Breathtaking (Red Lips & White Lies #5)

1. Lennon

LENNON

Umm... If I have to put on pants with actual buttons and a zipper, the answer is no.

—Lennon’s Secret Thoughts

O kay... I get it. Sometimes a good cry is called for.

Cathartic, almost.

I’m as happy as the next girl to have my heart ripped out and stomped on, but I need to be ready for it. Preparations need to be made. Like when I’m reading a great book. I’d go as far as to say there are few ways I’d rather spend a night off than curled up on my couch with some rocky road ice cream and a beautiful love story that will make me laugh and cry and kick my feet all in one book. I mean, really... does it get better than a sexy, swoony man who falls deliciously in love with some sassy heroine and sweeps her off her feet, broken parts and all? Add in some really great sex and absolutely gut-wrenching drama, and I’m all in. The chocolate, marshmallowy goodness doesn’t hurt either.

And now I’m nostalgic for a good book and a good cry.

But that’s not what I got tonight.

No... I’m sitting here, sobbing over the end of an Avengers movie.

Who does that?

Apparently, I do.

And I’m doing it with bad ice cream. Well, not bad, really. But not rocky road because the store didn’t have any today. Can I send one of my security detail out for better ice cream? I mean, that would probably cement me firmly into the diva category, so I’m going to say no, but I bet it would make me feel better.

Instead, I dig a frozen peanut butter cup out of the pint I had to settle for, more than slightly annoyed with the less than top-tier candy. And yes, I do realize I sound like a spoiled brat... or maybe a serial killer.

I can imagine the headline now— Princess Set Fire to the Store When They Didn’t Carry her Favorite Ice Cream.

A ridiculous laugh bubbles up my throat until I snort the most unladylike sound I may have ever made. My mother would be ashamed of me if she were here now. She’d also be a ghost since she’s been dead for three years. So there’s that.

And that thought has laughter mixing with big, fat, crocodile tears streaming down my face.

W hat the hell is wrong with me?

The door to my flat opens with a flourish only my brother Atticus is capable of, and I look up over my spoon and confirm my assumption. My older brother looks horrifically mortified by the sight of me. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I shrug, wipe my nose on my sleeve, and lick the melting chocolate from my spoon.

Atticus, the asshole, slams the door shut behind him and throws a paper sack at my face. Reflexes demand that I swat it down with my spoon and watch innocently as chocolate ice cream splatters across the room, causing another sob to catch in my throat.

There’s never a reason to waste chocolate... even bad chocolate.

“Okay.” He points at me from where he’s standing in all six foot two of his judgmental glory. “That’s enough.” I sniffle, and the big bully tries to take my ice cream from me, but I hang onto it for dear life.

Who knows what I’m capable of doing in the name of chocolate?

After quite the glare-off, I eventually give in and let him wrestle it away. Mainly because Atticus’s resting bitch face is way scarier than mine, and I’ve been told mine is pretty bad. But also because it’s not like it was rocky road. “You...” He picks up the paper sack from the pharmacy down the street and holds it out in front of me. “Take this. Get your little ass up and go into the bathroom.”

“My ass is not little. I’ll have you know I have a great ass.” Years of dancing has given me that. It’s also given me ugly feet, but you take the good with the bad.

The asshole shakes the sack in my face until I snatch it out of his hand. “Do as I say, Lennon.”

“What are you talking about?” I peek inside the sack, and my jaw drops. “I’m sorry... What in the fucking hell is that?”

Does my brother shrink back when I scream like I’ve just seen my first penis and don’t have a clue what to do with it?

No.

He shakes his head like I’m daft.

“Retract the claws, little sister. I’m here to help, and apparently, the first step in helping is yanking you out of the denial you’ve planted your perfect ass in. I mean, that ass could actually be my first point. It is getting bigger.”

“Atticus—” He’s right. I want to claw his eyes out. But that’s before my next tear falls. “My ass is not getting bigger.” I kinda wish it would. I mean, who wouldn’t want to look like J.Lo in jeans? Mine is great, but hers is perfection.

“Umm... hello, mood swings. It’s like you’re making my argument for me. You’re moody as hell. Crying over everything. You look like shit, and you’ve put on weight for the first time ever in your skinny bitch life. And my God, woman. Your tits are huge.”

“Eww. You’re my brother, and we’re not those kind of royals, you dick.” I finally stand up and smack his chest.

“Listen, the blind guy who lives beneath you can see your tits have grown. There’s no missing them. They’re massive. That’s not normal, Lennon. Take the bag into the bathroom and pee on a goddamned stick, so we can figure out how to tell Dad and Grandfather you’re going to have to move the wedding up to this year.”

Pee. On. The. Stick.

Oh, bloody hell.

All the blood rushes from my head, and I grab Atticus for balance.

I can’t be pregnant.

No. No. No.

“Whoa there.” His strong hands hold me steady as I sway on shaky legs. “Come on, little sister.” Before I realize what we’re doing, he’s walked me to the bathroom and opened the door. “In you go.”

The air whooshes in my ears like I’m holding my breath under water while I stand—staring at the bag in my hands. “I can’t be pregnant,” I whisper more to myself than to him.

“Listen. I’m not sure what bullshit Monty is feeding you, but condoms aren’t 100 percent effective. Now take the test, and we’ll figure the rest out.” He pulls the bathroom door shut, and I drop the bag on the marble vanity and stare at my reflection in the mirror.

Suddenly, the one staring back at me isn’t one I’m familiar with.

Flushed cheeks and gaunt, tired eyes stare back.

I pull my sweater over my head and cup my boobs in my hands.

Holy shit. He’s right.

They’re bigger.

It’s like I’ve lost all the weight in my face, and it’s gone right to my tits.

I turn and want to sob again. The fucker is right. The weight is evenly distributed between my ass and my tits. Thank God we’re between shows. I’m not sure who’d be more pissed... the costume designers or my dance partner. As a principal dancer with the London Ballet, we get weighed weekly, and there’s no way they wouldn’t notice this.

What the hell?

I yank the box from the sack and manage to wave off the impending panic attack and the bile building in my stomach.

Am I really going to pee on a stick? As I open the pink and white box and dump out the tests, I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what I’m about to do.

This is so bad.

Unfathomably bad.

A minute later, when three tests, the instruction sheet, and a pair of ridiculous plastic gloves are all scattered across the counter, it becomes a little too real, and that panic attack is starting to look like a solid plan.

Plastic gloves... really?

I stare at the offending objects and decide I might as well get this over with. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m just extra hormonal and need to lay off the ice cream...

Because the other option is far worse than going on a diet.

I stare at the three sticks and wonder why three.

Do I need to use all of them?

What if they don’t all agree?

What then?

Apparently, what I should have been wondering was how to do this without making a mess. Guess I should have used the gloves. I lay each test flat on the counter and wash my hands while I wait the required seven minutes for three stupid sticks to decide my future.

There are so many reasons why this can’t be happening.

Good reasons.

Valid reasons.

Frightening reasons.

Number one—my family is going to kill me. An unmarried, pregnant Windsor princess would not be acceptable. Not even a little bit. Not to my father or my grandfather. My late mother was the daughter of the king of Mornea, and my father is a royal prince of Elwyn. Appearances have always mattered.

Once my mother died, my oldest brother Rhys became the heir apparent to the throne of Mornea. And that spotlight shines bright and wide on our entire family. What I do reflects on them as much as me.

Number two—Montgomery Hastings V, Duke of Mornea. My fiancé... On paper if not in any other way. I don’t even like the man, but that didn’t seem to matter to either of our families when our marriage was arranged.

Number three—ballet. My career. My escape. I can’t dance if I’m pregnant. I hang my head and close my eyes, hoping this is all a bad dream. Maybe the ice cream was spoiled and this is some kind of reaction to food poisoning.

Atticus bangs on the door, reminding me this is very much real life.

“It’s been nearly fifteen minutes, Lennon. Either you come out or I’m coming in.”

Terrified and spiraling out, I crack the door open and step back, allowing my overprotective big brother to push inside and grip my shoulders in his hands. “Did you do the deed?”

Apparently, I’m already too stressed to try to decipher his question.

When Atticus was little, he used to try to make Rhys and me learn whatever made-up language he’d come up with that day. Rhys, being the oldest and most serious of the three of us, wanted no part of Atticus’s nonsense, but I’d always try. Half the time, I’d fail miserably, but I was never as smart as Atticus. Pretty sure I’m still not. My brother is a genius. “Which deed?”

“Don’t play daft.” He looks around, stopping on the counter. “Uhhh... Lennon.”

“Don’t,” I warn him and close my eyes, not ready to face this reality he just force-fed me. “This is your fault.”

“Nope. Sorry. I’m not taking the blame this time. Like you said, we’re not those kind of royals.”

I slide down to the floor as the walls close in around me, pulling my knees protectively up to my chest as shock sets in. “I don’t know how this happened.”

I try to count back in my head, but it’s a struggle. I’m going to blame that on the way the room is pirouetting like it’s opening night of Swan Lake .

“Pretty sure you know exactly how it happened. The bigger question is when? I didn’t think you were actually screwing the douchey duke. Or should I say I thought you might have been the only one in the entire country not screwing him, because I’m pretty sure he’s worked his way through every other titled woman in Europe.”

My eyes bug out of my head. Yes. My future husband is a fuckboy. Not like I had anything to do with picking him out. Our marriage was arranged when we were children, and the news was broken to me when I turned eighteen. Lucky for me, according to the contract, we didn’t have to get married until I turned twenty-five. Even luckier, he decided he wanted to go to law school and pushed the wedding back another year.

Not that any of that even matters at the moment.

“I’m not sleeping with Monty, you asshat,” I snap. “I never have.”

Confusion settles in my brother’s kind green eyes.

He may be the smartest guy in nearly every room he walks into, but this has him stumped. Serves him right for assuming. He slides down next to me and plants his ass on the radiantly heated tile floor beside mine. “Oh... Now that’s a problem.”

I drop my head to his shoulder. “You can say that again.”

I have to marry Monty. It might as well be written in unbreakable stone.

Mornea needs this marriage.

Monty’s family is the most politically influential in the country, and with the way the anti-monarchists have been growing in strength lately, this is one of the best ways to strengthen our family birthright.

No pressure or anything.

“So... do you know who the daddy is?” I throw my elbow into Atticus’s gut so hard, he doubles over. “Sorry. Geez. I guess I could see how that sounds bad,” he wheezes.

“You think?” I bite back and drop my head back against the wall so hard, it reverberates down my entire body.

“Is he—does he... fuck, Lennon. How the hell am I supposed to ask this?”

With my eyes closed, I picture the only man who could be the father. “No... he doesn’t know. I didn’t even know.”

Atticus leans his head against mine. “Is he from London or Mornea?”

I can see why he’d only consider those two countries. The one I work in and the one I’ve spent my life living for. But the world is so much bigger than Mornea and London.

“He’s from Kroydon Hills,” I whisper softly. Hesitantly . Atticus knows what that means.

“You didn’t,” he gasps like every gossipy ballerina I’ve ever worked with. “You dirty little dancer.”

“Shut up.” I sit up and turn toward him. “Seriously, what am I going to do?”

I’m not sure what scares me more.

Telling my parents.

Telling Monty.

Or telling him .

“Well ...” Atticus grins, and I brace for whatever the hell he’s about to say, because I know it’s going to be outrageous. “Exactly how long has this buttery little croissant been baking in the oven?”

I rub my temples. “My brain hurts. Could you try to reel the crazy in for just a few minutes... please ?”

His eye rolls should have their own translation guide, he has so many. “Exactly how pregnant are you, kid?” When I wince, he groans. “Like mid-summer night’s sex pregnant?”

I look him in the eyes and fight back the tears that are back and dying for their chance to drown me. “More like snowstorm pregnant.”

“It’s the middle of fucking August, Lennon. What the hell?”

“Don’t yell at me. I don’t get regular periods. I never have. The doctors always said with my rigorous dance schedule and the way I couldn’t gain weight, it was normal. They weren’t worried about it. And it wasn’t like I was having sex, so I wasn’t worried about it either,” I yell back at him as my tears burst free. “I haven’t even seen him since that night. How am I supposed to call him and tell him I’m what... ?” I try to do the math. “Four... maybe five months pregnant?”

“Oh, sweetie... this isn’t a call kind of thing. This is a your ass on a plane, heading to America kind of thing.”

I think back to that night and wonder why I’m even surprised.

Of course I’m fucking pregnant.

Leave it to Maddox Beneventi to have super sperm.