Page 15 of How to Date a Prince

“No problem. See you at the first challenge tomorrow.”

Colin takes me and Alyse up the sweeping staircase to the next level. While I look around the room, she stands at the door. She goes to Colin, and they speak quietly so as not to disturb me.

My guard hasn’t come down one iota. Guard-lowering only leads to trouble, as recent club events have proven.

I glance at Colin when he steps in. “Thank you. This is wonderful.”

“My pleasure. Also, I should apologize for the filming. I didn’t want to tell you so we could capture a genuinely authentic reaction from everyone.” Another flash of teeth follows. “Dinner is at 6:00 p.m., which is, unsurprisingly, in the dining hall. Or you can have a meal sent up to your room, your preference. Though I do encourage you to meet the others. Filming begins tomorrow morning with the first event. We’ll start off nice and easy, as they say.”

A sinking feeling comes over me as Colin watches me too closely.

I don’t know what I expected. Of course filming starts tomorrow. I didn’t think about what the experience would actually involve. Obviously, cameras. Lights. And permanent recordings, most of all, broadcast to a national audience of viewers.

“May I ask what we’ll be filming?”

“Oh, my sincere apologies, Prince Augustus. I can’t tell you that quite yet, I’m afraid. It ruins the element of surprise in a reality show if you know too much. I do hope you understand. But the filming will be within the building, at least to start the day. Tomorrow’s dress code is smart casual. My advice off the record is to wear comfortable shoes. We will all assemble at 10:00 a.m. at the entry, and I’ll provide an orientation toRenaissance Manand the day’s schedule then. What I can promise, Your Royal Highness, is a tremendous amount of fun.”

Funisn’t quite the word I would use.

I hesitate, my hand on the doorknob.

“Oh, but there’s one more thing I can say about tomorrow. I’m delighted to tell you our final guest, Thomas Golden, will join us then,” Colin says triumphantly.

ChapterSeven

It’s a sleepless night in an unfamiliar bed. The room feels more February than June and vaguely damp, but at least the duvet is cozy. As ever in these kinds of places, beautiful but not airtight, there’s a draught. Even with the warm bed, it doesn’t keep me from tossing and turning, and there are no midnight drives or pottery wheels at hand for distraction. Shivering as I push back the fluffy duvet, with reluctance, I slip out of bed.

After going back and forth with myself, I ended up having dinner last night sent up to my room. But now, for breakfast, I must make the decision again: public or private. Because my performance begins the moment I walk out the door of my suite. At least Alyse has provided assurances that there will be no filming within my room.

Breakfast performances are familiar territory from both the palace and mealtimes with my father, where we both ignore my lackadaisical eating habits, something that started in the torment of boarding school. Everything was out of my control, except what I ate—or didn’t, as a protest vote. At Eton, I often felt the odd man out. Too famous to fit in, somebody once told me. “Own it,” Gav advised me then, his go-to advice. Easier said than done.

After a shower and a shave, I dress, following Colin’s advice for smart casual. I choose grey jeans and a light blue cashmere-blend jumper that I know works well with my eyes. I slip into my Adidas trainers for comfort. The branding’s distinctive, but I can’t imagine they’ll be filming my feet. Otherwise, this would be a lot more like OnlyFans, and that’s definitely not what I signed up for.

Black is forbidden, according to Lauren, who vigorously read the instructions. No wild patterns, no branded logos.

Breathe, Auggie.

At last, I open the door and head downstairs for breakfast to prove to myself—and the others—I can do this. Mercifully, there are no cameras in sight. Nick has replaced Alyse, my usual two bodyguards, trading off on shifts. He’s a distant shadow.

As I near the breakfast room, voices echo out into the hall. The air smells of baking and fry-ups. Laughter rings out. Dishes clatter. Another deep breath, and I enter the room as nonchalantly as I can, as if royals pop around for breakfast all the time.

Everything goes quiet. People peer at me, a room full of watching eyes, cast and crew alike. There’re at least a couple of dozen people in the breakfast room. I do my best to smile, but it probably comes out more like a grimace. Doing my best to ignore them, I head over to the buffet, collecting a tray.

People start to talk amongst themselves again. I make a beeline for the tea before finding fruit and eggs, beans and toast. I’m given a wide berth. Whether that is because Nick is giving them a steely eye or because I’m persona non grata here, I can’t say.

I turn to find a table where I can eat out of the way and nearly bump into a human wall. Apparently, Nick’s protective influence ripples only so far, but then again, I suppose he’s showing some restraint on security takedowns for the sake of filming. Everyone here’s been vetted, after all.

“Sorry,” I say out of instinct and training.

The person continues to stand in place like a barrier, blocking my path. Not any person—it’s Thomas Golden. He lifts an eyebrow. Thomas Golden looks even more glorious in the daylight, with a sweep of dark hair and a built physique still visible under his tailored shirt. He narrows his eyes at me.

The disaster night that helped land me here comes flooding back in all its awkward glory.

And unfortunately, he looks terribly hot when he’s irritated.

“Hello, Dave.” His gaze is unyielding. I’d sure give a lot right now for even a fraction of yield.

Shit. So, he does recognize me. I shiver, meeting his eyes.

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