Page 110 of How to Date a Prince

“Very. People will swoon. And it won’t make you seem so desperate when you next see Thomas. Plus, the added benefit, like I said, verifying you’re alive. And that you’re not actually a stuffed shirt.”

“People won’t recognize me under the makeup,” I decide with relief, setting my phone down. “Now what?”

“Music. Let’s relax.” Katie smiles at me. She leans in. “And let me tell you about the guy I’ve been seeing.”

“Is he as hot as me?”

“Hotter.”

“That’s definitely a win.” I grin encouragingly at her. “Lucky you.”

“Lucky him!”

“And tell me about work too. I need all of your news. Did you find sponsors for your show next summer?”

“Oh God, we’re trying to decide between gin sponsors…”

“Sounds tasty.”

“You’re just thinking of Thomas again?—”

And we settle in for an evening of banter like it’s old times again, until exhaustion sets in and a familiar headache rolls in. But the pain is worth it to laugh with unbounded freedom again for a few hours with my best friend. And finally feel optimistic for once.

I don’t see the flood of notifications till the next morning.

ChapterThirty-Nine

Apparently, I’m a hit on social media. Who knew? My father is highly conflicted. It’s better, he tells me, looking pained, to release official photographs. My counterpoint is that it’s a genuine, relatable photo of me, and isn’t that part of this whole reaching out to the public campaign he put me on? With slightly less headfirst propulsion.

Scrolling is highly addictive. I follow, and then I’m followed by relatives, including my wild cousins. By comparison, with their party lifestyle well documented on social media, my photo is tame. To appease my father, the next post is a more conventional photo he takes of me out in the garden, bundled up for a walk in the cool November morning.

On Sunday, I notice Adam’s feed shows a view from a plane window with a pretty sunrise or sunset over broken clouds. But is that from Friday? Consternation follows. There’re no posts from Thomas.

When Adam posts later that day, a shot of New York by air, captioned, “No place like home. Not quite ruby slippers,” and a shot of his feet in trainers up on a suitcase.

What does this mean? Shouldn’t Adam be in London with Thomas for the tell-all finale tomorrow night?

Unsure of what to do, I call Katie to complete our analysis since she’s savvy with social media and I’m not.

“Oooh,” she says. “I’m swiping through right now. Trouble in paradise. Look, if you go back a few weeks, there’re plenty of photos of Adam with Thomas. But in the last while, there aren’t any together.”

“Well, he’s been in London, and Adam’s been in New York.” I run a hand through my hair, gazing at my reflection in a mirror. The mirror version of me has no answers. Previously, I was fussing over what to wear to the show tomorrow. “A geography problem.”

“Yes, but what about the last couple of days?” Katie asks. “Explain that. There’re no photos of them together.”

“That’s why I called you. What do you think? Should I call him?”

There’s a long pause on the line.

“Katie? Are you still there?”

“Didn’t you end things because you’re a prince and you claimed incompatible lifestyles?”

“Maybe I had a change of heart?” I try.

More silence.

“Maybe… well, the truth is, my heart didn’t change,” I admit. “And yes, I’m still a prince. But what if there’s a way to make this work? I mean, who better than someone who can critique the monarchy and help make things better? What if we can date in public? Or try, if he’s open to it? He could tell me to fuck off. Which, fair.” I swallow hard. “I need to tell my father. It’s important he knows before the show airs.”

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