Page 44 of How to Date a Prince

“Why did you choose to come onRenaissance Man? It’s an interesting choice for a royal, wouldn’t you say? Especially for someone as private as yourself?” Colin gazes at me.

My face burns then. I open my mouth. Shut it. So he must know then I didn’t apply to enter myself.

“I’m full of contradictions,” I say, flat. I glance away before the sting of vulnerability comes. I shake my head slowly. “I want people to see what being a royal in the modern age is like, I guess. In the hopes of being… more relatable.”

My father would like that.

“I see.” Colin tilts his head. “Is a relatable monarchy important to you?”

“It is, yes. I think my father’s right that if the monarchy is to survive, we need to be more accessible, generally. More transparent. More modern.” I speak with confidence.

“You mean, specifically more transparent about you as the future King.”

“I didn’t say that.” My eyes widen. I’ve walked into a setup.

“You can hardly separate the monarchy from you, its future, Auggie,” Colin says mildly. “Of course, our viewers have a keen interest in you and your role on the show. And to take it back to last week’s competition?—”

“Yes. Please do?—”

“How did it feel to come in last place? Did it feel… relatable?”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out but a hiss of hot air.

Hurt, I search Colin’s eyes. I thought he had been on my side. “I… I don’t know. It… wasn’t undeserved. I fucked up.”

“Language.” A crew member frowns at me.

I can imagine Gisele twitching somewhere on the vast estate.

I sag ever so slightly before straightening again.

“It must have been very emotional, making those biscuits and them not working out, for your mother.”

“I… I failed her last week,” I say softly. “And her memory.” My hands tighten into fists at my sides. I slide my hands into my pockets to hide them. “I’ll have to do better on the next challenge, that’s all.”

ChapterSeventeen

When we wrap, I rush out of the room, ignoring Colin calling after me. This is really becoming my go-to way to exit a conversation. I walk blindly outside into the sun, blinking at the sudden brightness. I raise my hand to cast a shadow over my eyes.

Wilson’s nearby with one of the Renaissance men. He smirks, their conversation stopped dead at the sight of me. They’re seated shirtless in the lounger chairs. Whatever they’re doing, they’re not working on anything other than their tans.

I hurry past, heading down the track I walked the other night with Thomas on our impromptu hillwalking excursion. I should have taken a bottle of water, but all I want is to get away. Instead, I walk and walk, past the paddocks of horses who graze, past the stream, and through a couple of fields till I approach a rise of land.

At its summit, I hear a guitar, and I follow the sound down a swale to a copse of trees. Thomas sits on a log, singing, practicing his song for the challenge. He’s facing me. And he sees me but doesn’t stop. To his credit, he doesn’t even miss a note, though concern registers on his face.

And he’s good. Excellent, actually.

I look around for lurking cameras or boom mics, but I don’t see any, though that’s not a guarantee they aren’t out there. For all I know, they’ve got cameras on the entire estate. My shoulders tense.

Standing with my hands in my pockets, I listen to the last verse as he finishes his song. Thomas sets his guitar down. We consider each other, and I try to swallow down a lump in my throat. Around us, the tall grasses wave with the breeze.

“What’s wrong?” Thomas asks.

“Aside from the, err, obvious? Like you need to ask?”

“Just—don’t run this time, okay?”

Glancing around for a camera again, I keep standing in place despite my overwhelming flight instinct. “As for what’s wrong… everything. I don’t know. I just filmed a confessional, and it was a disaster. And then—then there’s last night.”

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