Page 13 of How to Date a Prince (Being Royal #1)

Chapter Ten

I n my room, I pack up my week’s worth of clothes and books with no small amount of relief, including my monthly standing book box order from Barnes Books with the latest queer romance selections, which came with a cute tote bag.

Taylor sings at volume from my laptop, and there’s some comfort in “Anti-Hero.” At least the stone walls are thick, and the men are downstairs, if not already out the door after the week’s filming wraps.

It’s a shame I haven’t been sent home permanently, but home for the weekend is the next best thing. I’ll have the palace to myself, aside from the staff. Anne and Gav are still on holidays. My father is in Wales doing something kingly.

There’s a rap on my door. I glance at my watch. It’s too soon for my ride back to London. I only called half an hour ago, not sure what time filming would wrap for the day. I didn’t want to be a jerk and have a car and driver idle here for hours today.

“Come in.” I turn Taylor down.

The door opens. Colin enters with a tray laden with baking, including cake and pie slices, éclairs, and cupcakes. And, importantly, tea. As long as it’s not some kind of Trojan tea situation. Colin makes an unlikely Helen of Troy.

He looks genuinely pleased. “You disappeared before trying the fruits of our labors.”

I press my lips into a line. “That’s very kind of you. Although I’m sure everyone’s unhappy with me after the judging and would rather gang up against me than sit down for tea together.”

Colin chuckles. “It will be fine. It’ll blow over. Every week brings new drama. Besides, you did well on presentation.”

“But I didn’t have any baking to present as my centerpiece.” I watch as he goes through the ritual of pouring the tea. I join him at the table. We sit by the window in the plush armchairs, too stuffed to be reasonable. “I still think I should’ve been sent off the show.”

He gives an expansive shrug. “It’s television. And truthfully, I don’t decide these things.”

Obviously, Gisele does, along with the production team. They’ll do whatever it takes for ratings. Forget about fair play. Unfair play gets viewers hooked. I’ve learned that much about reality TV from my father.

“Cheer up, old thing. Next week will probably be more up your speed.” He lowers his voice, looking around as though someone’s hiding in the corner, eavesdropping through sandstone walls. Or at least plaster and lathe. “In fact, I’m fairly confident.”

“What’s the challenge?” I try gamely and put on one of my most entreating looks.

Colin laughs with delight, shaking his head. He leans in. “No can do. My lips, I’m afraid, are sealed. But take it on good authority—mine—that you’ll enjoy next week far more.”

“That’s when the angry mob comes for me?”

“Oh no, Auggie. Something much better.”

I’m not reassured that he thinks, on some level, that an angry mob is a viable option for me on the show. I sip my tea. “Better than an angry mob?”

“Infinitely.”

He nudges the platter of offerings towards me.

Thomas Golden’s éclair is closest. I pick it up neatly and put it on my side plate.

His fingers have touched this pastry. Goose bumps again cover my arms. Happily, Colin doesn’t notice.

I tug down the long sleeves of my shirt as if it provides some kind of protection from thinking about Thomas Golden.

Pushing aside the usual food anxiety, curiosity getting the better of me, I bite. And it’s heavenly. No wonder he won. I take another bite.

“I will say, son, there’s no harm in getting to know the others. It may make your time easier here.”

“It’s probably too late.”

“Nonsense. It’s week one. Avoiding the problem only makes it worse.”

Story of my life. But I say nothing, finishing the éclair with a sigh. I wipe my fingers clean on a linen napkin. I follow with tea, blissfully hot against my lips, as comforting an escape as I can manage right now.

“A couple of them are still downstairs, waiting for their rides, should you wish to join them.” He arches an eyebrow at me. “We’ll have your bags ready for your driver when they arrive.”

“If I go downstairs,” I say at last, “is it being filmed?”

“No, no. Everything that happens now is off the record. Plus, Gisele has left.” He gives me a meaningful look. “You’re safe.”

I sag with relief. Then I nod. Maybe I should try to make more of an effort to reach out to the others. My father would expect it, at the very least. After all, the show is an official royal engagement as far as the King is concerned. “Alright. I’ll go and say hello.”

“That’s the spirit. You won’t regret it.”

Immediately, I regret it. I approach the breakfast room, where the remaining men have gathered. There’s the sound of clattering china, the lingering scent of our baking.

Thomas speaks, his voice carrying into the hallway.

“…What’s the point of the monarchy anyway? They’re a big waste of money for you Brits based on obsolete nostalgic history. Nobody needs them anymore.”

“Branding, mate. It’s part of our proud heritage,” says another voice. Travis, I think. “Plus, the tourists love it.”

I hesitate before entering the room. I wipe the palms of my hands on my jeans, having changed into something less floury from earlier. Since we’ve finished filming, I’m more casual in a sky-blue polo, which Lauren pretended not to notice when I packed. I smooth my shirt.

“Hi,” I say as I enter.

They start, and three heads turn as one.

Thomas meets my gaze, unwavering, but he reddens ever so slightly.

His jaw is set. Beside him is Wilson, arguably the person who likes me the least on the show.

Travis sits with them, who is some sort of very-big-deal influencer.

He sits sprawled in his chair, licking his fingers clean of icing sugar.

At any rate, it’s an unnerving tableau. And they can talk about whatever they like. Even if it’s something I’m dead set against. Gav would tell me to find common ground, in his once familiar how-to-act-like-a-human session. Or be slightly less awkward, which he told me is actually endearing.

“Sorry to crash the unpopularity contest.” I give them a meaningful look. “The monarchy’s still all the rage, I hear.”

Thomas grimaces like I’ve caused him visceral pain. “With all due respect, I disagree. The role of the monarchy should be kept to the history books. It has nothing to do with modern life. Which is why I think it should be abolished.”

“Yes, the monarchy has a lot to do with history—and also with our twenty-first-century British identity,” I say easily.

“Are we supposed to get up, Your Majesty?” Wilson says in a way that shows he has no intention of rising, his ankle over his knee, foot jiggling. Obviously, his foot has prior engagements. Not that I’m one for formality. Even so, a much pettier side of me wouldn’t be sorry to see Wilson bow.

“No.” I sit down as my mouth twitches. “I thought to come and say hello and good luck in the next challenge. Oh, and I’m here specifically to get you to swear your allegiance to the Crown, naturally.”

Thomas Golden coughs. Wilson’s stare is cutting.

“Princes don’t need luck. Let’s see if next week’s rigged too.” Wilson’s flushed an unbecoming red. “Bet you it is.”

Silence falls. Travis snags another biscuit. For his part, Thomas Golden sits across the table, watching me. His expression is unreadable. And I would dearly love to know if his thoughts are as hostile as Wilson’s.

“ Renaissance Man isn’t rigged.” But it sounds unconvincing even to my ears. Maybe if I say it enough, I’ll start to believe it.

“Nobody wants to get rid of a prince first round because he’s a huge get, like it or not,” says Travis matter-of-factly, now reaching for a slice of pie.

He neatly serves a piece and plucks a fork from the pile of cutlery on a napkined dish.

“It’s poor form. Check Debretts. Also, they’ll want the Prince to stick around longer for ratings and for ad revenue and to stir up the fan forums into a frenzy.

Bad publicity is still publicity. Viewings will skyrocket.

TikTok will go wild. I can see why the producers kept you, even though it’s bollocks.

Everyone wins, including you, Prince Auggie.

Everyone except Mark, poor bastard. And the rest of us. ”

Trying not to take the bait, I pour water from the aqua blown-glass pitcher into a matching glass. Ice cubes drop into the water glass and rattle. “That’s not my specialty. I don’t watch TV.”

“What, you’re too good for TV?” Wilson scoffs, turning to face me directly. His jaw’s tight. “Do you stream instead?”

With a shake of my head, I think of my father’s TV addiction. It’s filled a space where my mum used to be. And our family. “I’d rather read, usually. Or listen to music.”

“Probably he curls up with Ulysses for a lighthearted romp instead of Made in Chelsea ,” Wilson says to the others in a way like I’m not even there. “He’s too important to watch TV.”

Finally, Thomas Golden speaks, holding my gaze. “What do you listen to, then?”

I look back for as long as I can dare before glancing at my water for answers, shrugging. My face is warm. “Everything from Mozart to Taylor Swift. The latest album from Ben Campbell. Lots of things.”

Wilson snorts. “Like you’re a thirteen-year-old girl.”

I lift an eyebrow at that, my grip tightening ever so slightly on my water glass.

“Cool, yeah,” says Travis, nodding emphatically. “Taylor’s great. I’ve seen her twice on tour.”

Thank God Travis has some sense, not as much of a wanker as Wilson. Wilson’s in the advanced league tables of wankerdom, with nobody else owning the space like he does. Like some people attract others, he repels them with his unique brand of anti-charisma.

“I’m glad someone’s keeping their misogyny in check.

” I look pointedly at Wilson before I take a drink, letting the cold water ground me.

Finally, I look back at Thomas Golden. “And, for the record, the monarchy is modernizing.” I ignore Wilson’s eye roll.

He’s entitled to his opinion, at any rate.

“We’ve been taking steps towards being more transparent. ”

Thomas Golden’s lips twitch. They’re full and flushed pink, presumably from the heat of the day. Or due to the fact that he was chewing on his lower lip a moment ago. Whatever the reason, they’ve caught my attention, and I’m distracted. “Transparent,” he echoes.

“Mm, yes.” I bow my head. “Such as me coming on this show.”

“Why on God’s green Earth would someone who doesn’t even watch TV come on a reality show?” Wilson asks, incredulous.

“Raising his profile, obviously,” says Travis as the three of them peer at me like I’m a curious beast landed from another planet. “Nobody knows much about Prince Auggie. Not really. He’s squeaky clean, our future King. Or it’s a cover-up for something shit he’s done.”

I open my mouth at that, frowning. “I haven’t done anything.”

“You did that looker in the papers, actually,” Travis muses. “Great legs. I’d fancy a go myself.”

“That slag,” says Wilson.

“Fuck off,” I snap finally, eyeing Wilson, who doesn’t look the least bit sorry. “Say what you like about me, I’m fair game. But Katie isn’t.”

“Ooh, protective over your girl, I get it. Loyal,” says Wilson, nodding. He runs a hand through his hair. “Nice tits, though?—”

I stand up abruptly.

Travis has already called up the news story that I hoped would be buried by now. But nobody out in the world knows I’m on this show, thanks to the round of nondisclosure agreements that the cast and crew signed as our blood oath to Renaissance Man . Travis and Wilson study the phone between them.

“ Prince Auggie’s Torrid Big Night Out ,” reads Travis, impressed. He nods his approval as if he’s a PR firm. “Bet that got them lots of clicks. Nice.”

My face and chest are hot. I look at Thomas Golden. He doesn’t look over at the phone. It’s hard to say what he’s thinking. He doesn’t strike me as one to be meek. Katie would serve these arseholes their own livers if she heard them. And then I think of Katie, and the familiar guilt washes over me.

And why do I care what Thomas Golden’s thinking? It’s obvious he doesn’t think highly of me at all.

“Yeah, I’d bang her after a few drinks,” decides Wilson, scratching the stubble on his jaw.

“Wilson.” Thomas Golden runs a hand through his hair. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “That’s about enough.”

Wilson shrugs, lowering the phone. But he mercifully shuts up.

“I’ll see you all next week.” I fold my arms across my chest.

“Right, I’m out.” Wilson makes a beeline for the door. “C’mon, Travis, you want that lift or not?” And Travis leaves with him.

Next week, I’ll have to step up my game. There’s no other option. And I must see what else I can find out about Thomas Golden during week two. Then, it’s Thomas Golden and me alone at the table, looking uncomfortably at each other.