Page 14

“This is new,” Brayden commented as a group of people in Nehru-style formalwear set themselves up at the back of the stage with a dhol drum, an ektar, and a sarangi.

Then a man and two women took to the forestage, dressed in bright salwar kameez.

When the musicians began to play, Flip was surprised to recognize a song his father had often played when he was growing up.

Just as the emcee called on anyone who knew the dance to join in, Flip’s father appeared through a parting crowd. He caught Flip’s eye and smiled deeply.

Flip looked at Brayden. “I don’t suppose you know how to dance a bhangra.”

Brayden lifted a shoulder sheepishly. “Believe it or not, I do, actually.”

Flip’s father could never know. He’d have them married off inside a week.

“The instructors at my grandma’s dance academy, we all used to take turns teaching each other. It was fun. I’m pretty rusty, though.”

Clearing his throat, Flip gestured toward the space in front of the stage. All around them, the crowd had moved back to make room for the dancers. “Would you care to join me?”

Brayden looked torn, but he shook his head and squeezed his fingers around Flip’s. He hadn’t even realized they were still joined. “Another time. They’re not doing this for some white boy from Scarborough. This is for you and your dad.”

As though on cue, Irfan appeared over Flip’s shoulder and gestured with both hands for him to join. Behind him the dance was already underway, with the three scholarship dancers forming the beginnings of a circle. Irfan moved to the beat as well, obviously itching to get started.

Flip cast a backward look at Brayden, hoping it didn’t seem too longing, and then lost himself in the familiar movements as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, kicked up his feet, and prayed Bernadette had left enough room for him to move without tearing a seam.

Tomorrow some right-wing blog would claim he was going to convert the entire country to Islam and outlaw eating beef—facts were not their strong suit—but tonight he didn’t care.

His father was in his element, moving with the practiced ease of someone who’d danced in a dozen Bollywood blockbusters, and his enthusiasm was contagious.

Flip spared a glance at Brayden as the song wore on and found him—consciously or not—dancing the same bedi step as Flip, clapping and hopping in place, several steps back from the action.

Mostly, though, Flip needed his concentration for the dance, which was taken right from one of his father’s movies.

He had memorized it as a child, but that was a long time ago.

His father hadn’t broken a sweat and didn’t even huff for breath when he said, “Your Brayden seems like a nice boy.”

Flip needed to copy his father’s cardio routine. They traded places as the choreography called for, and Flip managed not to say he’s not my Brayden . “I’m fond of him,” he said, and wished he’d been able to agree with his father instead.

“And he can dance bhangra!”

Uh-oh. “Dad—”

Too late, though. He was dancing over to Brayden, still in perfect time with the choreography, only instead of the clap at the end of the bedi step he was making come-hither motions to get Brayden to join them.

Brayden protested for several seconds, long enough that the step changed to jhumar, but Irfan kept gesturing with his left hand even as he lifted his right, and finally Brayden gave in to the encouragement of the people around him and joined the dance for the last verse.

Flip’s dad was probably composing the speech he’d give at their wedding.

Brayden obviously hadn’t seen the movie—he moved just a split second behind the changes in the choreography.

But his form was perfect—straight trunk, toes pointed up on dahmaal, low and wide on the chaal, arms at the perfect angle.

And the way he smiled as he did it, broad and uncomplicated, oozing joy even as he shot Flip a vaguely sheepish expression…

. Damn it. This wasn’t what Flip had planned at all.

He hadn’t meant to plate himself a perfect piece of cake and then deny himself the pleasure of eating it.

The dance wrapped up to boisterous applause and even a few whistles.

Flip shook hands with the dancers and complimented their performance, flushed equally from the exertion and the attention to part of himself he normally kept private.

He thanked the choreographer for inviting him to join in, but before the crowd could descend upon him, likely full of questions about bhangra, Brayden appeared at his elbow.

“I could use a water break,” he said, sliding his arm through Flip’s. Then he addressed the assembled guests. “Do you mind if I borrow him? I need someone to make sure I don’t die of dehydration before I find a waiter. And maybe someone to double-check I didn’t rip a seam.”

Flip let himself be led away, not sure whether the emotion swirling through his chest was gratitude or dread.

By the time Brayden climbed into the back of the car for Celine to drive them back to his hotel, he felt like he’d been through a meat grinder. He practically fell against Flip when the engine started.

It didn’t help that their adventure together was coming to a close.

He took a deep breath, inhaling whatever simple soap Flip washed with, and made himself sit up. Just because he felt pathetic didn’t mean he had to act like it. He had some dignity. “Is this the part where I tell you I had a really nice time tonight?”

Flip’s smile looked as tired as Brayden felt. “Is that your way of letting me down easy?”

Brayden shrugged and turned to look out the window. The lamps were all lit and cast the streets in a sort of cozy, ethereal glow. Beautiful. “That’s the story, right? I’m supposed to break your heart.”

“That’s what we agreed,” Flip said softly.

The car rolled down otherwise empty cobblestone streets.

It had to be two in the morning, if not later.

Tomorrow—late; Brayden wasn’t getting out of bed before ten at the earliest—he’d check out one of the hop-on, hop-off tours or maybe see about a trip into the countryside.

He’d heard there was snow in the mountains, and a horse-drawn sleigh would make a great Instagram post.

It probably wouldn’t be as much fun alone, though.

“After we fake break up, can we still be friends?”

Flip’s silence was all the answer he needed, but Brayden turned to look at him anyway. His expression didn’t give much away—he’d probably had actual lessons on maintaining a poker face—but his lips turned down at the corners, and the skin around his eyes was tight.

“Yeah,” Brayden agreed quietly. “They’re not going to believe we broke up if we keep hanging out together. It was a nice thought, though.”

The car turned the corner onto his hotel’s street. Finally Flip said, “It really was a good night. I’ve never had that much fun at the Night of a Thousand Lights before. And that’s…. Thank you for that.”

Brayden was about to tell him he should do it more often, that fun looked good on him, but he found himself focusing on the window past Flip’s head.

People seemed to have congregated on the street outside his hotel.

At two o’clock in the morning on a misty, chilly December night. Were they trying to catch pneumonia?

The car slowed to a stop, and Brayden automatically reached for the door, too tired to remember he ought to wait for Celine. But when he popped it open, a bright light blinded him and someone shouted a question in French, too garbled for Brayden to hear over another, this one in English.

“There he is! Mr. Wood, how long have you and the crown prince been an item?”

“Is there any truth to the rumors of a secret engagement?”

“Mr. Wood, can you comment on Prince Antoine-Philippe’s management of the Crown Mining Co.?”

“Over here, Brayden! How big is the prince’s—”

A hand closed around his arm and jerked him back into the car.

Over the voices of the reporters, he heard Flip curse and then instruct Celine to take them back to the ring road until otherwise instructed.

Flip leaned over him to close the door, and Celine peeled rubber as they sped away, leaving Brayden’s hotel in their dust.

The roar of the engine quieted some a few moments later, and a hand touched Brayden’s arm. “Brayden? Are you okay?”

He took a deep breath and shook his head, which felt stuffed with cotton. “I think so. What was that?”

“Paparazzi.” Flip’s expression could have frozen the fires of hell. “The ball was televised. Someone at the hotel must have recognized you and leaked your whereabouts to the press.”

Brayden’s heart was still beating about twenty times a minute too fast. “Jesus. Well, that’s inconvenient.” All his stuff was there.

Flip slumped back in his seat and wiped a hand over his face. “I should have known this would happen. The press was always going to be interested in you, and then I introduced you as my boyfriend…. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Hey,” Brayden said weakly, too raw from shock to hide the sting those words evoked.

Tonight was just an arrangement , and he’d let himself forget that.

Flip wasn’t the only one who’d lost sight of practical matters.

“I agreed to this plan. I demand my share of the should-have-known-better blame. I was too dazzled by the whole… 1 percent glamor and charm and once-in-a-lifetime thing to stop and think.”

That hung in the air for a few heartbeats before Flip said quietly, “The press attention comes with the territory, I’m afraid.”

“I guess.” Brayden leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. God, he was tired.

They drove in silence for a few more moments, and then Flip asked, “What do you want to do?”

“Honestly?” He forced his eyes open again and glanced across the car. “I just want to go to bed and deal with this in the morning.”

Flip nodded, straightened his posture, and knocked on the partition. It rolled down a second later. “Take us back to the palace, please, Celine.”

The partition rolled up, and Flip turned his attention to Brayden. In the light from the streetlamps they passed, he seemed very human. “You can stay with me tonight.”