Page 27 of How to Date a Prince

And why do I care what Thomas Golden’s thinking? It’s obvious he doesn’t think highly of me at all.

“Yeah, I’d bang her after a few drinks,” decides Wilson, scratching the stubble on his jaw.

“Wilson.” Thomas Golden runs a hand through his hair. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “That’s about enough.”

Wilson shrugs, lowering the phone. But he mercifully shuts up.

“I’ll see you all next week.” I fold my arms across my chest.

“Right, I’m out.” Wilson makes a beeline for the door. “C’mon, Travis, you want that lift or not?” And Travis leaves with him.

Next week, I’ll have to step up my game. There’s no other option. And I must see what else I can find out about Thomas Golden during week two. Then, it’s Thomas Golden and me alone at the table, looking uncomfortably at each other.

ChapterEleven

Thomas Golden doesn’t leave quite yet, and we stand awkwardly by the table and its abandoned vintage floral china and pastry crumbs from the impromptu tea party. We look at each other for a long, strange moment. Habit kicks in then, and I start putting dishes and teapots onto the silver-plated trays. A moment later, he helps too, even going so far as to wipe down the table with napkins.

“It feels weird to leave this here.” He studies the tray in front of him. “We could at least take them into the kitchen. It would be polite.”

“Agreed. It’s the least we can do.” I’m not going to be out mannered by Thomas Golden.

And on the way to the kitchen, I surreptitiously peek at Thomas Golden. He’s carefully not looking at me. Till his gaze flickers over and away again so quickly I could have imagined it.

We walk into the kitchen, currently empty of people, with the back door open, which lets in a warm breeze and a peek at the welcoming gardens beyond in the golden haze of the late-afternoon sun. I follow Thomas Golden to the sinks, where bakery trays and colorful ceramic bowls are haphazardly stacked, with more spatulas than you could shake a whisk at.

Thomas Golden sets down his tray, leaving space for me on the crowded countertop by the sink to place my tray. “They must all be on a break.” He shrugs. “Or the crew’s run away.”

“Well, they’ve forgotten Colin behind if they’ve left. I spoke to him not long ago,” I say lightly after I slide my tray beside his. I run a hand through my hair, letting it fall back into place. “You didn’t even leave him an éclair, the poor arsehole.”

Thomas laughs, looking like he’s surprised himself with his own laughter. He peers at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time. “Shit. I should have?—”

“Don’t worry, I saw him eat at least one,” I confess, an unexpected smile tugging at the corners of my mouth against all odds. Éclair-related banter is much safer than, say, bringing down the monarchy. A real conversation killer, that.

He looks relieved, his smile leaving just as quickly when there’s a blur of motion low to the ground. A badger rounds the corner of the large central kitchen island, looking all black and white and, well, badgery.

“Oh my God, what’s that?” Thomas Golden whirls, backing into the counter and bumping into a stack of baking trays, which rattle loudly, and also startle the badger as well as us.

“It’s only a badger,” I tell him helpfully, matter-of-fact. “Definitely not a deer. Or a fox.”

He ignores my attempt at a joke, looking increasingly alarmed. “What do we do? Do they bite?”

“Only sometimes.”

Thomas Golden gawps at me. “Have you heard what a honey badger can do?”

“Just sit on the island,” I advise calmly. I gesture broadly at the large wooden butcher-block-style island running down the middle of the kitchen. He doesn’t need to be told twice. I hop up to sit on the island beside Thomas Golden, with our legs dangling over the edge.

I glance at him. “I thought you were someone who was all about the outdoors and nature?”

“I keep my wilderness outside, thanks.” He pulls up his legs entirely, the heels of his shoes on the edge of the island, his arms wrapped around his knees. “What do we do?” Thomas Golden asks again, giving me a meaningful look that clearly says: your country, your badger, your problem.

I didn’t expect to hear anxiety in his voice. He’s so near I can see faint freckles on his nose, the crinkle of his eyes. For a moment, I can’t breathe to look at him so close, transfixed like I had been at the club. And he’s staring back at me. I swallow hard and wait for oxygen to return to my brain before I attempt to speak again.

“You’ll have to wait for me to reveal my latent badger-whispering skills for which all royals are famous.”

“Yes, please.”

It’s my turn to laugh. We watch the badger continue to sniff its way along the base of the cupboards, eating any fallen bits of baking it finds. When the badger comes closer to us, Thomas lets out an undignified squeak. I also lift my legs to mirror Thomas’ position. I’m not really up for an experimental nibble from the badger. However, a secret part of me wouldn’t be sorry for an experimental nibble from Thomas Golden. I peek over my toes as the badger continues to explore over the terra-cotta tiles.

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