our relationship has its limits.

  I shut the door in his face and lock the door, which I’ll undoubtedly hear about later. The man can pick a lock, I’m certain, but I have it on good authority he’s missing the multi-tool he carries everywhere.

  Because I myself relieved him of it not twenty minutes ago when we were being bustled about the dressing room, getting ready for loading onto the bus that will take us to the hotel.

  “I must say, you are by far the most dashing Tyrannosaurus Rex with whom I’ve ever had the pleasure of sharing cookies,” I tell Gracie.

  She tosses the bag onto a bench near the door, then pats up and down her chest with her short little hand. Or tries her best, I should say.

  “Cut the flattery and help me get out of this blasted thing,” she says. “I can’t find the zipper.”

  Her proposition—and my memory of what her chest looks like outside of a dinosaur costume—makes my royal jewels ache. The lady has no idea how much I’d like to help her get out of all of her clothing. Those delectable curves hiding inside that T-Rex have haunted my memories and kept my hand occupied on several occasions since we first met.

  I’m nearly certain my fascination with her isn’t merely because she’s the only woman I’ve managed to spend more than two minutes with alone since I arrived in America two months ago.

  Bloody crown. Bloody royal orders for how I’m to live my life.

  Bloody Prime Minister and his bloody minx of a daughter.

  And bloody Earl of Austling laying claim to me before my sixth birthday for his barely-tolerable, title-hungry daughter.

  I oblige and tug down the dinosaur’s zipper. Gracie’s pretty face peeks through the dinosaur’s chest. Her thick dark hair is tangled, her round cheeks flushed, her full lips parted as she takes a deep breath. Her pure cocoa eyes are alight with a natural glow that would make her the belle of any ball even if she showed up coated in mud and dressed as a pauper.

  She fans her face with her lovely, delicate dinosaur paw. “Shew! It’s warm in here.”

  It’s rather warm out here as well. For reasons she’s most likely completely oblivious to.

  I help her step out of the dinosaur chest. She emerges in a skin-tight, creamy sweater, low-cut jeans, and mismatched ankle socks that perfectly showcase her delicate feet. The shoes stay tangled inside the costume.

  The amusing thoughts of my brothers and father’s reactions if I were to show up to formal dinner at the palace dressed as a blow-up dinosaur are replaced with the more pressing need to remember that, as much as my Viking heritage demand that I pillage and plunder, Gracie is a polite young woman whose only interest in me is an opportunity to sell more cookies.

  And I am the third son of a king, awaiting my marital doom on my thirtieth birthday, because apparently my betrothed and her father are not yet appalled enough at my lack of suitability as a husband to beg off on our nuptials.

  Which is beginning to grate on me, to be perfectly honest. How many more compromising positions can a single man be caught in during one lifetime?

  “Did you lock that door?” Gracie asks, and—is that a wish lingering in her words?

  I smile at her. “I’m not fond of sharing my cookies.”

  Her dark eyes settle on me as though she’s weighing her thoughts carefully. “You’re not talking about the cookies I baked in my oven, are you?”

  The question sparks an arousal that instantly hardens my cock to granite. I’m a doomed man. Ten months of freedom left, at best.

  And for once, I find I’m grateful for a lack of photographers hanging about. I give the locker room a subtle glance and, finding no visible video cameras or other security devices, I smile at Gracie. “Would you prefer I speak of your other cookies?”

  She tilts her head as though she does, in fact, understand the question. “Are you asking because you like the idea of pissing off my sister?”

  “Frankly, I don’t give two figs about your sister.”

  “You like baiting her.”

  “I enjoy baiting anyone game for being baited. But do you know what I like more?”

  She winces. “Sheep?”

  I laugh. Wasn’t expecting that from her. “Tell you a secret?”

  She winces harder. “Does it have to do with sheep?”

  So few women would ask a prince about his proclivities in the bedroom. No, scratch that. Between my royal title and my chosen profession, plenty of women have inquired about my proclivities in the bedroom.

  None, however, have ever inquired about my preferences in the meadow. She’s a refreshing combination of honesty, innocence, and bloody hilarity rarely found in either my hockey friends or the circle of acquaintances my royal heritage demands I surround myself with when I’m home. “My brother is the sheep-herder of the family. I have little to do with the wooly beasts. My interests lie with honey.”

  Or so I’m to say. Bloody crown. Bloody cover story.

  If she doesn’t stop studying me with those delicious midnight eyes, I’m likely to drive a stake through the amicable part of our relationship. Which would be far from the worst I’ve ever done, except I’d rather hate to give Gracie any reason to sever this unlikely friendship we’ve kindled.

  “Honey,” she repeats slowly. “Is that another code word?”

  “If the lady wishes.”

  Her gaze drifts south, to the battle being waged between my royal member and the denim trapping it, and she slowly licks her lips.

  “The lady wishes,” she whispers.

  Nor am I expecting that. And despite knowing that my father would have my head on a platter if he suspected I was gallivanting about the States, dipping my wick where it doesn’t belong, my hands move of their own accord to grip her waist.

  A man only has so much fight in him when he has a ready and willing beautiful woman before him.

  Especially a beautiful woman who’s already so easily captured my fancy.

  And what my father doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

  “Does she now?” I ask.

  “I…lied.”

  “Tsk, tsk, my lady. Pray tell more, before I have to summon the king.”

  She rolls her eyes, but there’s that pretty smile dancing on her lips and a rosy pink tingeing her cheeks that both make me wish to claim her.

  Her fingers rest on my forearms, and my skin ignites like dry tinder. “You don’t seem like a prince,” she whispers.

  “As princes go, I am rather worthless.” Spare to the spare to the spare, etc., etc. Prone to giving
my father and other national leaders heartburn, derelict in duties assigned to me before I was old enough to choose better for myself. “As I believe we’ve established. So what possible falsehood could you have uttered?”

  “And I’m still not attracted at all to hockey players,” she continues.

  “I dare say I’m quite the failure as a hockey player as well.”

  “Now you’re lying.”

  I am. I’m a bloody terror on the ice and quite proud of it. But not at the moment. In this moment, I’d sacrifice my skates for an opportunity to taste this woman’s lips. “Merely modest, madam.”

  “And so utterly, irresistibly charming,” she sighs.

  And the crowd goes wild. She does like me. “Ah. So we get to the lie.”

  “It was for a good reason.”

  “More lies, Gracie? For shame.”

  “Hush. That’s not a lie.”

  “Are you quite certain? It sounds entirely unbelievable to me.”

  She returns my smile with such a dazzling beam of glory that my heart swells like a twitterpated fool.

  Clearly I’m in need of female companionship more frequently.

  Which will be a problem once I’m shackled to the title-hunter, but as wedding plans haven’t yet commenced, I feel no reason to rein myself in.

  “I shouldn’t find you attractive,” she informs me.