Page 18 of How to Date a Prince

Thomas Golden strides off, purposeful as he scrolls on his phone with one hand.

He may have direction written all over him, but I can fake that too.

I enter the bright breakfast room with my head held high in a façade of confidence for the cameras. Duty calls. Everything breakfast has been cleared away, except for the tea and coffee station. The buffet has been replaced with a few light snacks. I make a cup of tea to fortify myself, walk past the snacks and the beautifully baked muffins taunting me, and then at last turn to face the table with the baking cookbooks with the enthusiasm of a man heading to his own execution.

Standing fixed in place with my tea, I wait for inspiration to come, as if I can manifest my own muffins out of wishes. The steam rises, and the smell of the Earl Grey tea is comforting. Colin wants the recipe to be personal, something to remind me of home, but we’ve had chefs and staff for nearly as long as I can remember. Although my father only became King when I was four years old. Before that, we lived at Frogmore Cottage. My parents still conducted royal duties, but life was a little closer to normal.

I remember when I was small, being sat on my mum’s knee with her arm around me, watching her drink tea with her friends, and the smell of fresh baked biscuits filling the room and the surprising taste of the gingersnaps dipped in chocolate. Had she made them herself? Or did someone bake them for us? I swallow, something caught in my throat. No, she made them herself, I recall with relief. After all, Mum hadn’t been born royal and had a shot at legitimate life skills before she married my father. As for him, I’ve never seen him so much as boil a kettle.

“Well? What do you think, Your Royal Highness?”

I start. My tea sloshes. I hadn’t heard anyone approach. That’s twice today I’ve been caught off guard.

I glance over. It’s one of the cast members, the oldest, with brown hair mostly gone silver. “Please, call me Auggie. What’s your name?”

He chuckles. “I’m David.”

“Good to meet you.” I scan the cookbooks. Salvation must lie in one of them. “I’m at a loss, I suppose. Though I have an idea. And it absolutely doesn’t involve smuggling in baked goods under the cover of darkness for tomorrow.”

“I’m a little bit at a loss too, don’t worry. I’m thinking of the bread department. Although I’m not sure if I’ll have enough time for the bread to rise, so the bread-smuggling idea has some appeal. Otherwise, I’m going to have to try and hope for the best.”

“Bread’s advanced.” There’s no universe in which bread making isn’t considered advanced. I wouldn’t know a leavening agent unless I tripped over one and it fought back.

To my relief, he smiles back. “I’m not sure I’m an advanced baker, but I can usually get the job done. I’ve been practicing.”

“Advanced,” I confirm. “Absolutely.” Of course he practiced his baking. Very sensible approach, being prepared and all that.

“Do you bake?”

“No.” I shake my head, grim-faced. The room’s already too warm, the sun streaming in through the tall windows. I should have snuck down to the palace kitchens my last night at home when I couldn’t sleep and practiced baking. Oh, regrets. “Actually, not ever.”

“Oh?”

I shift my weight from foot to foot. “This is my first time baking.”

And quite possibly my last. But if I’m going to try, I’m going to go for it. I’m all in now.

“Right.” His eyebrows climb. “I can see, then, why you look daunted.”

“Well. No time like the present to learn,” I say gamely into the too-still air of the breakfast room. Someone should open a window for a breeze. Meanwhile, I wonder if anyone’s ever spontaneously learned to bake at an expert level out of pure force of will. I’m about to find out. Who knew baking would come into my royal duties? And, super-fun twist, being judged by the kingdom, too, as well as my father, once whatever happens airs on television.

Meanwhile, David’s smile is too kind, which tells me everything I need to know about my prospects in the patisserie department. And that I need to keep better control of my face.

With reluctance, I set the tea down on the table and pick up a cookery book promisingly entitledBiscuits: A Festival of Taste.David sets to work rifling through the books, flipping through a couple of bread books till he finds something suitable.

I search till I find a gingersnaps recipe. They must have chocolate around here that I can melt and dip them in. Right. There’s a first time for everything. And if I can avoid Thomas Golden during the challenge, even better.

ChapterEight

It’s official: my previously impending doom has arrived.

By 1:00 p.m., we’ve all gathered in the expansive basement kitchens of the estate for the first challenge. Sunbeams fall through the windows. Long stainless-steel counters stretch the length of the room, with ten stations clearly set out and cameras, filming kit, and crew at one end of the kitchen.

“This is Gisele, our producer,” Colin introduces with a flourish.

“Gentlemen,” Gisele acknowledges us with an enviable air of authority. Her dark hair is piled on her head. “Welcome to the first season ofRenaissance Man. I hope you’ve all been settling in well and starting to know each other. We thought to break the ice with gathering your ingredients for your recipes, which is the focus of filming today, along with breakout interviews. Tomorrow morning, we will actually bake. Please remember this is a family show, and mind your language and behavior.”

It can’t be that hard to gather ingredients without making a disaster. I look down at the book in my hands. There’s a list of what I need and their weight and quantity. Everything I need to know is right there. The chocolate I can eyeball. Technically, I know about weights and measures. And there’s no time like the present to put theory into practice.

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