Page 6 of How to Date a Prince

Except both of us can see he’s still intently looking at me. A wave of panic clenches my stomach. Going out was a terrible idea. It was different in uni with Katie and our friends, going to a college bop isolated from the world. Heat rises in my face as I race through exit strategies. Our night out didn’t involve security. I could use the old “I need to pee” line as an out, but there isn’t any dignity in it.

Tactical error. Forget dignity.

“I like your shirt, Dave.” His gaze is open and admiring.

Oh help.

I stare at the stranger.

His grin’s ridiculously charming. Infuriating, actually.

“Um. Thanks.” I tug my jacket sleeves over my knuckles. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have worn this flowing top with the low cut revealing my toned chest. Or the low-slung jeans, suitably tight against my arse.

But then royal training kicks in.

I relax my shoulders, lift my head fully to meet his keen gaze. And he’s still appreciatively looking at me till I’m breathless. I relent into a genuine smile before I can suppress that tell, a rare moment of unsuppressed freedom in my chest as I admire him right back. “That’s very kind.”

There’s no harm in looking for one moment. Or two.

The stranger’s gaze stays on mine. He has a soft mouth and great skin and, most of all, eyes that glimmer with good humor. It’s more than enough to make a closeted prince’s head swim. Or drown.

And then his smile broadens as he searches my eyes with something like hope. My heart thunders as my mouth goes dry, to have his attention riveted like that on me, like we’re the only ones standing together here—despite the hectic club around us, the thumping music, the dazzle of lights. Beside me, Katie coughs and shuffles, which barely registers.

It’s been ages since someone’s looked at me like that. Like he wantsme. Not because of who I am or what I represent because he doesn’t know who I am. It’s plain and simple attraction, as if it’s any two people meeting in a club and wanting more of what they see.

Then, reality registers again.

Or maybe he recognizes me after all, despite Gav and Katie’s attempts to disguise me, and he wants to take advantage or sell me out. My heart sinks. The moment is broken.

“Wanna dance?” he asks. If he’s not giving me his best, most hopeful look, it’s up there, and my God, I’m thirsty for it. I’m desperate to say yes, please, anything. Like let’s get out of here and find somewhere more private.

“Absolutely not,” I blurt instead. “I don’t dance with men. Ever. Especially with ones that look like you do. I mean, you don’t look bad. Err—” Oh my God, why am I still talking? And he’s staring at me now like I’ve lost my mind. I have. “No men. None. Never. Not one. And especially not you.”

Even I cringe.

All my royal manners unfortunately left the building without me about five minutes ago, probably on the road to Oxfordshire. If only my body followed. My face burns.

I desperately try to backtrack like the last few agonizing seconds of shared smolder didn’t happen. Good thing I’m the actual king of denial. The reigning monarch, in fact.

Disappointment darkens his face. Hurt registers in his eyes despite his smooth expression—like he’s someone who might also be used to putting up a front, or maybe I’m only projecting—and I despair at having done that to him. Because of who I am and what I am and what I will be.

After all, nothing’s happened other than us looking at each other with want for a second or two.

“Especially not me?” the man asks at last in disbelief. His voice is cutting. “I’m very sorry I asked.”

“I’m sure you’ll find someone much more qualified to dance with you,” I blurt. “Like a professional. Like a professional gay man. Which I’m not.”

I wish I’d die on the spot. Regrettably, I don’t.

“You think I want a rent boy?” he asks, incredulous.

“Well—”

Katie elbows me. The jab to the ribs silences me, thank God, and my mouth snaps shut.

And then, in my panic, I grab Katie’s hand in a death grip, and wrap an arm around her. Beside me, she gasps in surprise, her head turning in an instant.

Subtle. Shit.

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