Page 92 of How to Date a Prince

I smile at his enthusiasm, though I beg to differ. But I bet I’m a ringer forVictorian Manor possibly evenPostmodern Man. The spin-off series would be amazing. “Thanks.”

“November,” Colin says again. “I do hope to see you again.”

And at last, we disperse, with Alyse my silent shadow as we leave. My mind is buzzing while a headache’s wrapped thickly around me like fog. I’m exhausted, but all I can think of is Thomas.

ChapterThirty-Three

At lunch the next day, my father eyes me over the paper. The paper crinkles. I’m mostly stirring my soup, pretending not to notice him. Not a lot of the seafood chowder is going into me, despite it being a favorite. The chef is trying hard to entice me into eating these days, and I feel guilty that all I’ve really eaten today is bread. Very tasty bread, but still only bread. A headache pushes behind my eyes. I’m supposed to be at my next physio session for 2:00 p.m., but I’m more likely to end up back in bed listening to audiobooks.

I finally lift my head up from my soup to meet his gaze. “Yes?”

“How was the filming yesterday?” my father asks curiously. He lowers the paper. It rustles.

I give an expansive shrug, set the spoon down, and sit back in my chair. Maybe I’ll try eating again in a few minutes. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

I nod. “We reviewed my footage together, and they interviewed me.”

“I see.” My father nods his approval, then brightens. “Like a confessional. I love confessionals.”

Somehow, I’m fairly certain he won’t love my Thomas Golden–related confessional where I spill my guts out enough to end the Empire and the American republic in one fell swoop for my Academy Award.

“Sort of? I’m not sure what that is, to be honest.” I plead ignorance.

“That’s the part of the reality show where they cut away to the contestant having a private reveal to the camera or host,” Father explains, brightening, getting into it like a man on a favorite topic. Probably because it’s in his top three: reality show reveals, harassing me about progeny, and missing Mum. “About what’s happened.”

“Oh, right. Yes, there was some of that. We did a few interviews when we filmed in the summer too. On-site.” I sip some water like it’s some kind of cure for this conversation. At least it’s great for the complexion. It’s a win for skin care. “Apparently, all the other men had also come into the studio to do their voice-overs.”

My father folds his paper and sets it down to the side. He peers at me with great interest, leaning in. “And what did you say in your session yesterday?”

“I can’t tell you,’ I say mildly, pushing the bowl back. “NDA, remember?”

A hint of a smile plays over my father’s lips. “Very good.” Then, he gives me a serious look. “Aside from filmed reality, let’s discuss current reality. Auggie. I think it’s time you tried stepping back a little into regular life again.”

“I’m not up for public engagements?—”

“I didn’t say that. Just hear me out, please.” His blue eyes are rapt.

I listen, fidgeting with my signet ring.

“I know your recovery is difficult. But you are slowly getting better, which we’re all delighted to see. So, I think it’s time you tried engaging more.”

“Oh?” I ask warily, feeling a catch coming on. If he goes on about any kind of engagement—royal or marital—I’ll flee for the hills.

He sighs. “Auggie, I’m grateful you’re still alive, believe me. I can’t even begin to describe how worried I’ve been about you. And I realize you’re young, but I do suggest putting in an effort on dating to find a woman to marry?—”

I splutter. Marital-adjacent, then.

“—to carry on the family bloodline. And quash those silly rumors in the press about you and Thomas Golden being romantically involved. Outrageous. I don’t know where they come up with these ridiculous ideas.”

My lips press together as I hold his gaze, unwavering. I redden, even so, wishing I could will my complexion to behave itself. As if I have any self-control when it comes to Thomas, and my body knows it. “What if I don’t want to do that? Marry, that is.”

“Son, it’s not about what you want. It’s about duty and your responsibilities to the family and the monarchy, as well as the stability of our kingdom if it is to survive.”

Frowning, I grip the edge of the table. How many times can a man hear this same conversation before expiring on the spot? “Father, I?—”

There’s no way right now I can bring up the fact that I’m gay. Family tradition, sweeping everything that matters under the rug. If only I could hide there too, except there would be a prince-shaped lump beneath the antique rug underfoot, which would give me away. I’m sure that’s the only problem with that scenario. Not like, say, denial. I grit my teeth.

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