Page 49 of Fake Dating the Prince

Irfan waved this off. “We just buy them online like everybody else.”

Brayden wondered about the name on Flip’s credit card. Would it say Antoine Philippe like the entry on the passenger manifest? Or maybe Antoine-Phillipe of Lyngria? That probably wouldn’t fit on a single piece of plastic. “The royals,” he mocked, referencing a hundred memes. “They’re just like us.”

“Only when we’re not swimming in piles of money.”

“Or holding audiences with—who was Flip off to talk to today?”

“The prime minister of France.” Irfan shot him a sideways look, and something in his tone shifted slightly to the left. “My son is a skilled diplomat, you know, and a passable actor. Those are related.”

Brayden didn’t know quite where this was going, but he nodded anyway. “Sure. That makes sense.”

“But not as good as me,” Irfan went on. He stopped at a roadside stall and bought a mug of hot cider for each of them. He handed Brayden his and then blew across his own and started toward the antiques shop on the corner. “And I’m his father. I always know when he’s putting on a show.”

The penny dropped. Brayden sloshed apple cider over the rim of his mug and onto his fingers, but he hadn’t even hissed at the pain before Irfan handed him a napkin. What could he say?Sorry?You caught us? I know what you think, but actually we’re together for real now?

“Flip is a stubborn man. He doesn’t do things he doesn’t want to do.” Great, so at least Irfan didn’t think Brayden had blackmailed Flip into anything. Probably he wasn’t about to get locked in the royal dungeon. “The question is, what are you getting out of it?”

Brayden looked at the cider, which didn’t hold any worthwhile replies. When he looked up, Irfan was still watching him.

“You don’t have to answer. Whatever is going on with you and Flip is your business—for now.” He sipped his cider. “But if I discover you acted in bad faith with him, I will have the palace chefs bake you into the Christmas pie.”

He let that hang in the air a moment, and Brayden was left wondering if Irfan thought Brayden had only wanted to get internet famous. He was scrambling for something to say when Irfan shook himself and said, “Ooh, I gave myself chills with that one. Come on. Constance loves antiques. I bet you find something good in here.”

Brayden trailed helplessly after him.

As they shopped, he mulled over what he’d say to Flip. Then, back at the palace, between wrapping gifts, he jotted things down on some stationery from Flip’s desk—phrases likeI’m sorryandI feel awful for letting you downandI don’t want you to think I’m not taking our relationship seriously.

But Flip never brought up the article, and Brayden didn’t know how to broach the subject.Hey, just FYI, someone internet stalked me and found out things about us, and oh by the way, your dad is totally onto us?

That night he lay awake in bed, trying to sleep with Flip’s cold feet pressed against his calf because they’d forgotten the Magic Bag.

If Irfan had guessed the truth about their relationship, who else might know? Who could guess? Celine, probably, and Bernadette. Maybe some of the palace staff, if they realized Flip had slept on his own couch that first night. More people than Brayden cared to think about, anyway.

Flip hadn’t brought up Brayden’s Instagram. Either he didn’t know—he’d been busy all day, after all—or he didn’t want to start an argument. Brayden couldn’t blame him, this close to the holidays. Maybe he thought Brayden had already learned his lesson.

And he had. Perhaps it had all started as a charade, but it was real now, and that meant Brayden had something to lose. It was time to start acting like it. He didn’t care what people thought about him, but Flip was good and kind and sensitive. Brayden wouldn’t give anyone a reason to think anything else.

FLIPwasn’t much for Christian religious celebration, but the church in oldtown Virejas hosted a prize-winning choir, so he cajoled Brayden into dressing in slacks and an amethyst sweater—Flip couldn’t help being the slightest bit possessive—and they went downtown, with just Celine to look after them. He laced his fingers with Brayden’s and led them up to the highest seats in the gallery, overlooking an altar painted in vivid blues and gold leaf.

“How traditional of you,” Brayden said as they settled on the hard bench, their fingers still entwined.

“Hush,” Flip admonished and squeezed his hand. “Just listen.”

The choir performed Handel’sMessiahwith little fanfare, but Flip liked the meditative nature of it, the ritual. Most of all he liked that it seemed like something he could do with Brayden next year and the year after and the year after that. The performance might change, but the important details—the way Brayden’s hand felt in his, his thigh pressed next to Flip’s, the acoustics of the building, the sense of peace—those would remain the same.

It was possible he’d been dwelling on his plans for the future a lot in the past few days. He’d barely had time to think about Brayden’s unfortunate second baptism into tabloid fodder. He was too busy building castles in the sky.

They kept a comfortable silence on the drive home, though they had the partition up. Brayden kept his fingers laced with Flip’s until Celine pulled up outside the palace.

Flip kissed Brayden’s cheek and squeezed his hand. “Go on inside without me? I’ll be a few minutes. I need to talk to Celine about something.”

Brayden gave him a curious look, but he got out of the car when Johan opened the door. “All right. Don’t be too long, okay?”

“I won’t. I just need to talk to Celine about holiday coverage,” he lied. “Put the kettle on for me?”

Brayden always put the kettle on. “Of course.”

When he’d closed the door, Celine rolled down the window to the back seat. “What’s up, boss?”

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