“What’s the matter, dude? You’re moving like a ninety-year-old lady this morning,” Z’s buddy Deacon said from the laptop screen.

Z was in the basement workout room of Esme’s townhouse, trying to get his endorphin buzz on and forget about that stupid offer she’d made him the previous evening. Not once, but twice, she’d asked him to father her child.

Jesus.

He picked up the pace of his marine push-ups, knowing Deacon was right. He was moving slow this morning, and it had nothing to do with the early hour and everything to do with the fact he couldn’t seem to shake his weird fascination with her request.

Deacon, of course, was kicking his ass with the push-ups. They Facetimed like this several times a week to keep each other on track. Z was dedicated to remaining in fighting shape because when he got the call to return to active duty, he wanted to be ready. Deacon was on medical leave recovering from a leg injury that would’ve sidelined most men permanently, but SEALs never quit until the job was done, and they both had years of fighting left to go.

The job.

Z’s biceps trembled under the strain of overexertion and stress. Before he knew it, the hardwood floor rushed up at him and he barely managed not to face-plant. Deacon snickered onscreen and shook his head. “Dude, either you turned into a major wuss overnight or something’s up. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt and going with the latter. Want to talk about it?”

No, he really didn’t, but he would, just because Z knew if he didn’t get it out, it would eat away at him. He’d always been hyper-observant, even before joining the SEALs. As he lay there now, panting and staring up at the ceiling of the workout room, Z found himself wishing he’d have spent more time observing the situation with Esme so he could have seen her bombshell of an offer coming.

With a huge sigh, he sat up and rested his forearms on his knees, wiping the sweat from his face with a towel before hanging his head. “You ever have something huge come out of the blue and blindside you, D?”

“You mean besides the IED my caravan ran over?” Deacon’s words dripped with sarcasm.

Z cringed. “Sorry. I just got thrown by something my new employer asked me last night, and I can’t seem to get it off my mind.”

“Hmm.” Deacon leaned closer to the computer screen on his end of the connection, frowning. “You’re working for some royal family, right, dude? What, did they ask you to be their new king or something?”

“Nah.” Z shrugged and pushed to his feet, walking over to take a seat on a stool at the bar, putting him and Deacon at eye level on the computer. “Well, sort of, I guess. I don’t know.”

“What? That makes no sense at all.”

“I know.” Z raked a hand through his damp hair and cracked open a sports drink. “You can’t share what I’m about to tell you with anyone. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“The current king of Prylea is dying. He’s got maybe a month, at most. A week, at least. Their law states a woman can’t rule. Princess Esme is the king’s only child. Without a son, the crown will go to the king’s nephew—who has been bragging right and left about all the shitty things he’ll do once he’s in power.”

“Bummer for the princess.” Deacon sat back, crossing his muscular arms. “Still don’t see what that’s got to do with you, bro.”

Z glanced over at the staircase leading up to the first floor then listened closely for any footsteps to signal Es might be awake. She was a notorious early riser, but considering it wasn’t even five in the morning yet, Z thought his privacy was secure.

“She asked me to get her pregnant.”

Deacon just blinked at Z a second, his face blank. “Say that again?”

“Princess Esme asked me to make a baby with her.” He had to force the words out of his constricted throat. It was wrong to have even considered such an insane idea, let alone talk about it with his SEAL buddy, yet he couldn’t seem to help himself. “If she’s pregnant with a son when the king dies, the baby will be the heir to the throne and the princess will be his regent until he’s eighteen. I said no, of course.”

“Damn straight, you did.” Deacon shook his head and mumbled a curse, looking away. “What the hell kind of assignment are you working there, bro?”

“I ask myself that question on a daily basis.” Z laughed. “Seriously, though. I can kind of see her point, ridiculous as it is.”

“Oh, man. You’ve got to tell me this now.” D sat forward, listening intently as Z explained all the politics and intrigue happening behind closed doors in the picturesque little country of Prylea. When he’d finished, D whistled and sat back again. “Wow. Talk about a soap opera. And there’s really no other way to stop this Silvester guy?”

“Other than a fake marriage and producing a real heir? Nope. Not that I can see. Her, either. And she’s spent months looking into this.” Z sighed. “The king could’ve solved it all years ago by enacting new legislation, but that possibility’s gone now. He’s too sick to even travel at this point and he doesn’t have the political backing to get it through their parliament anyway. Silvester’s smart. He’d been quietly gathering supporters since he got out of college. Not sure what he’s offered these people, but whatever it is, he’ll make good if it means he gets to ascend to the throne after the king’s death without anyone getting in his way.”

“Dude. Wow.” Deacon rubbed his jaw, then narrowed his gaze on Z. “How do you feel about this Princess Esme?”

Z shrugged. “She’s fine. Nice enough. Smart. Likes to talk too much, but other than that she’s okay.”

“Are you attracted to her?”

“Huh?” Z scrunched his nose. “No. She’s my boss. I mean, Es isn’t ugly. She’s fine. Brown hair, hazel eyes, creamy skin.”

“Okay then. Nice. And you’re on a nickname basis with her too? Cool.”

“What? No.” Z scowled. He hadn’t meant for that to slip. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter what I call her or what she looks like. There’s no way this is happening.”

“Right. Sure.” Deacon gave him one of those looks they used to exchange on the battlefield, right before they did the exact opposite of what their enemy expected. His tone said he could see straight through Z’s bullshit and Z didn’t like it one bit. “Okay. So, I guess my question is, do you agree with her? Is getting married and producing an heir the only way to keep her country safe? Hate to say it, bro, but this does kind of pose an international threat, you know. Prylea’s a huge supporter of the US military and we’ve got that big base there. It’s really the only place in the region where we can stage missions for the Middle East without threat of attack or spies. Maybe you knocking her up could prevent an international incident.”

“That’s it. I’m ending this call now.” Z reached for the laptop to close the screen, laughing as Deacon leaned down to stop him. “You going to stop being a smartass?”

“Never.” D flashed him a broad grin, all white teeth and snark. “But you love me anyway. Seriously though, dude. Don’t rush to judgment on this. Think it through. Have you ever thought of having a family of your own someday?”

“No.” Firm answer. Blood family only left you alone and broke your heart. Better to make your own family from trusted friends, at least in his opinion. “No kids.”

Deacon scoffed. “C’mon, man. Kids are a blessing. Got two myself. Don’t knock it til you try it. And friends are great, but family always comes first.”

“Not for me.” Hearing Deacon go on about his beautiful wife and daughters only reinforced his own beliefs that having a family of his own was not for him. “Not now. Not ever.”

“Well, that’s even better then, according to your logic.”

“Huh?”

“Look, man.” Deacon sat forward again. “You said you like this Princess Esme, right? She’s smart, talks a lot—which is good because you hardly say a word in social situations.” Z flipped him off. D just grinned and continued. “And she’s not ugly, as you so eloquently put it. Do you think she’ll make a good queen mother?”

From what time he’d spent around Esme, she seemed kind and good and nice and patient, all qualities he associated with his own mother and she’d been excellent. He resisted the urge to rub the ache in his chest. “Yeah. She’ll be a great queen and mother.”

“There you go then.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“If you’re so sure you don’t want a child, then this is your perfect set-up. You marry into royalty, sire a kid, then walk away.”

“Whoa. Wait a minute. That sounds so cold and calculated and—”

“Logical?”

Damn. Deacon had him there. Before he’d called to Facetime his friend, Z had turned on the all-night news network and had caught the tail end of an interview with Silvester. The king wasn’t even dead and buried yet and that bastard was already running his mouth on TV about his plans for when he took over rule of Prylea. He was going to close the boarders, isolate the country just when it was starting to make its mark on the global stage, and remove the US base from its lands. Yeah. All of those things were awful ideas. Much as he hated to admit it, perhaps Deacon had a point about the whole international incident aspect. Throughout history, marriage contracts had been made to secure countries. Why not now? It would keep Es on the throne and would ensure the important military base would stay open. Looking at it that way, giving Esme what she wanted would make him a freaking patriot. A national hero.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you, dude?” Deacon said, giving him a knowing smile. “You are, I can tell. Just be sure to let me know ahead of time what the gender is so I can send a baby shower gift, okay?”

This time Z did close the laptop on his friend after saying goodbye and promising to call again the next morning for another workout. As he made his way upstairs, Z was deep in thought. Could he really do this? Marry Es and have a kid with her, putting aside his past and the future he’d planned, to save her throne and her country? It was a lot to ask.

Then again, so was taking the job in Prylea in the first place and things had turned out all right there. As he passed Esme’s door on his way to his own quarters on the third floor, Z stopped and stared. He wasn’t ready to make a decision just yet, but he was further along than he’d been earlier.