Page 7 of How to Bang a Billionaire

“I’m worried I’ll give de girl a throat infection.”

Unscrewing the cap, I took a swig of wine straight from the bottle. “There was something seriously wrong with that guy.”

“What guy?”

“Prince Eric.”

“What’s wrong with Prince Eric? He was kind to animals, lived in a palace. Good dimples.”

“Yeah, but how can you respect a man who needs a singing lobster to tell him when to make a move?”

Nik gave me a withering look. “Sebastian’s a crab.”

“How can you remember that? Are you sure you’re mostly straight?”

“He was a comedy sidekick with a racist accent. You don’t forget that shit unless you’re too busy speculating about whether the male lead is any good in bed.”

“You’re right,” I conceded. “That is pretty gay.”

I took the opportunity to consume more alcohol. A toast. To myself: Disney queer failing Oxford.

“So,” asked Nik slyly, “who would you go for?”

I made a thoughtful hmmming noise. “It’s a hard one.”

“Or you’re hoping it is.”

“You do know”—I regarded him with severity—“that not every observation your token pansexual friend makes is a cock joke, right?”

“I would, if my token pansexual friend made fewer cock jokes.” He waved a hand imperiously. “Come on, Arden, who’s it going to be?”

Maybe the telethon had left me in a funny mood but I found myself wondering how I’d feel when I looked back on this: another night with my best friend in a dreamy, golden city, talking about the Disney princes I’d like to bang. I wondered if I’d still understand or if I’d think I was ridiculous. Or if I’d feel some sense of loss. “Well,” I said, “it’s not exactly a great pool, is it?”

“Bunch of hot royals? Jesus, man, what are you looking for?”

“Um, somebody real? Somebody who loves me? Somebody who’ll fold me up like a fishing stool and fuck my brains out. Give me that and I’d scorn to change my state with kings.”

“From the amount of people who’ve trooped through here, doesn’t seem like you’re short of volunteers.”

I pulled my knees to my chin and let my gaze drift out the window to the quad below. A typical Oxford night: green grass and ancient stone, ghosts of the gold-washed dark. “Eh, they’re all Erics.”

“They’re taking dating advice from crabs?”

“There are no crabs anywhere near my sex life, thank you very much.” He gave a wheezy laugh, and gratified, as I always was to please him, I went on. “Which leaves me with…God…the early princes are kind of nonentities, aren’t they? And on the date-rapey side in the case of Phillip. And Aladdin’s out, obviously.”

Nik raised his brows.

“Not because he’s Middle Eastern. Because he’s a delinquent. I know I’m not exactly awesome, but I think I can do better than a homeless man.”

“You’ll have a degree in English. You’re going to be Aladdin.”

“Oh shut up.” I ran quickly through the pantheon. It was slightly scary how much Disney I’d watched over the years, some of it fairly recently. “Prince Naveen is cute with his ukulele.”

“I thought you didn’t like hipsters.”

“Good point, well made. Better be Prince Adam, then.”

A slight pause. “Sorry, who?”