Page 89 of How to Date a Prince

Then Gisele just smiles. And new footage begins.

Me saving Thomas from the wayward badger in the kitchen, with us up on the island together.

Oh my God. Did they keep a badger at the ready to see what might happen?

Then there’s Thomas, walking in the tall summer grasses—with me by his side, caught in a zoomed-in private moment, sharing a laugh. The way I look at him, my expression soft, leaves my heart pounding. And clearly wanting more. A lot more.

Oh no.

And then he’s looking at me like we’re in our own private world in the golden, hazy light of sunset.

Because we thought we were alone.

“You filmed us,” I say, breathless. Everything’s getting too warm in here. I shift in my chair.

“Of course we did,” Colin says easily.

I’m terrified about what happens next.

They show us laughing, watching the sunset, having a beer together.

And then, they’re outside the bothy, the soft light glowing from within late at night. And the sound of us talking and laughing. Thank God there’s no film of what’s going on inside. But soon, conversation gives way into just enough to let the viewers know exactly what’s going on inside.

There’re sounds of our heavy breathing for just a moment.

“You can’t air this,” I say flatly. “You can’t.”

“We can and will,” Gisele informs me triumphantly. “You boys deserve an award for your perfomances out of the gate.”

“What do you feel watching this?” Colin asks smoothly.

I reel in my seat, my heart—and more—exposed to the entire country. And Thomas’ too. Moments that were meant to be private—and only ours.

“Upset, actually.”

“Why?”

“This is private, Colin. All of it.”

“You signed a waiver.”

I open my mouth and shut it. “The only thing the scene’s missing is a hand on a steamy bothy window like it’s a scene fromTitanicwith Jack and Rose.”

“And you won the week,” Colin continues without missing a beat while my head spins between the footage and the lights and the light speed of the transition. His eyes sparkle like he thrives off my rawness. “Very deservedly.”

I cough.

“Your sculpture was such a wonderful testament to the late Queen.” Colin sounds positively demure. “It was very beautiful.”

I haven’t been down to the pottery studio in months, even during sleepless nights. There’s not a lot I can sculpt or throw with one good hand. There’s no pottery, no middle-of-the-night drives since the motion of the car sometimes makes me dizzy. Instead, I lie in bed or on the sofa, waiting for the sun to rise. Which leaves me plenty of time to think about everything: my mother, Thomas, and becoming King one day. And that Oxfordshire fish and chips shop I could totally run in the witness protection program. With Thom helping me, of course.

“I’m so glad the piece turned out,” I tell Colin at last. “I have it back at the palace, awaiting glazing.”

“Which brings us to week three.” Colin beams.

They start the trio of challenges for week three. My hands tighten on my lap as we watch the first challenge. It’s very interesting now, being in the observer’s perspective rather than immersed as a participant. From where I sit, warm and comfortable in the studio, I watch all nine men in swim trunks standing and posturing on the beach at Brighton like it’s some kind of seaside swim trunks photoshoot. Naturally, I pay attention to Thomas, who is glorious, and I suppress a sigh. Then, we swim through a dazzling morning, and it’s quite the vignette they put together of the men as eye candy, water dripping off muscled bodies as we splash our way onto the shore after the swim challenge. A lot of people will be thirsty after that. I certainly am, admiring Thomas.

“What do you think?” Colin asks.

---