Page 20 of How to Date a Prince

“Hi.” I offer a smile, which isn’t returned. “What’s your name?”

He ignores the question. Instead, the man lifts his jaw in challenge. “Good thing you’re making this easy for the rest of us, Your Royal Highness.”

I bristle, despite knowing better than to respond to barbs. Except I’ve already fallen victim to barbs on this show. I have pride and duty on the line too, after all. “We’ll see about that. I’m here to win. Like you are.”

“Whatever.” He scoffs and walks away. “Prince privilege only gets you so far, just saying.”

It’s a gut punch, and I frown at his retreating back. I must win the challenge to prove him wrong.

* * *

At 10:00 a.m. the next morning, the long room buzzes and echoes with the noise of both cast and crew until Gisele brings us to order.

“Ignore the cameras, keep focused on your work or when addressed by Colin and the judges,” Gisele reminds us sternly, her intent gaze on us like she’s waiting for us to slip up. “And no swearing.” She stares directly at me.

Somewhere behind me, I’m very much aware of Thomas. He’s stuck to himself this morning, focused on what he’s doing. A furtive glance over my shoulder shows him head down, reviewing his tablet. A strange warmth rises in my face. Traitorous body. He’s got all the calm and easy charisma of a champion. Outclassed, absolutely. It’s that old feeling from many years in my riding competitions when I was starting out—I could see the top contenders quietly confident in the ring even before the first jump. Years later, I had that confidence, but when it comes to baking, it’s evaporated.

Meanwhile, I look down at all of my ingredients, which have been artfully arranged in front of me, more for the camera’s benefit than mine. One advantage I have is my discipline. And determination, even if the challenge is gingersnaps and not, say, surviving boarding school.

A single brown egg sits contained in a ramekin bowl.

Which reminds me of my flour-sifting mission YouTube educated me about last night. Along with the finer points of how to separate a yolk from the white of an egg. I totally have the theory down like I’m ready to give a TED talk.

Colin appears at my elbow. “Strategy, old boy?”

I sigh at the callout. Even from the host.

Stay focused. Colin’s harmless, at least. Or neutral enough.

“Sifting, I think, is the way forward.” I nod at the bowl, a quiet menace.

He looks intrigued.

“For an accurate measurement.” As if I know what I’m talking about. Thomas Golden at least knew. No one needed to prompt him.

“Of course.” He stands back as I make my way to the table set up with various tools.

Out of the corner of my eye, as I pass Thomas Golden, I can’t help but notice his forearms are tanned and toned, his sleeves rolled up. Unfair working conditions, frankly. Thankfully, he’s engaged with whatever he’s doing, and he doesn’t notice me.

So, I turn to my flour situation, take a cup of flour, and sift. I feel terribly pleased with myself as a cloud of flour rises. My nose tickles. I take a second scoop and sift it too.

I should probably check the weight, but I have no idea where the scale has gotten to. Never mind.

Putting that bowl aside with something approaching confidence, I hold my head high as I face down the egg and the empty small bowl beside it. The woman on YouTube made it look easy.

Right. If she can do this, so can I.

I crack the egg on the side of the bowl. Success.

Until the egg slides down the outside of the speckled ceramic bowl and pools in an eggy puddle on my wooden worktop, with the lurid promise of salmonella and other popular afflictions. Then, what follows is a series of regrettable egg-related mishaps, splattering eggs like fallen soldiers.

I open my mouth to swear. Luckily, I remember Gisele’s warning, and my mouth snaps shut in a huff of air.

Maybe fifth time lucky.

This time, I crack the egg, with plenty of crushed shell fragments falling alongside the egg over the counter and bowl.

I close my eyes. Apparently, visualization practice has let me down.

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