Page 37 of How to Date a Prince

“Talking.” I groan. Katie’s meant to be helping me out of—and not deeper into—a hole I’ve cratered myself into. “So, what am I supposed to do?” It’s not quite a wail. Technically.

“Do? Why are you asking me?”

“Because you’re my friend?”

“Auggie, you know I love you to bits. But I’m definitely not even your maybe-girlfriend. That’s very clear.” Her voice is soft, resigned. “It’s not fair to me to have me as your cover.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Shit.”

Doom rises from my stomach. “Nobody can know I’m gay, Katie. I’ve already lost too much because of that.” I think of Gav and shake my head to clear it. That would have never happened. The wholeRenaissance Manexperience is like boarding school, sent away again from my life. Or the secret tryst with Prince Theodor, openly gay, but it was different for him because he wasn’t next in line to inherit the Danish throne. “It definitely doesn’t go along with my father’s rebranding of the kingdom. He wants me to marry. You know that.”

“How about… you should consider your own branding?” she suggests carefully. “You’re an adult, even if you’re his heir. You have as much right to a life and happiness as anyone else?—”

“No, I don’t. And you honestly think happiness lies with Thomas Golden?” My voice rises with alarm, and then I quickly snap my mouth shut in case someone overhears me through the thick stone walls. Which makes me literally think of lying with Thomas Golden, and that definitely isn’t helping my current situation. My face warms.

“Auggie. Listen to me.”

I listen hard.

There’s a long pause on the phone. And a muffled sound. Is she crying?

“I can’t be the one you talk to about this. I’m sorry. You’re going to need to sort this out on your own. This is too close, Auggie. I need… time… to get over what happened.”

I swallow hard, feeling wretched about how selfish I’ve been. “You’re right. Absolutely right. Shit. I’m the worst friend?—”

“I need to hang up now.”

And when she does, there’s a hollow left in my chest. I shift in bed, staring at the dark phone in my hand, and sag into the mattress.

From where I lie, I gaze out at the rising moon. I shiver with cold, pulling up the blankets around me once more. I’ll need to find a way to not think about Thomas. And avoid him forever. Like by, say, winning a reality show. That should both pass the time and be delightfully on task. Then I can work on making things right with Katie again. Throwing myself wholeheartedly into the competition gives plenty of scope for thoughts and time-occupying activities. It’s for the sake of the kingdom, after all.

* * *

By mid-morning, I’m standing knee-deep in early July grasses by a stone outbuilding that looks a lot like a derelict bothy. Technically, it has a roof, though I can’t guarantee that that daylight isn’t poking through its rafters.

“The structure’s perfectly sound, don’t worry,” says a crew member cheerfully as he brushes past on the narrow path. “We’ve checked.”

Sun slants through the drift of high white cloud. I run my hand through my hair. I should have put on sun cream, but never mind. I eye the building, which is at least more upright than derelict, and I’ve been thoroughly assured no wild creatures are living there. Not even a badger.

I step back to let the crew and techs continue their work with me slightly less underfoot. The stone building sits in a clearing by a copse of trees. From here, the grand house is invisible, and I could be alone in the woods. Except they’re cheerfully setting up a generator and installing a kiln, rigging up lighting and setting up a couple of tables before they bring in what I need: clay and sculpting tools. I’m looking forward to this challenge. Or at least to working with clay. Nobody can distract me when I’m throwing pots. Not even Thomas. Or Wilson. Or even the looming prospect of being King one day. Out here, I’ll be able to calm down and breathe and get my bearings again. So far, none of the crew have said anything about catching me with Thomas. But it doesn’t necessarily mean that they don’t have footage somewhere of us together.

“I think you’re set, Your Royal Highness,” says Rose after signing off on some paperwork. “Everyone’s been through that needs to be. We’ve checked everything for function and for safety.” She shows me the generator and gives me a rundown of how it works. The kiln itself is a beauty, far nicer than the old—but reliable—kiln back in Buckingham Palace, which could be a relic from the Industrial Revolution or, quite possibly, the Paleolithic. I trade notes with a ceramics tech they’ve brought in, and she’s set up a test fire that morning to complete later in the day, when she’ll be back to check.

Then it’s back to me and my sketchbook, trying to decide what to make for this week’s challenge. And despite my best efforts, some other part of me wants to know what the other men are doing. Including Thomas. And, more specifically, who he’s writing poems or songs about. And why he looked at me the way he did back in the club—well before the show or our walk together—with longing.

ChapterFifteen

Ihole up in a study lined with books for the afternoon, left mostly alone to draw and sketch and paint studies of my proposed project for hours. And I definitely don’t obsess alternately over Thomas and Katie, albeit for different reasons. The cameras show up, but watching me draw is only so exciting for TV. I answer a few questions, and then the crew and Colin leave, and I’m left in peace again. I’m so absorbed I even forget I’m on a reality TV show.

By the time the sun’s set, I’m wedging clay and feeling a lot calmer, sleeves rolled up, humming along to the music playing on my laptop. Out here, I feel free, like I do when I’m alone in the palace basement at the potter’s wheel in the middle of the night. Clay doesn’t care who I am or about the kingdom, for that matter.

The kiln successfully completed its test fire. A potter’s wheel has been set up by a window. I have a sink with a silt trap, plenty of clay and materials to work with. I walk around, turning on lights, and set up my laptop to play a mix of pop and rock music.

It’s easy to lose track of time like this, prepping clay to throw. I’ve decided on a set of dinnerware: plates, side plates, bowls, serving platters. I’ve made these kinds of things before, but never as a coordinated set. I’ve painted details in my sketchbook for the design. Though I know I can pull this off, the issue is time. Clay needs time to cure before the first firing, then the painting, and another final firing. But I feel reasonably confident I should have a shot at staying in this week.

For some reason, Gav’s voice comes again to me then. “Own it, Auggie.”

Throwing plates, I have no idea how much time passes as I sing along to the music, and I lean over, rapt as each plate comes to life, spinning under my fingers at the wheel. I squeeze the sponge from an excess of water and gently touch the rim to smooth it out.

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