By the third time the delivery truck pulled up outside our house, I began to realize something very important:
We were going to raise a spoiled princess.
And it was entirely Jace's fault.
I stood in the nursery doorway, arms crossed over my bump, watching as two men carried in yet another box — this one labeled ITALIAN HANDCRAFTED WOODEN ROCKING HORSE in big proud letters.
"A rocking horse?" I asked flatly.
Jace didn't even look guilty. "It's traditional."
"For who? Kings?" I asked again.
He smirked. "What's the difference?"
I opened my mouth and closed it again, mostly because I couldn't really argue with that. Our daughter was definitely being born into a royal bloodline — just not the kind anyone would envy.
The room had started out empty days ago. It was just beige walls and marbled floors but now it looked like Pinterest and a luxury baby boutique had exploded.
The crib was the first thing that arrived.
