Page 4 of How to Date a Prince

Too bad things ended with Prince Theodor. We spent a few urgent, lustful weekends together back in uni. Luckily for Theo, he was the spare heir to the throne, so he could model and design interiors and play across Europe with no fucks to give, the lucky arsehole. And play he did. We agreed on a private, no-strings pact for all the royal reasons. For both our sakes. And then he found a real boyfriend without the bonus royal baggage. Which left me privately gutted when it ended.

“Let’s find something for you to wear.” Katie walks over to me in the cutting silence. My gaze shifts to her while I suppress memories with a cough. “You can’t stay in forever.”

“I’m committed to trying. Unless it’s a royal engagement.” I run a hand absent-mindedly through my hair. For the last six months, I’ve been a recluse, more so than usual. I need to focus on my responsibilities now, especially since my father’s stepped back somewhat from public engagements to take care of his health.

And I do care about the throne because I wouldn’t want to disappoint my mother, who died a couple of years ago. One day, she had said to me while we rode our horses together at Sandringham along a sun-dappled trail, you’ll be King and a role model. It’s a privilege and an honor, she told me. So now I worry about our legacy, about disappointing the family, my mother’s memory, and my father, the King, who usually hides in his study, binge-watching as much reality TV as he can find when he’s not busy being a workaholic as he can manage these days or off on the occasional trip. I guess we all have our own ways of dealing with grief.

Katie takes me by the hand to the walk-in wardrobe. She pulls out a sequined black shirt and somewhat slutty jeans, an old favorite. Things I haven’t worn out since uni.

“People will recognize me?—”

“I’ve thought of that.” Katie has a determined look in her eye. “I’ve brought some spray-in hair color.”

“And I’ve brought you a ball hat and glasses,” adds Gav. “We’re all putting on disguises tonight. No one will know who we are.”

I narrow my eyes at them. They’re both far too smooth, as if they’ve rehearsed these lines. “How long have you been planning this?”

Katie waves me off, shaking her head like she knows better. She’s still pink. Or again. I’m not sure. She adjusts her hair. “The night’s only beginning.”

Taking a deep breath, I look at the hopeful faces of my friends. My gaze flickers from Katie to Gav’s. It’s safer to look at him.

“Please, Auggie,” he murmurs in a way that leaves my stomach at the molten core of the Earth. Or possibly he’s manifesting a black hole I could quietly go off and die in. My heart thunders. A death in an adjacent galaxy has a certain appeal.

I open my mouth again to protest as I ball up my fists. My shoulders are tight.

“It’ll be fine.” Gav brims with his typical easy confidence. “You’ll see.”

ChapterThree

Which is how, before long, I’m in said sparkle-wear, with colorful bracelets, a black leather moto jacket, and Gav’s hat. My hair’s now dark. Katie and I head out at twilight in a separate car from Gav and Anne.

Music plays in the car. Taylor’s singing truths: I don’t need this 1950s shit either, Taylor. Or 1450s shit. The aesthetics of tradition may be brilliant, but the social reality is a nightmare.

“You’ll feel better in the club, Auggie. Trust me.” Katie pats my arm reassuringly in the back seat. But I know depression can’t be outdanced, no matter how chic the club. If that was going to work, it would have done so in my party uni years.

“Like Sex on the Beach ever helped anyone.” I give her a sidelong glance.

Katie laughs.

“Speaking from personal experience,” I begin, “there’s sand?—”

“Stop!” Katie clamps her hands firmly over her ears.

Obligingly, I stop. We look at each other. She lowers her hands.

“It’ll be fine.” She echoes Gav from earlier, abruptly changing the subject in case I go off on any more sand or cocktail-related tangents.

“We’ll see. You could put me in the Tower instead.”

“Not tonight. The ravens can have you another time.”

The city slides past the window, my misgivings caught in my chest. London’s a kaleidoscope of colors in the evening rain, nothing but reflections and lights. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep—which is often—I have a driver take me through the city, a secret dark world. I pretend I’m one of the people going about a regular night out, free to come and go as they please in blissful anonymity.

In disguise at night, I’ve gone walking down Picadilly Street, window-shopped for books, and passed bars where I pretended I was meeting friends for a laugh. Theo would be all over tonight. “Go big or go home,” he would say. He’s always the first in line for any party.

Tonight, there’s the red taillights of cars, the soft glow of streetlamps, neon shop signs vibrant beacons as the nighttime city awakens. We pass people queued for restaurants and clubs, past busy cinemas and theatres in Covent Garden. People laugh and take selfies and have fun, gathered in groups.

It might be an odd fantasy since my other escape during bouts of insomnia is working with clay, but what I’d love these days is a quiet potter’s life in some cottage outside a small village where no one knows me, where the big social event is hanging out at the local post office or a new take on fish and chips at the local pub creating a stir. I’ll take a night at the cinema too, devouring a bag of buttery popcorn the size of my head.

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