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Brayden had scrupulously researched his vacation, eager to squeeze as many new experiences out of it as he could. But like every time he went somewhere, he found himself captivated by the novelty of his surroundings.

His hotel, located in a former palace, boasted thick stone floors and high ceilings and plumbing that creaked and groaned charmingly, as though it were a friendly ghost. A few minutes’ walk and he could be in the main square, with its multicolored facades and the Gothic spire of the cathedral stretching into the sky.

Though the sun rose late and set early, Brayden found the glow of the shops and streetlights warm and welcoming—fortunate, since the temperature was hovering around freezing.

But for a boy who’d grown up in Scarborough, it wasn’t too bad—until the wind kicked up off the Baltic, at least.

Also, market stalls lined all the pedestrian streets, offering roasted nuts, pickled fish sandwiches, and mulled wine, as well as handmade gifts—hats and scarves, slippers and sweaters, pottery and tree ornaments and fruitcake.

Brayden spent the whole first day walking from stall to stall, sampling everything, until the time change and the cold and dark caught up with him and he dragged himself back to his hotel to upload the highlights to Instagram.

The next day he awoke to his hotel phone ringing, and he blinked disoriented into the darkness and managed to clear his mind enough to answer. “Hello?”

“Good morning. I hope I didn’t wake you. Is this Brayden?”

Brayden decided not to cop to still being asleep at—he glanced at the bedside clock—past nine. The day was getting away from him already. “Yes, hi.” He stifled a yawn. Drat. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I’d been awake for an hour already.”

On the other end of the line, Antoine backtracked gracelessly. “I apologize. If this is a bad time—”

“It’s fine,” Brayden assured him as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and looked around for the hotel-provided slippers. These stone floors were a bugger on warm feet. “I prefer to get up earlier than this, actually, but the late sunrise is throwing me off. What can I do for you, Antoine?”

“Please, my friends call me Flip.”

“Flip.” Brayden smiled despite himself. Antoine was so poised and proper that the incongruous nickname felt perfect. “What can I do for you at quarter past nine in the morning?”

“I was hoping you remembered our agreement for Friday night, and I was able to clear my schedule until lunch. I don’t suppose you could make yourself available for some shopping?”

“At the royal tailor’s?” Brayden teased.

“Bernadette informs me that we’ve already cut things very close by giving her only four days to prepare,” Flip said, his voice grave. “I would hate for you to miss out on your bespoke-dinner-jacket experience.”

“And I would hate to embarrass my horrifically posh date by wearing something off the rack.” Brayden slid into the slippers. “Give me ten minutes to shower and then—should I meet you somewhere?”

“No need,” Flip assured him. “I have a car. I’ll see you soon, Brayden.”

With no time to waste, Brayden got acquainted with the shower, which did gurgle and hum a bit but had excellent water pressure. He wished he had time to test out the different settings on the expensive-looking showerhead, but that would have to wait until after his appointment.

He didn’t realize until he was dressed and standing outside the lobby that his hotel was on a pedestrian-only street.

Wondering if he’d been had, he glanced from the cheerfully decorated potted cedars that bookended the hotel doors to the Christmas lights that adorned the lampposts.

A bakery down the street exuded the smell of cinnamon and sugar, reminding Brayden he hadn’t eaten since last night.

A handful of people strolled down the cobbled street, oblivious to Brayden’s indecision.

Should he go back inside? Maybe Flip had the wrong hotel?

But then, from two blocks down, came a low rumbling of tires on stone, and a long car with blacked-out windows rolled serenely down the street as curious passersby turned to look.

Brayden didn’t blame them. If James Bond had a sugar daddy, he would drive a car like this—shiny and black, sleek, badgeless, with an immaculate chrome grill and a back seat that seemed to go on forever. Not that Brayden was getting any ideas.

At least not until the rear passenger-side door opened and Flip stepped out, hotter than any James Bond in a pale gray peacoat that probably cost more than Brayden’s first year of university tuition.

“Dear God,” Brayden muttered, glad the cold provided an excuse for his flush.

Then Flip smiled at him, and Brayden nearly melted into a puddle. “Brayden. There you are. I didn’t keep you waiting too long, I hope.”

“No, I really just got out here,” he promised. “Though I did worry that maybe you had the wrong hotel, since you said you were driving. I hope I’m not going to cost you a ticket.”

Flip laughed as though Brayden had said something charming… or maybe as though traffic tickets happened to other people. “If you do, the favor you’re doing me will be well worth it. Shall we?”

Once upon a time, Brayden’s mother had warned him about getting into cars with strange men. He didn’t know if ultra-rich regular passengers counted as strange, but what his mother didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

Inside, the car was luxuriously appointed in leather and polished wood and utterly silent, even as they pulled away from the curb. A tinted-glass divider separated the passenger compartment from the driver.

The center bore a very subtle insignia—a crown in a circle made of two twisted loops, and below it the monogram AP.

Oh. Shit .

“Sooo.” Brayden cleared his throat and wiped his palms on his best jeans, which seemed incredibly shabby just then. “When you said we were off to the royal tailor….”

Flip’s answering smile held both sympathy and rue. “Les Fils Royaux has been the tailor for His Highness Prince Antoine-Philippe since he was in diapers.” The smile turned wry. “Though I don’t believe the diapers were tailored. That seems excessive even for us.”

Oh shit . “So you’re….”

“The crown prince of Lyngria, heir presumptive, et cetera. Sorry. You really didn’t know?”

“Honestly gobsmacked, promise.” Wow. Wow , Brayden was dumb.

His sister was going to laugh her ass off when he told this story.

Airline captains were supposed to brief them on passenger VIPs, but maybe they had no idea either.

And now Brayden was doing a favor for a prince.

“Are you sure I get to call you Flip? That’s not, like, an offense worthy of, I don’t know, deportation or ritual fruit-throwing? ”

“Well, we do have an annual food fight, but I reserve the rottenest tomatoes for people who insist on calling me Antoine.”

Brayden snorted and then had to cover his face in embarrassment that he’d made such an undignified noise.

But that didn’t last long, because this situation was honestly too cool to dwell on his many faux pas.

“Right. I apologize for that. I’ll bring that up at the next managers’ meeting too.

‘Maybe we can add a preferred-name section on those manifest lists. Also Prince Flip says we need to get on adding more Dirk Gently .’”

“I’d appreciate it.”

They grinned at each other in silence for a few seconds before Flip shook his head minutely and continued. “In any case, I thought, well, now that you know the full extent of what you signed up for, I ought to give you a graceful way out.”

“Are you kidding? How many guys can say they’ve gone to a fancy charity ball with a real-life prince? That’s almost as good as the tux.”

Flip laughed. “Not nearly. You haven’t seen Bernadette’s work. But you do understand the scrutiny you’ll be under? Everyone will want to know who you are, how we met. They’ll think you’re after my title or wealth….”

“Not your hot bod?” Brayden teased, but the once-over was 100 percent genuine.

He shrugged. “I don’t even live on this continent.

My family doesn’t follow the tabloids, and I doubt charity-ball news from a tiny backwater European country is going to make even the International section in the Toronto Star . Uh, no offense.”

Flip looked vaguely amused but waved it off. “None taken.”

“So the only way they’re going to find out about it is when I go home in a couple weeks and tell them about the one extremely cool date I went on with the prince of Lyngria.

And I’ll have my swanky tux to prove it.

As long as you don’t mind that I’m probably going to eat with the wrong fork or whatever, I’m game. ”

The car pulled to a very quiet stop. “I think the monarchy can weather a cutlery scandal,” Flip said. “Shall we?”

Brayden’s eyes went as wide as saucers when Flip opened the door to Bernadette’s shop. “Oh wow. It literally smells like money in here.”

Flip carefully controlled his smile. Brayden didn’t have a filter on his mouth, and while that might be a problem come Friday night, right now Flip was having a hard time minding. “Paper, coin, or plastic?”

“ Silk , darling,” said Bernadette as she walked from the back of the shop.

Les Fils Royaux had all the trappings of an exclusive club.

But Flip looked right past the dark-stained wood furnishings, bright, flattering lighting, limited inventory, and, of course, the shop’s logo, specially granted by Flip’s ancestor to Bernadette’s—a crown threaded with a sewing needle, encircled by a loop of thread.

Bernadette fit in exactly, from her flawless dark skin and perfectly applied makeup to a three-piece suit that fit impeccably despite the fact that she was about seven months pregnant.

“Antoine-Philippe,” she said to Flip—one of a few people from whom he didn’t mind the use of his full name—and he bent to perform the customary triple cheek kiss. “Qui m’as-tu amené?”