Page 25 of How to Date a Prince

“Cheer up, old thing. Next week will probably be more up your speed.” He lowers his voice, looking around as though someone’s hiding in the corner, eavesdropping through sandstone walls. Or at least plaster and lathe. “In fact, I’m fairly confident.”

“What’s the challenge?” I try gamely and put on one of my most entreating looks.

Colin laughs with delight, shaking his head. He leans in. “No can do. My lips, I’m afraid, are sealed. But take it on good authority—mine—that you’ll enjoy next week far more.”

“That’s when the angry mob comes for me?”

“Oh no, Auggie. Something much better.”

I’m not reassured that he thinks, on some level, that an angry mob is a viable option for me on the show. I sip my tea. “Better than an angry mob?”

“Infinitely.”

He nudges the platter of offerings towards me. Thomas Golden’s éclair is closest. I pick it up neatly and put it on my side plate. His fingers have touched this pastry. Goose bumps again cover my arms. Happily, Colin doesn’t notice. I tug down the long sleeves of my shirt as if it provides some kind of protection from thinking about Thomas Golden.

Pushing aside the usual food anxiety, curiosity getting the better of me, I bite. And it’s heavenly. No wonder he won. I take another bite.

“I will say, son, there’s no harm in getting to know the others. It may make your time easier here.”

“It’s probably too late.”

“Nonsense. It’s week one. Avoiding the problem only makes it worse.”

Story of my life. But I say nothing, finishing the éclair with a sigh. I wipe my fingers clean on a linen napkin. I follow with tea, blissfully hot against my lips, as comforting an escape as I can manage right now.

“A couple of them are still downstairs, waiting for their rides, should you wish to join them.” He arches an eyebrow at me. “We’ll have your bags ready for your driver when they arrive.”

“If I go downstairs,” I say at last, “is it being filmed?”

“No, no. Everything that happens now is off the record. Plus, Gisele has left.” He gives me a meaningful look. “You’re safe.”

I sag with relief. Then I nod. Maybe I should try to make more of an effort to reach out to the others. My father would expect it, at the very least. After all, the show is an official royal engagement as far as the King is concerned. “Alright. I’ll go and say hello.”

“That’s the spirit. You won’t regret it.”

Immediately, I regret it. I approach the breakfast room, where the remaining men have gathered. There’s the sound of clattering china, the lingering scent of our baking.

Thomas speaks, his voice carrying into the hallway.

“…What’s the point of the monarchy anyway? They’re a big waste of money for you Brits based on obsolete nostalgic history. Nobody needs them anymore.”

“Branding, mate. It’s part of our proud heritage,” says another voice. Travis, I think. “Plus, the tourists love it.”

I hesitate before entering the room. I wipe the palms of my hands on my jeans, having changed into something less floury from earlier. Since we’ve finished filming, I’m more casual in a sky-blue polo, which Lauren pretended not to notice when I packed. I smooth my shirt.

“Hi,” I say as I enter.

They start, and three heads turn as one. Thomas meets my gaze, unwavering, but he reddens ever so slightly. His jaw is set. Beside him is Wilson, arguably the person who likes me the least on the show. Travis sits with them, who is some sort of very-big-deal influencer. He sits sprawled in his chair, licking his fingers clean of icing sugar.

At any rate, it’s an unnerving tableau. And they can talk about whatever they like. Even if it’s something I’m dead set against. Gav would tell me to find common ground, in his once familiar how-to-act-like-a-human session. Or be slightly less awkward, which he told me is actually endearing.

“Sorry to crash the unpopularity contest.” I give them a meaningful look. “The monarchy’s still all the rage, I hear.”

Thomas grimaces like I’ve caused him visceral pain. “With all due respect, I disagree. The role of the monarchy should be kept to the history books. It has nothing to do with modern life. Which is why I think it should be abolished.”

“Yes, the monarchy has a lot to do with history—and also with our twenty-first-century British identity,” I say easily.

“Are we supposed to get up, Your Majesty?” Wilson says in a way that shows he has no intention of rising, his ankle over his knee, foot jiggling. Obviously, his foot has prior engagements. Not that I’m one for formality. Even so, a much pettier side of me wouldn’t be sorry to see Wilson bow.

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