Page 10 of How to Date a Prince (Being Royal #1)

Chapter Eight

I t’s official: my previously impending doom has arrived.

“This is Gisele, our producer,” Colin introduces with a flourish.

“Gentlemen,” Gisele acknowledges us with an enviable air of authority.

Her dark hair is piled on her head. “Welcome to the first season of Renaissance Man . I hope you’ve all been settling in well and starting to know each other.

We thought to break the ice with gathering your ingredients for your recipes, which is the focus of filming today, along with breakout interviews.

Tomorrow morning, we will actually bake.

Please remember this is a family show, and mind your language and behavior. ”

It can’t be that hard to gather ingredients without making a disaster.

I look down at the book in my hands. There’s a list of what I need and their weight and quantity.

Everything I need to know is right there.

The chocolate I can eyeball. Technically, I know about weights and measures.

And there’s no time like the present to put theory into practice.

The crew puts microphones on all of us. “Always assume they’re on and recording when you wear them,” Gisele says casually.

The camera focuses on Colin.

“The bake off,” Colin says theatrically, “is everyone’s favorite challenge. I hope you all rise to the occasion.” He laughs. “Unfortunately, the person with the lowest score from the judges will be sent home.”

Oh, to be so lucky. One week of this show to tell Father I tried and put in a good effort. It’s a reasonable compromise in an unreasonable situation. But then, I don’t want to disappoint him either. Or embarrass myself.

We’re assigned stations in short order, shown the walk-in refrigerators and freezers, the bank of gleaming ovens, and given instructions on how to proceed with measuring out ingredients one at a time—always with a camera watching.

There are large containers with flour, sugar, and other ingredients along one counter with scoops.

We’re given sets of small bowls and pitchers for the task and brand-new blue denim aprons.

Each station also has a stand for books or tablets, which sorts out one problem.

Picking up a hand-glazed ceramic mixing bowl from an artful display meant for the cameras, I long to make pottery myself.

“Remember to take care and watch out for each other in the kitchen.” Colin beams at us, his charges. “Oh, and one last health and safety note: there’s always a medic on site.”

Not a promising sign. I suppose we have open flame on the ranges and knives and who knows what else can go wrong in a kitchen with ten men baking at the same time.

Thomas Golden’s station is opposite mine.

Because of course it is. So much for the avoidance strategy.

He glances up at me from browsing his tablet, somehow feeling my gaze on him, and frowns.

Quickly, I look away, but not before noticing his pristine apron and worktop.

Or the fine muscles of his forearms with his rolled-up sleeves. I quickly look away.

Right. Tonight, I’ll research him a little more. And I’ll see if I can give myself a crash course in baking via the internet. There must be online videos in cookery for complete beginners.

It’s not so bad after all. My latent competitive streak has finally come to life from deep storage.

There’s a lot of waiting around while certain scenes are shot and reshot.

Eventually, I’m filmed exploding a cloud of flour all over my apron and almost sneezing, which would have been a serious faux pas in a kitchen.

By the end of the afternoon, I have a collection of bowls, jars, and pitchers with my carefully measured-out ingredients and flour smeared across my clothes.

“Did you sift the flour before you measured?” Thomas Golden asks archly from behind me.

I spin like I’ve unleashed my inner ballerino.

He folds his arms over his chest as he considers my display of ingredients with not quite disdain but not approval either. Not that I need—or want—Thomas Golden’s approval.

I instinctively mirror his pose, frowning. “I’m supposed to do that? Sift how? Why?”

“You don’t want to make a mistake.” He smirks and walks away.

“Shit.” I look down at my bowls. I poke at the flour with a tentative finger. Which is very floury, and I’m not sure what sifting has to do with anything. He’s probably trying to set me up.

Or maybe he’s trying to help.

Impossible.

This is a competition, after all, not a cooperative challenge. We’re on baking Survivor , and I don’t want to get voted off the island.

“Language, Your Royal Highness.” Gisele appears out of nowhere with her incredible hearing and ability to manifest.

My eyes widen. Oh, hell. At least this time, I keep the swearing under wraps. “I’m sorry. And,” I say for what must be the fifth time, “please call me Auggie.”

“Auggie, it’s very important we don’t waste time doing retakes because of cursing while the cameras roll on a hot mic. Time, after all, is money.” She gives me a stern look. “I don’t care who you are, with all due respect.”

“That’s a refreshing perspective I can get behind.”

She stares at me.

“It won’t happen again.”

She gives a curt nod and walks away.

It doesn’t feel like a good time to ask about sifting and how that relates to flour, so instead, I read my recipe again.

I’ve been told to leave the egg yolk till tomorrow.

We have everything labeled at the end of the afternoon, and ingredients that need to be kept cool are refrigerated again. Go, me. I wipe my brow with my wrist.

There’s something about self-raising flour, but I only found flour that didn’t identify itself as self-raising or communal-raising or however people classify their flour.

And bread flour. Since the biscuit recipe wasn’t in the bread book, I went for the regular flour.

Maybe I can search tonight about sifting.

I look around the room. Everyone’s relaxed now that the cameras are away, and most people have formed into small conversation groups while we wait for the official all clear to leave. In the group closest to me, I catch someone’s gaze burning into me.

“Hi.” I offer a smile, which isn’t returned. “What’s your name?”

He ignores the question. Instead, the man lifts his jaw in challenge. “Good thing you’re making this easy for the rest of us, Your Royal Highness.”

I bristle, despite knowing better than to respond to barbs. Except I’ve already fallen victim to barbs on this show. I have pride and duty on the line too, after all. “We’ll see about that. I’m here to win. Like you are.”

“Whatever.” He scoffs and walks away. “Prince privilege only gets you so far, just saying.”

It’s a gut punch, and I frown at his retreating back. I must win the challenge to prove him wrong.

* * *

At 10:00 a.m. the next morning, the long room buzzes and echoes with the noise of both cast and crew until Gisele brings us to order.

“Ignore the cameras, keep focused on your work or when addressed by Colin and the judges,” Gisele reminds us sternly, her intent gaze on us like she’s waiting for us to slip up. “And no swearing.” She stares directly at me.

Somewhere behind me, I’m very much aware of Thomas.

He’s stuck to himself this morning, focused on what he’s doing.

A furtive glance over my shoulder shows him head down, reviewing his tablet.

A strange warmth rises in my face. Traitorous body.

He’s got all the calm and easy charisma of a champion.

Outclassed, absolutely. It’s that old feeling from many years in my riding competitions when I was starting out—I could see the top contenders quietly confident in the ring even before the first jump.

Years later, I had that confidence, but when it comes to baking, it’s evaporated.

Meanwhile, I look down at all of my ingredients, which have been artfully arranged in front of me, more for the camera’s benefit than mine. One advantage I have is my discipline. And determination, even if the challenge is gingersnaps and not, say, surviving boarding school.

A single brown egg sits contained in a ramekin bowl.

Which reminds me of my flour-sifting mission YouTube educated me about last night. Along with the finer points of how to separate a yolk from the white of an egg. I totally have the theory down like I’m ready to give a TED talk.

Colin appears at my elbow. “Strategy, old boy?”

I sigh at the callout. Even from the host.

Stay focused. Colin’s harmless, at least. Or neutral enough.

“Sifting, I think, is the way forward.” I nod at the bowl, a quiet menace.

He looks intrigued.

“For an accurate measurement.” As if I know what I’m talking about. Thomas Golden at least knew. No one needed to prompt him.

“Of course.” He stands back as I make my way to the table set up with various tools.

Out of the corner of my eye, as I pass Thomas Golden, I can’t help but notice his forearms are tanned and toned, his sleeves rolled up. Unfair working conditions, frankly. Thankfully, he’s engaged with whatever he’s doing, and he doesn’t notice me.

So, I turn to my flour situation, take a cup of flour, and sift. I feel terribly pleased with myself as a cloud of flour rises. My nose tickles. I take a second scoop and sift it too.

I should probably check the weight, but I have no idea where the scale has gotten to. Never mind.

Putting that bowl aside with something approaching confidence, I hold my head high as I face down the egg and the empty small bowl beside it. The woman on YouTube made it look easy.

Right. If she can do this, so can I.

I crack the egg on the side of the bowl. Success.

Until the egg slides down the outside of the speckled ceramic bowl and pools in an eggy puddle on my wooden worktop, with the lurid promise of salmonella and other popular afflictions. Then, what follows is a series of regrettable egg-related mishaps, splattering eggs like fallen soldiers.