Page 7 of Fake Dating the Prince

Brayden’s mouth dropped open. “I… thatmatters?”

Flip wanted to groan. Tailors asked that question so they could measure an inseam without accidentally copping a feel. But Brayden was out there in his underwear—Bernadette knew exactly where his dick was. She just had a sharp sense of humor when it came to her craft.

Bernadette nodded seriously. “Yes, of course. One leg will be sewn slightly wider to accommodate… you.”

Now Brayden threw his arms wide in exasperation, showing off excellent muscle definition across his back, shoulders, and chest. Flip swallowed. “What kind of guys have you been dressing, if you have to put extra dick room in their pants?” He gestured down at his boxer briefs, which hid nothing—not that Brayden had anything to be ashamed of. “I mean, you can basically see it. It doesn’t need its own trouser leg.”

Flip raised a hand to his mouth to smother a laugh. He didn’t want Brayden to think he was laughing at him—or at his dick, which Flip was trying very hard not to look at.

Bernadette similarly restrained herself, though she did betray the sliver of a smile. “They’re very closely tailored trousers, Mr. Wood.” She indicated his underwear with a tilt of her head. “These will be quite unsuitable. I’m sure Antoine-Philippe can vouch for that.”

Damn her. Now Brayden turned to find Flip watching him, only Brayden didn’t seem at all concerned about it. In fact, though his eyes widened and his cheeks went even rosier, the slack set of his mouth and the way he licked his lips suggested an entirely different emotion from embarrassment.

“Oh my God. I cannot believe I didn’t know you were a fucking prince. It’s basically tattooed on your forehead. I am an idiot.”

Flip had to clear his throat. An answering heat rose in his own cheeks. “I take it you like the suit.”

“Let’s just say I am regretting my choice to stand here in my underwear.” Brayden put his palm over his face, but a second later he put it down again and grinned. “Bernadette, can you make me look that good?”

“I’m a tailor, not a miracle worker.” She rose from her crouch with more grace than Flip expected and smiled at Brayden. “But I think I can work with these materials.” She gestured to indicate—well, Flip assumed she meant Brayden’s hair, his smile, his physique, his general unassuming charm.

Brayden fist-pumped. “I am gonna look bangin’.” Then he glanced sideways at Flip. “I mean, I will looktotally appropriatefor a prince’sescort.”

Flip would probably be lucky if he didn’t show up in a leopard print, from Bernadette’s gleeful expression. She loved crafting suits for him, but as a member of the royal family, Flip couldn’t wear anything too flashy. She’d have more fun with Brayden. He looked forward to the results.

Having finished with her measurements, Bernadette let Brayden down and sent him to the fitting room with a few more-or-less stock garments to double-check the accuracy. Bernadette opened the blinds, and Flip unlocked the door, only to find his driver and bodyguard, Celine, wearing an apologetic expression.

Resigned to his fate, Flip opened the door. “Your demeanor suggests my free morning has been rescheduled.”

“Apologies, Your Highness.” She sounded as contrite as she looked. “Only your aunt called. Apparently Princess Clara is having a difficult time, and she wondered if you might stop by, seeing as you have a special bond.”

A special bond. Flip supposed that was what developed between members of the aristocracy who were deemed unsuitable for rule by right-leaning media. Flip failed to impress them, being gay and having the wrong color skin for European royalty. Clara, on the other hand, had been born with a congenital limb defect, and was—or would be, one day—a woman, to boot. Hardly an improvement over the current monarch and her prince consort, from a Neanderthal’s point of view.

Flip would have liked to spend the morning with Brayden as he’d planned, maybe even have lunch with him somewhere and go over what he could expect on Friday night. But Clara was, and might remain, his heir, and he knew a little about being a royal brat. She had to come first.

“I’ll go, of course,” he said, holding in a sigh. “Let me finish here and I’ll be ready.”

Bernadette gave him a knowing look as he walked away from the door, and quickly picked her pincushion off the desk as he made his way to the platform. “Bad news?” she asked as she briskly checked the fit across his shoulders and chest.

“Clara wants my help bullying her mother over something. Or vice versa.”

Bernadette nodded and gestured for him to remove the jacket. She took it and set it aside to check the waistcoat. “Duty calls.”

“Yes.”

She was perfecting the hem of his trousers when Brayden sashayed out of the dressing room, halfway between rakish and resplendent in a very traditional American-style tuxedo that Flip never expected to see again, at least not on Brayden.

“Haven’t worn one of these since my high school prom.” He tugged at his cuffs and grimaced a bit, whether in discomfort at the formalwear or some distant memory.

He would have made an awkward teenager, Flip thought, before he grew into his body.

“You’re probably going to have to tie the tie for me. I’ve only ever done a clip-on.”

Bernadette shuddered. “Not on my watch.” She finished fussing with Flip’s trousers and stood to take in Brayden.

Flip stepped off the platform so Brayden could take his place. “As much as I was looking forward to our lunch, Brayden, I’m afraid I’m needed elsewhere. I apologize.”

Brayden shrugged eloquently. “Hey, you’re an important guy. I get it. Bernadette can help me pick out the right color and pattern for this thing without you, I bet.”

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