Page 27

“The prime minister of France.” Irfan shot him a sideways look, and something in his tone shifted slightly to the left. “My son is a skilled diplomat, you know, and a passable actor. Those are related.”

Brayden didn’t know quite where this was going, but he nodded anyway. “Sure. That makes sense.”

“But not as good as me,” Irfan went on. He stopped at a roadside stall and bought a mug of hot cider for each of them. He handed Brayden his and then blew across his own and started toward the antiques shop on the corner. “And I’m his father. I always know when he’s putting on a show.”

The penny dropped. Brayden sloshed apple cider over the rim of his mug and onto his fingers, but he hadn’t even hissed at the pain before Irfan handed him a napkin. What could he say? Sorry? You caught us? I know what you think, but actually we’re together for real now?

“Flip is a stubborn man. He doesn’t do things he doesn’t want to do.” Great, so at least Irfan didn’t think Brayden had blackmailed Flip into anything. Probably he wasn’t about to get locked in the royal dungeon. “The question is, what are you getting out of it?”

Brayden looked at the cider, which didn’t hold any worthwhile replies. When he looked up, Irfan was still watching him.

“You don’t have to answer. Whatever is going on with you and Flip is your business—for now.” He sipped his cider. “But if I discover you acted in bad faith with him, I will have the palace chefs bake you into the Christmas pie.”

He let that hang in the air a moment, and Brayden was left wondering if Irfan thought Brayden had only wanted to get internet famous.

He was scrambling for something to say when Irfan shook himself and said, “Ooh, I gave myself chills with that one. Come on. Constance loves antiques. I bet you find something good in here.”

Brayden trailed helplessly after him.

As they shopped, he mulled over what he’d say to Flip. Then, back at the palace, between wrapping gifts, he jotted things down on some stationery from Flip’s desk—phrases like I’m sorry and I feel awful for letting you down and I don’t want you to think I’m not taking our relationship seriously .

But Flip never brought up the article, and Brayden didn’t know how to broach the subject. Hey, just FYI, someone internet stalked me and found out things about us, and oh by the way, your dad is totally onto us?

That night he lay awake in bed, trying to sleep with Flip’s cold feet pressed against his calf because they’d forgotten the Magic Bag.

If Irfan had guessed the truth about their relationship, who else might know? Who could guess? Celine, probably, and Bernadette. Maybe some of the palace staff, if they realized Flip had slept on his own couch that first night. More people than Brayden cared to think about, anyway.

Flip hadn’t brought up Brayden’s Instagram. Either he didn’t know—he’d been busy all day, after all—or he didn’t want to start an argument. Brayden couldn’t blame him, this close to the holidays. Maybe he thought Brayden had already learned his lesson.

And he had. Perhaps it had all started as a charade, but it was real now, and that meant Brayden had something to lose.

It was time to start acting like it. He didn’t care what people thought about him, but Flip was good and kind and sensitive.

Brayden wouldn’t give anyone a reason to think anything else.

Flip wasn’t much for Christian religious celebration, but the church in oldtown Virejas hosted a prize-winning choir, so he cajoled Brayden into dressing in slacks and an amethyst sweater—Flip couldn’t help being the slightest bit possessive—and they went downtown, with just Celine to look after them.

He laced his fingers with Brayden’s and led them up to the highest seats in the gallery, overlooking an altar painted in vivid blues and gold leaf.

“How traditional of you,” Brayden said as they settled on the hard bench, their fingers still entwined.

“Hush,” Flip admonished and squeezed his hand. “Just listen.”

The choir performed Handel’s Messiah with little fanfare, but Flip liked the meditative nature of it, the ritual.

Most of all he liked that it seemed like something he could do with Brayden next year and the year after and the year after that.

The performance might change, but the important details—the way Brayden’s hand felt in his, his thigh pressed next to Flip’s, the acoustics of the building, the sense of peace—those would remain the same.

It was possible he’d been dwelling on his plans for the future a lot in the past few days. He’d barely had time to think about Brayden’s unfortunate second baptism into tabloid fodder. He was too busy building castles in the sky.

They kept a comfortable silence on the drive home, though they had the partition up. Brayden kept his fingers laced with Flip’s until Celine pulled up outside the palace.

Flip kissed Brayden’s cheek and squeezed his hand. “Go on inside without me? I’ll be a few minutes. I need to talk to Celine about something.”

Brayden gave him a curious look, but he got out of the car when Johan opened the door. “All right. Don’t be too long, okay?”

“I won’t. I just need to talk to Celine about holiday coverage,” he lied. “Put the kettle on for me?”

Brayden always put the kettle on. “Of course.”

When he’d closed the door, Celine rolled down the window to the back seat. “What’s up, boss?”

Flip took a deep breath. “I want you to set up internal interviews—someone who’s looking for a long-term commitment but who already has a solid amount of experience as head of an individual security team.”

Celine paused. “Your Highness?”

“Brayden’s going to need a permanent detail.” The idea still seemed impossible, but he couldn’t deny how right it felt. He knew that sometimes their duties would separate them, and Brayden would need his freedom when Flip was occupied elsewhere. “We’ll start looking in the New Year.”

Celine broke into a smile. “Yes, Your Highness. And… congratulations.”

When Flip entered his apartment, he spotted his tea mug right away—one with antlers for a handle that Brayden had bought in Finland at the hotel gift shop. It was already steeping with his habitual nighttime blend—something with lavender and rosehips and absolutely no caffeine.

He had every intention of starting that conversation about social media—he needed Brayden to know he wasn’t angry and that Flip would put a whole team of Cedrics at Brayden’s disposal if he wanted to have an official account—but he heard the water running in the shower.

Serious conversation could wait. Flip skipped the tea and went straight to the bedroom, following Brayden’s trail of stripped-off clothes and leaving his own.

Brayden had left the bathroom door only partially closed, and he looked up when Flip opened the shower door, eyelashes clumped together, skin rosy pink.

“What’s a guy have to do for some privacy around here?

” he teased, stepping back unnecessarily to make room.

“These are the prince’s private rooms, you know. ”

Flip could have bantered with him for hours.

Instead he kissed him and stepped under the spray to take his face in both hands and taste his smile.

Brayden spread his palms on Flip’s chest, tangling lightly in the hair there, but he went easily when Flip nudged him back against the shower wall.

“We’d better hurry up before he catches us, then. ”

Brayden’s breath rushed out in a whoosh as Flip trailed kisses over his chin and jaw. “Is that… is that so?”

Flip hummed into the juncture of his neck and slid his hands down Brayden’s back to the curve of his ass. “Think you can be quick?”

“I….” Brayden exhaled shakily as Flip eased himself to his knees. “…think that won’t be a problem.”

Flip didn’t bother taking it slow. Tonight he wanted to take Brayden apart hot and dirty.

He pinned his hips to the wall and swallowed him down, teasing his thumbs over the tops of Brayden’s thighs.

Brayden cursed as though he hadn’t expected that, and his cock went from half-hard to fully erect against Flip’s tongue.

“Oh my God,” Brayden moaned. He had one hand braced against the wall, the fingers balled into a fist, but he raised the other, brought it to Flip’s face, and traced his orbit and then his cheek before thumbing at the corner of his mouth. “Fuck.”

Flip had never given head in a shower before, and the thrill of it superseded the ache in his knees and the difficulty of breathing without getting water in his nose.

His own cock bobbed between his legs, wanting attention of its own, but Flip focused on the sweet salt of Brayden’s skin, the minute trembling in his thighs.

Everything was slick and hot and steamy, and when Flip wet a finger and pressed it between Brayden’s cheeks, he moaned and curled his fingers tight into Flip’s hair and said, “God—sorry— fuck ,” and came, salt-sour on Flip’s tongue.

Flip licked his lips and swallowed. Then he looked up, trying desperately to suppress his laughter. “ Sorry? ” he echoed, getting unsteadily to his feet.

“Shut up, Your Highness,” Brayden said, taking him by the elbows and pushing him against the wall.

But Flip couldn’t help himself, and the laugh started to take over. “That’s so Canadian —”

Brayden cut him off with a kiss and a hand around his cock, sliding the foreskin forward and back, and Flip had a bright, heart-stopping moment of clarity that this was it, this was the man he would spend the rest of his life with, before pleasure took over.

They dressed in their pajamas and went to sit on the couch in front of the fire, Flip with his tea and a paperback he’d been meaning to finish for months, Brayden with one of Flip’s mother’s crossword books.

Flip tucked his feet under Brayden’s thigh when they got cold, and Brayden put the throw blanket from the back of the couch over Flip’s lower legs without looking up.