Page 23 of Fake Dating the Prince

Brayden sputtered and set down his water glass. “Hey, now—”

Flip grinned and leaned over their table. “I thought I might steal Brayden for a dance. If that’s all right with you, Clara?”

Sighing exaggeratedly, she said, “Iguess,” and then burst into giggles.

Brayden let Flip pull him out of his seat and lead him back toward the dance floor. “Your cousin is a riot.”

“Oh, believe me, I know.”

The song wound down before they could do more than clasp hands, leaving them standing together somewhat awkwardly as the emcee introduced an entirely new group of musicians—and accompanying dancers.

“This is new,” Brayden commented as a group of people in Nehru-style formalwear set themselves up at the back of the stage with a dhol drum, an ektar, and a sarangi. Then a man and two women took to the forestage, dressed in bright salwar kameez. When the musicians began to play, Flip was surprised to recognize a song his father had often played when he was growing up. Just as the emcee called on anyone who knew the dance to join in, Flip’s father appeared through a parting crowd. He caught Flip’s eye and smiled deeply.

Flip looked at Brayden. “I don’t suppose you know how to dance a bhangra.”

Brayden lifted a shoulder sheepishly. “Believe it or not, I do, actually.”

Flip’s father could never know. He’d have them married off inside a week.

“The instructors at my grandma’s dance academy, we all used to take turns teaching each other. It was fun. I’m pretty rusty, though.”

Clearing his throat, Flip gestured toward the space in front of the stage. All around them, the crowd had moved back to make room for the dancers. “Would you care to join me?”

Brayden looked torn, but he shook his head and squeezed his fingers around Flip’s. He hadn’t even realized they were still joined. “Another time. They’re not doing this for some white boy from Scarborough. This is for you and your dad.”

As though on cue, Irfan appeared over Flip’s shoulder and gestured with both hands for him to join. Behind him the dance was already underway, with the three scholarship dancers forming the beginnings of a circle. Irfan moved to the beat as well, obviously itching to get started.

Flip cast a backward look at Brayden, hoping it didn’t seem too longing, and then lost himself in the familiar movements as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, kicked up his feet, and prayed Bernadette had left enough room for him to move without tearing a seam.

Tomorrow some right-wing blog would claim he was going to convert the entire country to Islam and outlaw eating beef—facts were not their strong suit—but tonight he didn’t care. His father was in his element, moving with the practiced ease of someone who’d danced in a dozen Bollywood blockbusters, and his enthusiasm was contagious.

Flip spared a glance at Brayden as the song wore on and found him—consciously or not—dancing the same bedi step as Flip, clapping and hopping in place, several steps back from the action. Mostly, though, Flip needed his concentration for the dance, which was taken right from one of his father’s movies. He had memorized it as a child, but that was a long time ago.

His father hadn’t broken a sweat and didn’t even huff for breath when he said, “Your Brayden seems like a nice boy.”

Flip needed to copy his father’s cardio routine. They traded places as the choreography called for, and Flip managed not to sayhe’s not my Brayden. “I’m fond of him,” he said, and wished he’d been able to agree with his father instead.

“And he can dance bhangra!”

Uh-oh. “Dad—”

Too late, though. He was dancing over to Brayden, still in perfect time with the choreography, only instead of the clap at the end of the bedi step he was making come-hither motions to get Brayden to join them.

Brayden protested for several seconds, long enough that the step changed to jhumar, but Irfan kept gesturing with his left hand even as he lifted his right, and finally Brayden gave in to the encouragement of the people around him and joined the dance for the last verse.

Flip’s dad was probably composing the speech he’d give at their wedding.

Brayden obviously hadn’t seen the movie—he moved just a split second behind the changes in the choreography. But his form was perfect—straight trunk, toes pointed up on dahmaal, low and wide on the chaal, arms at the perfect angle. And the way he smiled as he did it, broad and uncomplicated, oozing joy even as he shot Flip a vaguely sheepish expression…. Damn it. This wasn’t what Flip had planned at all.

He hadn’t meant to plate himself a perfect piece of cake and then deny himself the pleasure of eating it.

The dance wrapped up to boisterous applause and even a few whistles. Flip shook hands with the dancers and complimented their performance, flushed equally from the exertion and the attention to part of himself he normally kept private. He thanked the choreographer for inviting him to join in, but before the crowd could descend upon him, likely full of questions about bhangra, Brayden appeared at his elbow.

“I could use a water break,” he said, sliding his arm through Flip’s. Then he addressed the assembled guests. “Do you mind if I borrow him? I need someone to make sure I don’t die of dehydration before I find a waiter. And maybe someone to double-check I didn’t rip a seam.”

Flip let himself be led away, not sure whether the emotion swirling through his chest was gratitude or dread.

BYthe time Brayden climbed into the back of the car for Celine to drive them back to his hotel, he felt like he’d been through a meat grinder. He practically fell against Flip when the engine started.

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