Page 13 of How to Date a Prince

I turn quickly to the glossy brochures with the pitch packet about the show and the network, complete with stunning aerial photos of theRenaissance Manestate, a sprawling country house with verdant grounds, welcoming pastures, and woods. Seeing the horse paddocks piques my curiosity and stirs the usual bittersweet feelings that anything to do with horses brings.

And then my memory of Thomas Golden springs back to life when I search theRenaissance Manshow on my phone—complete with website, naturally—and I’m confronted with the handsome stranger from the club. Immediately, my face burns with the memory of how I treated him. Never mind the hint of attraction before that, which I cleverly annihilated in record time, a personal best.

Confirmed: he’s absolutely delicious.

Also, the man must be dripping with talent. It’s totally unreasonable to look like that and have talents too, as confirmed in the show pamphlet. Willow snorts beside me as if he’s in full agreement.

I’m going to be competing against Thomas Golden. What the actual hell. He’s quite the competitor, between his work for Habitat for Humanity, mountaineering, and who knows what else, aside from luxury hotels.

I smooth my hair. Next to me, Willow makes an attempt to nibble the info pack. I move the pages out of reach.

This show is going to be terrible. I can’t let my guard down around him. Also, he probably hates me after I—well, I don’t know if there are any reasonable words for the most unreasonable way I acted when he asked me to dance. And then made out with Katie in front of him, even if I had been imagining his lips at the time, which definitely doesn’t make things better. At least there’ll be lots of other contestants around as a buffer. It’s not like we have to be alone together. For a brief moment, I’m reassured.

And then I’m distracted again by his glossy headshot, even out here with Willow for company, with that same easy grin as if he’s shared a private joke with the viewers. I can absolutely see why he’s been chosen for prime time. He’s intriguing and knows how to play to cameras in the show’s trailer, complete with vistas of him rock climbing without a shirt, which nearly finishes me, and then there’s a teaser about an exciting secret guest to be revealed that will shock the country.

Which must be me.

Disaster. Guaranteed.

ChapterSix

Not only am I destined for a reality TV show, but a reality TV show with Thomas Golden on it, of all people. Which is the custom hell I’ve earned. I channel my embarrassment into working out every day as hard as I can before the show. I read a book Lauren placed on my pillow calledMedia Optics and You. Since I can’t make any more impromptu trips to Windsor Castle, I run endless kilometers on the treadmill and lift weights till I ache.

I spend the nights with marginal sleep and the occasional night drive or foray to my studio in a darkish, nearly forgotten corner of Buckingham Palace, which can handle the muck of clay and a kiln. I throw clay around with great abandon, enjoying the satisfying slop over my navy coveralls, and I mull over the opportunity to actually prove I have talents—not least of all to myself. Aside from a knack of making a spectacle of myself, that is. And, I tell myself, working with clay isn’t only therapeutic or good for arm muscle tone, but it’s also helping me get ready for the TV show on my own terms, on the off chance there’s some clay-related challenge.

In my latest workout, I drag my forearm across my damp forehead and down some water before toweling off my face. I feel the pull in my biceps and thighs.

My father thinks I have talent. What a concept.

He’s never struck me as the proud papa sort. But one thing I know about him is that he’s strategic. And when I’m challenged, I don’t tend to back down. Even if he is literally gaming me, he clearly has faith that I won’t let the Crown down by falling on my face. Which leaves me conflicted about how I’m meant to feel about him, and I’m surprised I’m unexpectedly happy that he has some belief in me despite my recent media mess with Katie. Except I still struggle with the fact that he didn’t ask me if I wanted to do a TV show—a reality show, of all things—and I’ve had no say in the matter. I could have fought back and refused.

But maybe it’s an opportunity, albeit a strange one.

So, quietly, I resolve to prove to him and myself that I can do the show. And most of all, I want to show my mum I can do this, who always believed in me.

Then, I’m at last packing my bags forRenaissance Man. A premium aluminum suitcase with a leather duffel bag waits at the foot of my bed.

Today, I have no sparkles about my person, no nail varnish, no makeup. I wear a sensible enough, though boldly patterned pullover by a British designer, with a white shirt, and grey trousers with very shiny shoes. My dark blondish hair is styled flawlessly. With Lauren, we pull together an approved wardrobe for the week, going back and forth like we’re negotiating a peace treaty on what’s appropriate enough for filming and works for the cameras. It’s all very bland, though impeccably well tailored.

I quash any misgivings with the breathing exercises taught to me by my therapist. I pack my meds, my tablet, a few paperbacks. And a sketchbook, too, with some color pencils. It’s probably wishful thinking that I’ll be left alone to do any of it. My father’s away, and no one is around other than palace staff to see me off. Which is typical. Anne and Gav are off on holidays. And, of course, things are a mess with Katie. She’s still not answering my texts.

Meanwhile, I pray to the reality TV gods—or maybe the showrunner—to show mercy. The only good news is my father didn’t sign me up for a dating show because he knows I would have taken off to start a new life as a total recluse in the Himalayas.

Soon enough, I head downstairs. As the car pulls around and my pristine luggage, with a week’s camera-ready wardrobe, is loaded in by a footman, I fight every last nerve to keep going ahead with the plan for the show. I get in alongside my bodyguard, Alyse. Aside from keeping me safe, she’s ensuring I end up on set. After the night out dancing, my security detail has tightened up in all directions, to protect me from myself, most of all, rather than the external threats, because often the internal ones are the messiest, given my track record. The security savings would be incredible if I didn’t go.

We head south through the broad, rolling hills of the Sussex Downs towards the estate where the show’s cast and crew will stay during the week while filming. At least we have the weekends off. I caught that much in my skim read of the documents. In the back of the car, I fidget with my phone.

When the car pulls through the secure entry, after the check-in at the gatehouse, my stomach flops at the sight of the dramatic country house in pale sandstone. It’s a beautiful building in an idyllic green setting, because of course it is. It’s a set perfect for television. And I’ll have to do this the hard way by going in blind with no intel about the other contestants. Except Thomas Golden, who I still know very little about, other than he’s a future hotel magnate and apparently an influencer too.

The car slowly crunches up the gravel driveway and pulls up to the steps of the imposing house. Whatever I was expecting, I didn’t think a film crew would be waiting to film my arrival. I should be used to this sort of thing by now, but this is different: it’s fake reality. Or even faker reality than usual. I run a hand through my hair, tug my pullover to smooth out any wrinkles. The patent leather of my shoes shines.

After I step out of the car, I’m met by a man with far too many large, whitened teeth and a fair amount of fake tan. He’s broad-shouldered and stocky, and he has a grin that won’t stop. His gaze fixes on me like he’s made the most miraculous find. We stand on the gravel driveway in a full-blown, uncomfortable moment. Or at least it’s internal on my part as we consider each other. Externally, a lifetime of proper comportment kicks in on autopilot, and I avoid disgracing myself like I did the other night. Which I better not think about right now, disappointing my best friend and my father and Anne, too, in a trifecta of shoddy behavior. And forget Thomas Golden.

Right, then. The man clears his throat and makes a show of adjusting his spotted bow tie.

“Welcome to theRenaissance ManEstate, Prince Augustus. I’m Colin White, the host of the show.” We shake hands. His grasp is firm, if clammy. “I work closely with the producers and with all of our guests.”

“Thank you for inviting me.” I give him a friendly smile.

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