Page 90 of How to Date a Prince

“Well…” I try to focus. I’m starting to get foggier with fatigue since we’ve been watching film and conversing for about an hour, going from darkness to bright and back again. My head is starting to protest with a dull ache behind my eyes. “It was a good challenge, the triathlon. It was nice to do a time-based event, with no judging. It’s very clean, isn’t it?”

Colin agrees, and we move on to the cycling segment as tension rises in my body. The pack of men competes under bright skies, with a few of us—myself included—starting to look sunburned. There are cameras on our helmets as well as the cameras at the various stations along the 40 km route to rehydrate us. Men whip by in spandex on premium bicycles, winding down country lanes and sweeping hills like a Lycra commercial in all the bold colors.

“It was grueling, I remember that much. To be honest, my memory’s a little patchy from that week. But I remember fighting hard to be with the leaders.”

“And Wilson won.”

“Yes, he did.” I press my lips together.

“What do you think about that?”

“Well, he was the fastest, wasn’t he? The clock wins.”

“Which leads us to the final challenge.” Colin gives me an assessing gaze. “Do let me know if you need a break.”

They show a clip of Thomas and me standing dangerously close together, then going up the staircase and turning down my wing to my suites with Thomas’ hand on my back.

I swallow hard. They have everything. Then they overlay an audio clip from our walk.

Thomas speaks, his voice warm and teasing. “Tell me: do princes go on Grindr?”

And then mine, just as teasing. “Princes, I’m afraid, don’t kiss and tell. It’s part of our royal pact.”

I put my face in my hands. Inwardly, I flail. My father will see this. “This is blackmail.”

“This is reality TV. And you both madeexcellentcontestants.”

We take a break long enough for me to gulp down some water and fidget with my cast.

They adjust the lighting. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience right now.

“I’m fine. Let’s continue.” I draw a deep breath into the pit of my stomach and release it slowly. The longer I’m here, the more worn-out I’ll feel. “Let’s see the steeplechase.”

We watch the package of me in the stable getting my horse ready. Everything looks idyllic. The horses are gorgeous, as horses are, and the leather saddles shine to a high polish. The men are colorful in their riding attire. And I’m the most colorful of them all in pink. It wasn’t a conscious choice to pick pink today to accessorize with, but it is one of my favorite colors. Absently, I touch my silk scarf at my throat. It’s the same one, by some miracle. Someone must have kept it for me.

All eight riders gather for the start, with everyone anticipating the start and the horses on edge with the excitement of the riders and spectators. I lean forward in my chair, both anxious and nervous to watch what actually happened. I only remember distorted moments. And I have no idea what happened after.

“Are you sure you’re alright to see this?” Colin asks again with concern. “The footage is… dramatic, shall we say.”

“I want to see. Then I can let you know if it’s okay to use, like you told me.”

“Yes. It’s important that you have a say in this,” Colin agrees.

“But not the footage with Thomas?” I ask. He tuts and nods at the screen.

And then, the horses and riders are off. It’s a spectacular summer’s day, with broad blue skies and emerald-green hills, full hedgerows with fences across the course.

Early on, we lose riders around the first jump, but I’m already ahead of the rider who is unseated. The footage shows everyone getting up, horse and rider both, walking away. And the loose horse runs the next couple of jumps with the pack of competitors before veering off. The rest of the race is absolutely as cutthroat as I remember.

And then it’s me and Thomas and Wilson, riding expertly across the sweeping field like our lives depend on it, neck and neck with Thomas and Wilson half a length behind. The cameras don’t quite catch Wilson’s dirty trick of whipping me, but it only served to drive me to ride faster towards the first fence.

Then, I see a flag to the side of the screen that whips with the wind. And Thomas’ horse spooks violently, and everyone can see Wilson’s too close, pressing into us—then Thomas’ horse rears, and Thomas is down, and I’m instantly leaning out of the saddle, grabbing for the reins of Thomas’s horse as we are nearing the fence, just enough for our horses to change our trajectory to avoid trampling Thomas—and then I go into the hedge and fence headfirst.

I don’t remember anything after that.

But now there’s footage of both Thomas and me on the ground to fill in the gaps of my memory, both too still. But a moment later, he’s crawled over to me, an unmoving lump in the mud, screaming my name with raw emotion. His fingers fumble for a pulse.

Then, there’s a swarm of people and commotion. Someone’s yelling for medics—I think Gisele—and there’re already sirens going off. Thomas kneels by my head, wiping dirt from my face, loosening my helmet, my cravat, my shirt.

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