Page 94 of How to Date a Prince

I’ll just need to date several eligible young women to appease my father and tell him I tried to be straight, but it didn’t take. And to prove to Thomas that I’ve moved on too. Or at least that I’ve tried. If Thomas can move on, so can I. I’ll tell my heart to forget him. That’s all there is to it. With my resolve firm, I delete the app.

* * *

“Oh my God, you actually did a reality TV show? So the press is true!” Lady Laura Greyson, my date for the evening, can’t stop giggling. We’re out in an exclusive restaurant in London in a private dining room. She’s beautiful, long hair and long legs. And completely insufferable. I long for Katie.

“Yes.” It’s an indisputable fact. “As much as a fact as I made myself into a human projectile.”

“I did see the promos, actually. I thought they were computer-generated or something images of you. The show airs from next week?”

“Yes. And it’s really me. Not a deepfake.”

“Oh, we’ll have to watch them together! This sounds like so much fun. I can’t wait.”

“Mm.” I press my lips together. I could totally wait. At least a lifetime, if not two. Watching myself is something to be endured, like a root canal. And I’m sure Lady Laura isn’t waiting for the moment that I spill my feelings for Thomas before the British viewers. Which, admittedly, will be awkward. Shit. I mean, there comes a point where I can’t deny feelings or my desire and attractions.

“You totally need socials. You’re soo secretive. At first, everyone thought you died doing an equestrian event, though nobody could figure which one. Half of people said you died tragically and that the equestrian event was a cover-up. Another half of people said the equestrian accident was a legit event so exclusive we haven’t heard of it. Filming for television makes much more sense,” she muses over her wine, playing with a long tendril of her hair.

“I didn’t say anything about horses or jumping or competitions. Or TV.” I fork some salad and tangerine and raise it to my mouth. The tart taste is grounding. Thankfully, the lights are on low in the room, mainly lit by candlelight. I’m sure the venue thinks it’s to set the romantic mood, while I’m keen to avoid triggering another headache. And also, bonus for poor lighting and candid photos making their way to social media, or worse, the paparazzi.

“I can help you set up some social media accounts,” Laura offers generously. “It’ll be a laugh. Look, let’s take a selfie right now.”

“What?”

Laura comes around to my side of the table, drapes herself artfully around my neck, and proceeds to take several high-angled selfies, where no doubt I look bewildered and she looks fabulous.

“You need to consider your angles,” she informs me, matter-of-fact, as she moves through several well-studied poses like she’s one of my magazines come to life. “Like this. Or this. You have brilliant cheekbones. Use them.”

“Maybe I’m not meant for the limelight?”

“You’re a prince. Of course you’re meant for the limelight—and you’re literally going to be on prime time. Anyway, all the other royals have social media accounts, mostly private. Except for you.”

“I like my privacy. Real privacy being, you know, private.”

“You’re born to be a public figure.” She gives something suspiciously like a pout, shaking her head. “You need to play the game, Auggie. It’s all about being seen, strategically. You can control the message.”

“Is that right?”

“Oh yes. Absolutely.” She nods with certainty. But then Lady Laura didn’t grow up with my father. Or knowing she’ll be the monarch one day.

My lips twist as she shows me a series of our selfies, rapid fire. The first few are dreadful, and then when the initial alarm across my face subsides, I look almost normal in them. Except, Laura laments, I’m not smiling.

“Let’s try again,” she says brightly. “Maybe show a little teeth. You have lovely teeth.”

I groan.

“Smile!”

And I give my official royal event smile, where the muscles in my face move to the right configuration, with the right amount of teeth, but my heart is elsewhere. She kisses me on the cheek for the last one, then fusses over me, wiping off lipstick from my cheekbone.

“May I finish my meal now?” I ask politely, looking down at some lonely greens and salmon. “If the photo shoot is over?”

“Go on.” Laura smiles, then leans in. “Who’s your publicist? I’ll send these to her as well. They may come in useful.”

“My publicist? Do you mean for the Royal Family?”

If I wasn’t alarmed before, I am now. Past alarmed. She can’t be serious.

“You must have one.” She looks horrified at the idea I might not. “For yourself, of course. Especially with all of the media coverage after your accident.”

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