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Brayden woke up cradled in the embrace of the world’s most comfortable mattress.

For several moments he lay there with his eyes closed, stretching languorously.

The sheets had to have a thread count in the thousands, and the comforter was the perfect weight.

This hotel was worth every penny. He rolled over and snuggled his face deep into a fluffy, perfectly supportive pillow.

A pillow that smelled like Flip’s soap.

Brayden’s eyes shot open.

He was in a large, airy, yet somehow cozy bedroom, the walls a muted gray blue.

Three floor-to-ceiling windows stretched upward fifteen feet or so.

The heavy damask curtains remained undrawn, so weak sunlight filtered in.

It had to be getting close to noon, if not later.

Against one wall stood an antique writing desk, meticulously cared for and in perfect condition, with a scattering of documents on the surface.

The bed was a king-size four-poster that could have been pulled straight from any child’s picture book featuring a castle.

Aside from Brayden and a mountain of pillows, it was empty. The smooth coverlet on the other side indicated Brayden had stayed there alone.

Oh my God. Did I kick a prince out of bed last night?

No. Surely it was just one of Flip’s many guest bedrooms. But then why did the sheets smell like him? And why the obviously-in-use writing desk?

Okay, so this was Flip’s bedroom. Now that the fog of sleep had lifted, Brayden remembered Flip showing him in here, offering him a pair of pajamas to change into—which he was wearing, and they were awesome—pointing out the en suite bath, and then leaving him to settle in for the night.

Brayden had been so tired and discombobulated he hadn’t thought twice about whose bed this was.

Brayden sat up.

Someone had set out a bathrobe—simple but luxurious—and a pair of slippers, which he put on, because the floor was freezing.

The perils of nineteenth-century architecture, probably.

Then he went and got lost in a bathroom larger than his first apartment, standing under the spray of a shower that definitely did not rely on nineteenth-century plumbing.

Afterward he dried off on the most luxurious Egyptian cotton towel known to man and, faced with the choice of putting his pajamas back on or raiding Flip’s closet, redressed in the pj’s.

And then he had no choice but to face the music.

With no small amount of trepidation, he crept to the massive wooden door to the bedroom and pulled.

It opened soundlessly on smooth hinges, onto an enormous but simply appointed living room with the same towering ceilings as the bedroom.

Flip sat on a comfortable-looking sofa, wearing a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses, chinos, and a burgundy sweater over a collared shirt.

He had his slippered feet propped up on a footstool, and a cup of coffee steamed invitingly on the end table next to him.

Brayden froze in the doorway, his stomach a rictus of knots. This was so… easily, comfortably domestic. He’d never expected to find himself here at all, never mind with a prince—a sweet, genuine, attractive prince.

A sweet, genuine, attractive prince whose parents and entire country thought he was dating Brayden.

Brayden tapped his fingers against the door and Flip looked up.

“So,” Brayden said. “Good morning.”

Flip set his newspaper down on a whole stack of newspapers on the couch. Brayden clenched and unclenched his fists.

“Good afternoon, actually.” Flip moved the pile of papers to the side and gestured for Brayden to sit.

Brayden sat. “So. How famous am I?”

Flip cleared his throat. “Maybe we should have breakfast first. Well, lunch.”

Oh boy. “That bad, huh?”

Grimacing, Flip gestured to the far wall, where a console table stood with a variety of electronic devices. “You plugged in your cell phone last night. It’s been, ah, fairly active for the past hour and a half.”

Brayden’s stomach made a rude noise. At first he thought he might be sick—but no. “Okay, yes, lunch first and then… that.” Which brought him to another salient point. “Uh, I don’t suppose I can borrow something that’s not pajamas?”

“No need, I think.” Flip pointed out a familiar rolling suitcase that had been conveniently stashed out of the way just underneath the console table.

“I took the liberty of asking Celine to retrieve that from the hotel for you. Let me know if there’s anything missing.

We can threaten them with legal action.”

Now there was a scenario he hadn’t foreseen. “You think someone wanted to get their hands on my Andrew Christians?”

“I think the staff at your hotel demonstrated a deplorable lack of respect for your privacy, and I wouldn’t rule out further trespass.

” The hard edge to his voice made Brayden wonder which poor hotel manager had gotten an earful.

“It was one of the employees who leaked your whereabouts on Twitter. Hence the impromptu welcome from the paparazzi.” He blew out a breath and the tension in his shoulders relaxed.

“That’s really all you traveled with in that little bag? ”

Brayden shrugged. “The hotel has a laundry service.”

Flip shook his head. “You should see my father pack for a trip. It’s incredible. Mother calls him il divo .”

Brayden wondered where Flip fell on the packing scale. “They seem very….” He waved his hand, trying to encompass their general lovey-doveyness without saying it out loud. “My parents are like that too.”

“It’s wonderful and occasionally mortifying, isn’t it?”

“That’s an accurate assessment.” Brayden stood and retrieved the bag. The light on his phone was flashing with just about every possible notification, and as he stared at it, it began to ring. Lina’s face popped up on the call display. He sighed. “I might as well do this now, if you don’t mind…?”

Flip shook his head and gestured to the bedroom. “Please, be my guest.”

Brayden took the call sitting on Flip’s obscenely luxurious bed. He didn’t think his legs could stand the scolding. And he was right, sort of.

“ Oh my God ,” Lina almost yelled in his ear. “I’ve been calling you for two hours!”

That was hardly Brayden’s fault. “Stop getting out of bed so early.”

“Me? Tell that to Grandma , she’s the one who woke me up.

‘Brayden is dancing on my YouTube suggested videos,’ she says.

” Oh hell. He wasn’t looking forward to that conversation either.

“Are you seriously telling me you neglected to mention your mystery sugar daddy is a legit prince? A legit prince you’re actually dating? ”

“I…,” Brayden said and then stopped. He and Flip hadn’t officially broken up as far as anyone knew.

Not that there had been anything real to break up, officially, but—he glanced at the window.

How good was spy technology these days? Was someone eavesdropping on his cell phone conversation through the glass with some kind of fancy laser listening device? “Sorry.”

“Sorry? Good Lord.” There was a thump. Brayden imagined Lina flopped over dramatically on her bed. “Tell me everything.”

“What? No. I just got up. I’m starving. We’re doing lunch in like ten minutes.”

And didn’t that sound incriminating. He held the phone away from his ear as Lina shrieked. “Where are you right now?”

“Uh. In Flip’s apartment at the palace.”

“ Flip ?”

“That’s his name. I mean, his name is His Royal Highness Prince Antoine-Philippe, but that’s a mouthful.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. You are the worst brother ever.”

“Hey!”

“Details,” Lina persisted. “This is the guy who’s got you dating again after ten years of slutty denial. And you lied to me about it. I demand compensation. What’s he like?”

Sighing, Brayden crawled farther back on the bed and stared up at the hammered tin ceiling.

The problem, he suspected, with telling Lina that Flip was kind and compassionate and warm and funny and generous and charming was that Brayden would have to acknowledge, at least to himself, that the primary problem with their relationship was that it was fake.

“Handsome. Charming. Good dancer. Good with kids.” He remembered how Clara looked at him like he hung the moon, and how obviously he adored her.

“He loves his family, and he’d do anything for his people. ”

Yep. There they were—feelings. The worst.

“God, you have it bad, huh?”

Brayden swallowed. He recognized the truth, even if he didn’t know what to do about it. “Would I be here if I didn’t?”

“Bro.” Lina’s voice broke. Oh no, she was going to cry. “I know… I know things weren’t easy for you after Thomas died. I know we don’t talk about what he meant to you. And we don’t have to. But I just… I’m so glad that you want to stop punishing yourself for something that wasn’t your fault.”

Shit, now Brayden wanted to cry—partly because Lina was right, and partly because she wasn’t. He wasn’t really dating Flip, and he hadn’t stopped punishing himself, even though he desperately wanted to. He didn’t know how. “I, ah… thanks,” he said, voice thick.

“Uh-huh.” She sniffled and then inhaled audibly in an obvious attempt to rally. “So, what’s he like in bed?”

Brayden laughed in spite of himself, swiping at the single tear that had escaped. “A perfect gentleman,” he said, which was true. Flip had let him have the entire bedroom to himself. “And that’s all I’m saying.”

“I hope he gets over that if he wants to keep you around.”

She knew him way too well, but if he said anything else, she’d figure out they hadn’t slept together at all, and then she’d really get suspicious.

“I have to go. Twenty bucks says Grandma sent me a ten-page critique on our dance via text message, and I should probably call Mom and Dad. And have lunch. Seriously, I am starving.”

Lina let him go, and he took a few deep breaths before thumbing open his texts.

Grandma had restrained herself to only four texts. His mother had sent seven.