Prince Baby Daddy: Prince Baby Daddy, #1

By Layla Valentine and Holly Rayner

He's the playboy prince, who always gets anything – and anyone – he wants
The one thing he didn't want is a baby!

I'm Europe's most notorious playboy, and next in line to the throne.
My trysts are legendary; I'm never far from the front page.
But the clock is ticking on my freedom.
If I don't find a blue-blooded bride soon, my royal parents are threatening to force one upon me.
And that's not all...
The gorgeous Texan gal I hooked up with for one night only?
She had my baby.
And it could be the start of a very royal scandal…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Layla Valentine
• Release date: Feb 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201768157

Book preview

PRINCE BABY DADDY

Book One

LAYLA VALENTINE

HOLLY RAYNER

Copyright © 2022 by Layla Valentine

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

CONTENTS

1. Christian

2. Jane-Ann

3. Christian

4. Jane-Ann

5. Jane-Ann

6. Christian

7. Jane-Ann

CHAPTER 1

CHRISTIAN

AUGUST

Light glares off the polished white floors, burning my bloodshot eyes. I blink and close my bedroom door, pressing my forehead against the cool wood. My room is dark and quiet, and I want nothing more than to crawl back into bed and not get out all day. But Mother and Father would have servants pounding on my door within the hour. Probably within the half hour. Mother hates when I’m late for breakfast.

For the life of me, I can’t remember why I agreed to stay in the main palace over the weekend. My private residence is only a few blocks away. There, I have frozen breakfast burritos in the freezer that are perfect for soaking up the last bit of alcohol in my system after a night of particularly rough partying. It’s a trick I learned from a woman I once met during a night out. I don’t remember her name, and I never saw her again, but every time I make one of the burritos, I raise it to her memory.

But this morning there will be no breakfast burritos. Just bowls of fruit and puffy eggs and muffins. All fine fare under normal circumstances, but the thought of it now makes my stomach flip.

I groan and press my cheek against the wood. It’s going to leave an imprint on my face, but I can’t bring myself to care about anything other than the headache pounding in my temples and the nausea rocking through me.

Finally, after several deep, steadying breaths, I peel open the door and propel myself into the hallway quickly. Like ripping off a bandage.

The halls have the familiar scent of lemon cleaning product and dust, though there isn’t a speck of dust in sight. The maids couldn’t sleep if there was even the slightest smudge on the glass-topped tables that line the hallways. The smell of dust is probably from the simple fact that every piece of furniture in the palace is ancient. Like, "keep your mitts off of that—it was a gift from the King of England for your great-great-grandfather’s thirtieth birthday" kind of old.

Growing up here was like living in an art museum. Velvet ropes blocked off the most prized paintings and busts and running, playing, or quick movement of any kind was highly discouraged. Every kid’s dream.

Last night comes back to me in flashes as I take the stairs slowly, clinging to the solid wood railing. Drinks, dancing, more drinks, whispers in back booths, more drinks. Just the memory of the drinks makes me want to lie down. I’ve made a name for myself as being a partier, but clearly I’d gotten a bit drunk last night and then decided to go for a new record. Father won’t be pleased if he finds out. So, he won’t find out.

I pinch my lips together, relaxing my face into a neutral mask, and breathe. I just need to get through one breakfast and then I’ll be done for the day.

Mother called the tailor so I could be fitted for a new suit for some charity event or another I apparently agreed to attend, but other than that, my day is uncharacteristically free. After I eat and stand still for the tailor, hiding my nausea, I can go back to bed and sleep away the last remnants of my regretful evening on the town with no one the wiser.

As soon as I turn into the smaller of our three dining rooms, I realize my plans have been dashed before they can even begin. Father throws a newspaper down over my place setting as soon as I turn the corner, the paper landing on the fine china like a gavel.

I’m surprised you have the strength to join us this morning, he says with a rumble.

Good morning, I say, smiling first at my three younger brothers, who all snicker under their breath but do not look up at me, at my father, and then my mother.

Father’s face remains stony, but Mother softens as I expected her to. She tilts her face to the side and smiles; her eyebrows pulled together in concern and worry. Whatever Father has in store, it isn’t going to be pleasant.

Good morning, indeed, he says, stirring his tea with too much intensity, the silver spoon rattling against the bone china. I see Mother reach underneath the table to touch his leg, to steady him. He drops the spoon and points to the paper, looking up at me. Care to explain this?

Ahh, yes, of course, I say, grabbing the newspaper as I drop down onto the padded antique dining chair.

The dining set has been in the palace since it was rebuilt in the nineteenth century after a fire destroyed the entire East Wing. Mother reminded me of the origins of the set many times as a child and teenager when I would lean back in the chair, putting undue strain on the back legs.

"Well, this is a newspaper. One of many such sources of local and world news around the world. This one here is The Sigmaran Sun. Not the most prestigious of papers, especially with its oftentimes biased coverage of the royal family that paints the eldest son in a negative light, but it is still a good paper nonetheless."

Jory snorts, partially chewed bits of berry splattering on his plate, but Niles is too young to fully understand the hilarity of my joke, and Erikson is old enough to know better than to laugh. Despite my own antics, I’ve warned Erik plenty of times to listen to Father and keep his head down. In a year, he’ll be eighteen, finished with school, and free to choose what he does next. Freer than I will be, at least.

Being the first born comes with more responsibility and the crown. Even if I was only a couple years older than Erik

Reviews for Prince Baby Daddy

[Ruth · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

There is no need for the cliffhanger/book ending where it did, this whole story could have been resolve din one short story/novella