Page 5 of How to Date a Prince

“And here we are, lovely.” Katie looks out at the entry to the club, complete with boisterous queue. Her gaze flickers over to mine before she quickly glances out the window.

“It’s actually not too late to turn the car around?”

“Out.”

Before long, instead of starting a new life somewhere like rural Oxfordshire, we’re delivered into the thumping club. Gav had the foresight to book a table in the VIP section, at least. It’s hipster approved, the place to be in London tonight, he assured us. Brick walls are moodily backlit. The bar glows blue, the bottles of alcohol under spotlights. It’s thrilling to hide in plain sight, helped along with our fake IDs, which get us in without issue once we were confirmed on the VIP list by the too-cool hostess.

Gav waves at us from the table in the corner as we enter the VIP lounge. Beside him, Anne frowns at the sight of me. The sinking feeling returns. Katie waves back cheerfully. She heads over. And instead of facing Anne’s scorn, I beeline to the bar. In short order, I’ve downed a shot for nerves, and I’m up a bellini. I love being anonymous like everyone else in this club that thumps with bass and dazzles with strobe lights. My shoulders relax.

Katie soon joins me at the bar. She glances fleetingly at me before busying herself with her hair again.

I order her a bellini, too, and pay with the cash Gav gave me earlier alongside the fake ID. Katie and I have had a pact for years now to marry for appearances’ sake if we’re both still single at thirty, but we both know I’ll be married off well before then. Because progeny. Meanwhile, we like to keep the press guessing with the oldare they or aren’t they a couple? To add to the confusion, Katie makes a point to be seen out with other men too. I’m occasionally—grudgingly—spotted out with Suitable Ladies of the Appropriate Background, like I need to marry a rare breed of hound.

“You’re getting broody.” Katie clinks her glass with mine. She’s now fully focused on me. Her expression is all business, but the lingering flush over her cheeks gives her away. “Also, you and Anne eventually have to talk.”

“We do talk. Technically.”

She rolls her eyes. “Please pass the butter isn’t a real conversation. You know what I mean. You’re smart, Auggie?—”

“Name—” I remind Katie, giving her a meaningful look and a nod at the crowd around us.

Katie smiles, then looks around, too, to prove a point. “Don’t worry. As if anyone can hear us with the music. But let’s have it your way… Dave.”

“Dave? I’m so not a Dave.” I wrinkle my nose. “My fake name can’t be Dave.”

She pats my arm while I sigh. Then, I accidentally lock gazes with a man roughly around my age who is, quite simply, beautiful with his dark hair, fair skin, and perfect posture like a dancer’s. He’s easy in the generous attention he’s getting. The short-sleeved shirt he wears reveals muscled arms to go along with his athletic build. He looks confidently at me from where he stands further down the bar. I bet he’s not a Dave either.

I quickly look away. God. I’ve been caught out already. We haven’t even hit the dance floor yet.

Katie follows my gaze and looks ready to stage an intervention. Her eyes then widen at the sight of the man in something like recognition. I have no idea who he is. I glance over at him again, and this time, he smiles?—

And he starts walking over to us.

“Fuck.” I grip my drink. He must have recognized us too.

Me.

We start to make moves to go join Anne and Gav at the table, the lesser threat at the moment, but we’re blocked by a crowd of people.

“He’s coming for you, Katie.”

“No. He’s looking at you, Dave.”

And before she has a chance to fill me in on who he is, he’s joined us. I pray Gav’s hat and glasses and my new hair color do something to disguise me, along with my unprincely clothes. My sequined blouse glitters.

“Hi,” says the stranger as I busy myself with my drink, looking down so the brim of my—Gav’s—hat hides my face in case of any accidental come-hither expressions. “How’s it going?”

He has an American accent and fantastic cheekbones. At least he doesn’t seem like the paparazzi or the press. I glance at him again from the corner of my eye.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.” His lips curl into a terribly appealing smile. It irritates me to no end that he can simply let that sort of energy out into the world without a public health warning. Like he’s got nothing to lose. “I’m Thomas.”

I do my best to pull a princely—or even a placid expression—rather than the reactive scowl that he deserves. The toes of my leather boots gleam, I discover.

“I’m Katie. This is Dave.” Katie basks under his attention. “He’s shy.”

“Shy?” he asks.

I glance up fleetingly, then try to study my boots harder. Maybe if I play dead, he’ll move along.

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