Page 11 of How to Date a Prince

Standing with my hands in my pockets, the rug sadly doesn’t swallow me up. Which would be an excellent option for furnishings to offer.

“Yes.” My shoulders slump.

“And you’re capable of good. I know it for a fact.”

Maybe it’s a compliment. Maybe it’s a trick. It’s hard to say. I continue to consider the carpet. No obliging sinkhole has appeared.

“On the other hand, this latest press coverage you are receiving can be to our advantage.”

I dare peek at him. He’s still looking at me. This can’t be leading me anywhere I want to go.

“Advantage?” I ask warily. “What advantage?”

I start chewing on a thumbnail. Every instinct has me wanting to bolt out of here, but that’s impossible. The heir to the throne doesn’t bolt. Probably an earl or a duke could get away with it, the lucky arseholes.

“We need a modern monarchy. We need to address your profile. I’ve been concerned for some time about our future and public perceptions. It’s why I originally wanted to meet. Which is why I’ve recently taken the liberty of?—”

“What have you done?” I demand, not trusting that determined look. I recognize it—and it never leads anywhere good. The crimson walls close in, gilt paintings looming in ornate frames. Queen Victoria smirks as if she knows what’s coming.

“I submitted your application toRenaissance Manin response to their call for notable guests. And wonderful news: they would love to have you on.”

“Wait. What does that even mean?”

His lips twitch. He coughs slightly.

Is my father… nervous? I know his tells for anger, for joy, for disappointment. But nervous? I haven’t seen that before. What the hell makes my father nervous, especially about me?

“It’s a new television show filming from next week?—”

My eyebrows shoot up so fast it’s a miracle that they don’t fly off my face.

Air sucks into my lungs. Oh no.

“A television show?”

Isn’tRenaissance Manthe show Katie mentioned last night? And at the gala. With Thomas Golden?

“Yes. Where well-bred young men demonstrate their various skills. In competitions from athletics to the arts to show your talents.” He brightens with a sudden smile, obviously thrilled to bits about the show. “It sounds quite charming, actually. An excellent opportunity to reform your profile and find an appropriate wife. With, err, exposure through the right channels. I need heirs. Our bloodlines matter. The monarchy needs heirs if it’s to survive. I’ve taken the liberty of clearing your schedule. Lauren will see that you have everything you need.”

My brain ricochets inside my skull as I try to make sense of whatever he’s on about. Not least of all that my father thinks I have talents—and not only talents, but enough talents to go on a show and prove myself to the whole of the kingdom. It takes a long moment. Two long moments, in fact. But then, dread strikes, and oh God, what he’s done finally registers?—

“You’ve signed me up to areality TV show?” Alarm ripples through my body. Everything is too hot, too close.

Me, with no social media accounts and trained for a lifetime to value privacy above all, for the family’s sake.

Last night being an exception.

Father beams like the sun at the height of summer. And suddenly, he’s robust and youthful again. He smooths his lightweight blue jumper. “I thought that a young man like yourself would be perfect forRenaissance Man. Who better than a young royal, and what better showcase for the public to get to know their Prince and future King in a format that many people watch, especially younger viewers, an important demographic for us?—”

“I’m not doing that!”

“You must if you’re part of this family—it’s your duty.” The King is impassive. His familiar weariness creeps back in.

And at last, dignity or not, heir or not, I bolt for my rooms. If there was ever a sign of the apocalypse, it’s arrived—and its name is reality TV.

ChapterFive

Iwake up hoping the last couple of days were only bad dreams, but the newspaper remaining on my nightstand is an all-too-real reminder of the actual disaster night with Katie and embarrassing myself in front of Thomas Golden, as if the hot knife of shame still twists. And oh my God, I have to see him again.

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