Page 12 of How to Date a Prince (Being Royal #1)

Chapter Nine

R olling into the kitchen at a very unprincely pace, I arrive in time to watch Thomas Golden open the oven door to release a cloud of dark smoke, retrieve the blackened baking sheet, and drop it with a clatter onto the waiting cooling racks.

I ignore the videographers and hurry over.

Horrified, I stare down at the hard, flat lumps that once aspired to be gingersnaps and instead are charred into oblivion.

I glance at my watch, not daring to look at Thomas Golden right now. It had only been twenty minutes in the oven. I think. Thirty minutes, tops.

There’s an echoing silence as everyone contemplates my failure together with me. My shoulders slump down, and I swallow something back in my throat. It could be bile or despair or inadequacy. I shove my hands into my pockets.

“So he’s one out,” someone murmurs in the background.

Someone shushes him. But not before someone else says good riddance .

“Auggie,” says Colin brightly into the still tableau of Renaissance Man . Thomas Golden is somewhere amid them. “Come with me.”

I’ll take any kind of intervention right now, divine or otherwise. This is very much the otherwise department.

My face burns. We leave the room to go stand in a rather spacious butler’s pantry, thin light falling through a tall window overlooking the welcoming gardens. It’s comfortingly dark in here. Until the filming crew arrives, Colin’s permanent entourage like a boy band united in a single movement.

I’m quiet, gazing out the window as they set up and talk amongst themselves. Swallowing, my chest is tight, my mouth dry. My ruined baking—and show prospects—mean I’ve failed both my mother’s memory and my father’s hopes in record time.

“Auggie.”

Reluctantly, I look at Colin. I search his eyes, wishing to be anywhere but here. Even in my room back in Buckingham Palace. Or off on horseback, out on the Sandringham Estate.

“What happened out there?” Colin asks, not unkindly, but it makes me feel worse.

With a shrug, I struggle to find words that die on my tongue. “I guess… I ruined the gingersnaps.”

“Rather,” he concedes with a bob of his head. Even his usual good cheer is diminished into something more somber. He peers at me with concern.

“I can’t bake. At all. Surprise.”

Colin is quiet for a long moment. “Let’s talk about what you decided to bake today.”

“Gingersnaps. They were supposed to be gingersnaps.”

If I could go back and unchoose gingersnaps in favor of anything else that didn’t involve baking, I would.

“Why did you choose gingersnaps?”

I press my lips flat while considering Colin. I want the cameras to go away, but they’re still there. Filming me being raw. And I hate it. I ball my fists in my pockets. I force a breath.

“Because they reminded me of my mother. And I can’t even do this one thing right. Excuse me. Please.”

I go to the ballroom, met with a camera crew to finish the last portion of the culinary competition, where everyone else has set up a table.

I’m left with whatever’s on the sideboard.

But there’s one thing I’ve learned, which is how to set a table correctly, and I do.

I mix and match the china, arrange flowers and pampas grass in a cut crystal vase, making smaller bouquets for each setting in a water glass.

I find cream linen napkins to match the roses.

Some part of me escapes in the fantasy of making fashion for a tabletop. It’s not a fashion show, but at least I can express myself here with something adjacent to confidence and steeped in competence.

By the time we return, everything’s set up in the kitchen for judging. The smell of burning still lingers. I return to my station, which has been magically cleaned up.

I carefully avoid eye contact with everyone and keep to myself. Colin, meanwhile, introduces the two celebrity judges brought in for the baking segment of Renaissance Man . I barely pay attention, listless as I stand in place.

Colin and the judges coo over cakes and scones, biscuits and pies. Nearly everyone has been successful in their mission. They turn to a man named Mark, a pilot. He looks like a pilot, appropriately adventurous, minus the aviators.

Except his cake lists, and the icing has melted off one side.

So much for adventure. We learn adventure is best kept out of baking.

They film the dried-out lumps permanently bonded to my ruined baking sheets.

“What happened, exactly?” Colin asks me as the judges peer at my baking sheet, shocked into silence once again.

“I guess I lost track of time. I’m starting to realize everything around baking involves precision, like dressage.

Apparently, every minute in the oven matters.

” I glance at Colin, who deeply contemplates the ruins of my baking.

Personally, I’m hoping the gingersnaps will rise like a phoenix from the literal ashes.

Sheryl, the first judge, studies them. “They don’t look like they’ve risen. What kind of flour did you use?”

“Whatever was out.” I peer down at the blackened ruins of my baking alongside the judges in our team forensic examination of my gingersnaps. “Does it matter?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” she says. “Did you use a leavening agent?”

“Sorry?” I still have no idea what that is.

Once they finish with me, they gather the men together at one particularly photogenic area of the kitchen. They arrange us to our liking. Which apparently means putting me by Thomas Golden, who gives me a glance that lingers. I can’t even look at him. I stare straight ahead at Colin.

“Let’s discuss the top three,” Colin begins. “Sandeep, your blackberry pie was exceptional.”

Sandeep beams. He’s a doctor from South London. He gestures over at his pie, gives a heartwarming account I can barely hear in my despair.

Then they turn to Jax, who has made a decadent cake. “For my gran,” he says.

“And Thomas. Your banoffee caramel éclairs are to die for,” swoons Sheryl. Colin nods his agreement, as does the other judge, Mae.

Of course they are. Who knows how many caramel éclairs laid down their pastry lives for Thomas. They would have leapt at the chance.

“Congratulations, Thomas! Our week’s winner.

” Colin claps him on the shoulder, and they shake hands.

Thomas Golden’s a natural in front the cameras with an easy smile.

He speaks modestly about his decadent creation, how he made the choux pastry from scratch, the salted caramel, the elaborate filling.

He reveals his flawless egg yolk separation, his secrets to his crème patissière.

“I liked spending time with my mom and aunt in the kitchen growing up. Now, baking relaxes me. Thank you so much.”

For some reason, his grin knots my stomach.

Probably because he’s skillful, as well as ridiculously attractive when he smiles.

I can’t help but wonder what it’s like to have all of that ability and talent at his fingertips, as easy as breathing.

Like he’s never second-guessed himself. Meanwhile, I live in a world of nothing but second thoughts.

There’s applause from everyone.

“Regretfully,” says Colin, looking somber. “it comes to that unfortunate part of the week where we have to send someone home. Auggie, Mark, please step forward.”

We go and stand on the taped X’s on the floor. I keep my gaze on Colin, but I can feel the eyes of all in the room on us. And I’m especially aware of Thomas Golden’s close gaze. He won’t miss a thing when I shove my foot in my mouth. Again. Goose bumps come.

“Mark, you had such a promising start and a lovely recipe. Unfortunately, your execution left a lot to be desired, and the bitter taste of the cake you made was a surprise. Only not the one the judges were hoping for. I understand this is something you make back home for your mates.”

“I still can’t figure out where it all went so wrong this time.” Mark shakes his head ruefully. He shrugs, then glances at me like he’s amazed I’m still here.

“Your place setting was serviceable but unremarkable.”

Mark shrugs again.

“Your Royal Highness, Prince Auggie.” Colin’s gaze is on me. “Your efforts to bake a recipe that reminds you of your departed mother is heart-rending.” There’s a moment of silence. “It really is a shame the result didn’t work out. Keeping in mind you haven’t baked before?—”

There are murmurs from the men.

Thanks, Father, for lying on the show application.

“—I’m impressed with the care you took to follow instructions. Unfortunately, the results were crisped beyond recognition.”

I wince. A brutal but fair assessment.

“However, your table setting was artful and the floral arrangements an impressive surprise.”

“This was a difficult decision, and we’ve enjoyed very much having you both on.”

There’s a dramatic pause. My jaw tightens. A couple more minutes and I’ll escape to pack my bags?—

“With apologies, Mark, we’ll be sending you back home to your mates.”

There’s a slight commotion from the men before Colin quiets everyone down. Gisele gives a look of warning to the cast from where she stands with her arms crossed behind the camera crew.

Nothing like some minor pandemonium to provide welcome shelter. Or maybe it’s just shock.

Mark and I both stand frozen, neither one of us quite able to believe it either. He turns to me first. “Your Royal Highness, it was an honor to meet you,” he says with grace. We shake hands.

“The honor is mine,” I say.

Mark turns back to the others and shrugs. “It is what it is,” he says cheerfully.

I stand, reeling, while the cameras track Mark saying his goodbyes to the other men. He had been popular with them, and they’re sorry to see him go. Mark walks out of the kitchen, the camera crew following him out. Thomas gives me a bemused glance and a slight shake of his head.

My guts twist. I shouldn’t care what Thomas Golden, of all people, thinks of me. What I should be thinking hard about instead is why they didn’t kick me off the show.

Everyone gathers to eat the baked goods. No one comes to talk to me.

“What a joke.” Wilson, the standoffish man from the challenge, shakes his head.

He’s a little older than me, an investment banker, I overheard someone say.

He’s the one who came by my station earlier to heckle before Thomas Golden helped me.

“We’re all supposed to be able to bake. He’s obviously a liar. ”

I take my mic off and set it on the counter with a clatter. My hands tremble. I slip out of the kitchen and retreat to my rooms, as confused as the others.

They should have sent me home.