Page 8 of How to Date a Prince

Feeling reckless, I pull Katie against my body, drawing her into a deep kiss for the cameras. She returns the kiss with great enthusiasm. And then for real, at that moment, Thomas Golden steps out of the club too. He’s getting his own share of the paparazzi, but he’s watching us through the growing crowd that’s swarmed around Katie and me.

“Prince Auggie, over here!” Another photographer leans in with a giant lens and even larger flash on his camera, blinding me.

I trace Katie’s arm as I look right back at Thomas Golden and lift my jaw ever so slightly through the barrage of flash photography. She nuzzles her face into my neck to hide, her hair tickling my nose.

For a moment, I pretend she’s Thomas Golden, or that I’m straight, and I tilt her face up to mine again. And when we kiss, I melt against her mouth with want, wrapping my arms around her. When I look up, Thomas Golden’s gaze meets mine, his expression unreadable, before he turns to step into a waiting car.

Katie and I tumble into the next taxi.

Then, we’re making out, and Katie’s hand fumbles with the fly of my jeans, and I don’t stop her. Even when there’s the flash of cameras through the window.

There’s a fleeting moment where I think that I might, quite possibly, regret this all very much tomorrow.

ChapterFour

PRINCE AUGGIE WITH KATIE AGAIN!

Exclusive photos inside

It’s hard to say which is worse: the sight of the newspaper left on my bed after I do the walk of shame into the palace the next morning or my hangover misery, leaving my stomach sour and my mouth fuzzy. Or, worst of all, remembering the way Katie looked at me when I left her flat earlier, with something like betrayal. Or quite possibly heartache. She said she didn’t want to talk to me for a long while. I said I understood. Plus, there was the way that Thomas Golden looked at me at the end of the night as he left.

I’m the worst person. No more public events. I’m canceling myself for the good of the country.

I’m never leaving the palace again. No more nights out. I flop face down onto my bed after kicking off my shoes, burying my face in my arm. Camden comes over and headbutts my shoulder, purring. All I want to do is sleep for an eternity.

Which is when, of course, there’s a knock at my door. I look down, still in my club wear.

“One moment, please.” With whatever last scraps of willpower I have left, I force myself to sit up, peel off my sparkly shirt, and find a sweatshirt. I run a hand through my hair, which is still dyed. Fuck. I pull on Gav’s hat and at last go to the door. Queen Victoria never had to face the music like this because she had the good sense not to get caught out by the Victorian version of the paparazzi.

“Come in.”

The door opens, and there’s my sister. Anne takes in the sight of me and folds her arms across her chest. The corners of her mouth tug down. “Hi.”

“Hi.” I don’t know whether to apologize or what to apologize for this time—or still—and while I try to gather up my remaining brain cell amid the hangover, she looks ominous.

“Father wants to see you.”

I groan.

“Now?”

She nods. “He’s waiting.” And she turns and leaves without any further words for me.

“Bollocks,” I mutter after I’ve shut the door. I wonder why she didn’t text, but I’m not sure where I’ve put my phone. It’s probably out of battery. I hurry my protesting body into the shower in an effort to get the color off my hair in record time before I get dressed and go to see my father in his study. At least my hair’s back to the usual dark blond. Mostly. Let’s hope he doesn’t notice with my damp hair.

I knock. He calls for me to enter.

When I do, the all-too-modern smart television’s on, and my father’s absorbed in a program. A man’s finished giving a woman a rose before the image disappears into blackness as he shuts the TV off.

His study is a grand room, because of course it is in a palace. The furniture is traditional, all dark woods and paneling. One day, I’d love to see him try something new, like a Scandi look.

My father, or King James to everyone else, is a secret TV junkie. He’s addicted to the news, especially those twenty-four-hour channels that overanalyze everything. He also loves nature documentaries, and what he loves even more than nature programs and factual programs is something taboo that Anne and I don’t talk about. When we talked, that is.

The simple truth is that the King is addicted to reality TV.

Dancing with the Stars. The Great British Bake Off. Survivor.

I suppose we all have our secret shames.

---