Page 32 of How to Date a Prince

He laughs. “Where’s my enthusiasm? Let’s try again.” The second time is more convincing. Colin nods at us. “Very good. Now, I’m certain you’ve all been dying to know this week’s challenge.” He catches my eye and then scans the men for their reaction. “Which, I’m delighted to tell you, is the Arts. This is your opportunity to wow the judges with your fine prowess in any artistic form you like. We were impressed in writing with your applications, and we can’t wait to be impressed in person this week. Now, since this is a planning day, do let the production team know if you’ll be requiring any kinds of equipment, materials, and so on. It can be a performance or the written word or artwork. It’s up to you.”

There are murmurs from the group as the news sets in, and soon, we all scatter. I sit down with my sketchbook in a reception room. I start to warm up by drawing the room around me. It’s meditative. Colin was right in that this week’s challenge is more up to my speed. It’s a matter of deciding what to do and what’s feasible in the time we have and the materials available on hand.

I find Colin, who is a million times less daunting than Gisele. She sits in a room in a nexus of laptops, cameras, and cords. I catch Colin by the tea. He pours me a cup, and I prepare it the way I like.

I look up from my tea. “I have a question.”

“Naturally. How can I help?” Colin asks, stirring a generous helping of sugar into his tea.

“I could do a painting, if that’s easier, but my preference would be ceramics. Except I realize that’s a big ask in terms of equipment and very unlikely to happen?—”

“We have brought a potter’s wheel and a kiln on-site,” he tells me.

Against all odds, hope rises. I gawp. “Seriously?”

A smile stretches across my lips.

Colin laughs, pleased. He claps my shoulder and lowers his tone in a conspiratorial whisper. “After all, your application says that pottery is one of your talents?—”

“My application—right. Of course. Silly me.” I furrow my brow over my tea. Of course Colin would assume, as would any reasonable human, that I had filled out the application myself. “There’s actually a pottery wheel? I mean, anything I make won’t be ready to fire this week, but it could be next week…” I muse. “We’ll see. I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think too long. We can get the materials you need today.”

I nod, buoyed. There’s a lightness in me I haven’t felt in ages. “Maybe sculpture, then. If I can’t fire it, it’ll still look like something. Or tableware.”

“Whatever suits.” Colin gives me an encouraging look.

Looking around for my sketchbook, I realize I must have left it in the reception room. “My apologies, if you’ll excuse me. I should get planning.”

“Of course.” Colin smiles over his tea, his eyes crinkling.

An unfamiliar euphoria rises, and I’m still smiling as I head back into the reception room. Which fades as soon as I enter.

Because Thomas is in the reception room. And he’s looking through my sketchbook as he sits on a sofa where I had been not long ago.

I stare, frozen in the entry. His head snaps up at my arrival, and he slams the sketchbook shut like he’s been caught in the middle of browsing some choice pornography.

“Are you spying on me?” I ask, incredulous. “That’s clearly cheating for an unfair advantage.”

“Sorry, I… it was left open on the sofa, and… sorry.” Thomas gazes up at me. “I shouldn’t have looked without your permission. I would call you Your Royal Highness, except I come from a long line of abolitionists, so I’ll say: my apologies, Auggie. I’m not cheating. I was just curious, I admit…”

I reach out a hand for my sketchbook, which Thomas hands over meekly. I continue to hold his gaze until he actually blushes.

“I’ll forgive you for the sketchbook tour, at least. Can’t say I can get on board with the abolition bit.” I sit down on the other sofa, forming an L in front of a dramatic fireplace with a black marble mantle and ornate fire screen.

Thomas gives me a sheepish look. “That’s more than I could ask for right now, really.”

We consider each other. Thomas’ cologne carries notes of cedar, a reminder of how close he had been beside me on Friday afternoon. He has a colorful patterned hardbound notebook beside him of his own, while I rest my sketchbook on the sofa beside me and set down my mug.

“Your sketchbook, by the way, is amazing. You’re really talented.” Thomas gives me a tentative smile. “And, err, thanks again for the badger help last week. Very gallant.”

“Thanks.” I shift, not used to compliments, especially about my artwork, something that means so much to me. My creative life has mostly been a secret. Till now. Or until recently, if my father knows enough to land me on this show. Aside from the vase I made for the charity gala a few weeks ago. “Once in a while, I’m prone to bouts of gallantry. Not only embarrassing myself.”

I give him a tentative smile back. I’ll take a truce.

“Is it alright if I sit here? Since…” Thomas’ lips twitch. “I can’t forget what happened in the club when I joined you and your friend, speaking of bouts.”

“I… yes.” It’s my turn to blush. “I’m sorry again. My mouth can be a serious problem.”

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