Page 16 of How to Date a Prince (Being Royal #1)

Chapter Thirteen

T he next Monday, officially week two of Renaissance Man season one, I stand tall when I walk into the sprawling historical home that serves as both our set and accommodation.

In my room, I unpack as soon as I arrive, hanging my clothes neatly in the wardrobe to keep them from wrinkling, or from wrinkling as much.

Again, there’s a very sensible selection of clothes in a camera- and monarchy-friendly array of neutrals.

Except for my T-shirt that I sleep in—which is magenta—and equally colorful loungewear bottoms in paisley gold and white.

Cast and crew assembled, Colin is as exuberant as ever at the sight of us as the production team shuffles us around in an arrangement to their liking.

Which, once more, puts me by Thomas. He gives me a sidelong glance, and I sidelong glance him right back because two can play that game.

Someone touches up my makeup first, then Thomas’.

Colin claps his hands to bring everyone to order. The entry echoes with everyone’s chatter. “Very good. Welcome back, gentlemen.”

There’s a round of dutiful hellos.

He laughs. “Where’s my enthusiasm? Let’s try again.

” The second time is more convincing. Colin nods at us.

“Very good. Now, I’m certain you’ve all been dying to know this week’s challenge.

” He catches my eye and then scans the men for their reaction.

“Which, I’m delighted to tell you, is the Arts.

This is your opportunity to wow the judges with your fine prowess in any artistic form you like.

We were impressed in writing with your applications, and we can’t wait to be impressed in person this week.

Now, since this is a planning day, do let the production team know if you’ll be requiring any kinds of equipment, materials, and so on.

It can be a performance or the written word or artwork. It’s up to you.”

There are murmurs from the group as the news sets in, and soon, we all scatter.

I sit down with my sketchbook in a reception room.

I start to warm up by drawing the room around me.

It’s meditative. Colin was right in that this week’s challenge is more up to my speed.

It’s a matter of deciding what to do and what’s feasible in the time we have and the materials available on hand.

I find Colin, who is a million times less daunting than Gisele. She sits in a room in a nexus of laptops, cameras, and cords. I catch Colin by the tea. He pours me a cup, and I prepare it the way I like.

I look up from my tea. “I have a question.”

“Naturally. How can I help?” Colin asks, stirring a generous helping of sugar into his tea.

“I could do a painting, if that’s easier, but my preference would be ceramics. Except I realize that’s a big ask in terms of equipment and very unlikely to happen?—”

“We have brought a potter’s wheel and a kiln on-site,” he tells me.

Against all odds, hope rises. I gawp. “Seriously?”

A smile stretches across my lips.

Colin laughs, pleased. He claps my shoulder and lowers his tone in a conspiratorial whisper. “After all, your application says that pottery is one of your talents?—”

“My application—right. Of course. Silly me.” I furrow my brow over my tea.

Of course Colin would assume, as would any reasonable human, that I had filled out the application myself.

“There’s actually a pottery wheel? I mean, anything I make won’t be ready to fire this week, but it could be next week…

” I muse. “We’ll see. I’ll think about it. ”

“Don’t think too long. We can get the materials you need today.”

I nod, buoyed. There’s a lightness in me I haven’t felt in ages. “Maybe sculpture, then. If I can’t fire it, it’ll still look like something. Or tableware.”

“Whatever suits.” Colin gives me an encouraging look.

Looking around for my sketchbook, I realize I must have left it in the reception room. “My apologies, if you’ll excuse me. I should get planning.”

“Of course.” Colin smiles over his tea, his eyes crinkling.

An unfamiliar euphoria rises, and I’m still smiling as I head back into the reception room. Which fades as soon as I enter.

Because Thomas is in the reception room. And he’s looking through my sketchbook as he sits on a sofa where I had been not long ago.

I stare, frozen in the entry. His head snaps up at my arrival, and he slams the sketchbook shut like he’s been caught in the middle of browsing some choice pornography.

“Are you spying on me?” I ask, incredulous. “That’s clearly cheating for an unfair advantage.”

“Sorry, I… it was left open on the sofa, and… sorry.” Thomas gazes up at me. “I shouldn’t have looked without your permission. I would call you Your Royal Highness, except I come from a long line of abolitionists, so I’ll say: my apologies, Auggie. I’m not cheating. I was just curious, I admit…”

I reach out a hand for my sketchbook, which Thomas hands over meekly. I continue to hold his gaze until he actually blushes.

“I’ll forgive you for the sketchbook tour, at least. Can’t say I can get on board with the abolition bit.” I sit down on the other sofa, forming an L in front of a dramatic fireplace with a black marble mantle and ornate fire screen.

Thomas gives me a sheepish look. “That’s more than I could ask for right now, really.”

We consider each other. Thomas’ cologne carries notes of cedar, a reminder of how close he had been beside me on Friday afternoon. He has a colorful patterned hardbound notebook beside him of his own, while I rest my sketchbook on the sofa beside me and set down my mug.

“Your sketchbook, by the way, is amazing. You’re really talented.” Thomas gives me a tentative smile. “And, err, thanks again for the badger help last week. Very gallant.”

“Thanks.” I shift, not used to compliments, especially about my artwork, something that means so much to me.

My creative life has mostly been a secret.

Till now. Or until recently, if my father knows enough to land me on this show.

Aside from the vase I made for the charity gala a few weeks ago.

“Once in a while, I’m prone to bouts of gallantry. Not only embarrassing myself.”

I give him a tentative smile back. I’ll take a truce.

“Is it alright if I sit here? Since…” Thomas’ lips twitch. “I can’t forget what happened in the club when I joined you and your friend, speaking of bouts.”

“I… yes.” It’s my turn to blush. “I’m sorry again. My mouth can be a serious problem.”

“Forgiven.”

And I keep staring at Thomas as I recall the spectacle I made of myself with Katie, both in front of him and then after with the paparazzi, till he shifts.

Because I’m making things awkward again.

Also, I’m fairly certain he’s staring at my mouth right now, waiting for more nonsense to fall out at any moment.

“Sorry.” I fidget with my sketchbook. “I was thinking of something.”

“A new diversion?” He raises a dark eyebrow. His lips twitch.

I shake my head, blushing, but I consciously relax my shoulders. “No, no. I’ll, err, stay here. Quietly.”

“Well, if it’s fine by you, so will I.” Thomas gazes at me till I look down at my sketchbook. Goose bumps cover my arms.

And that’s how Thomas and I end up peacefully sharing a reception room for at least an hour.

I’m head down, sketching away and making notes, while Thomas writes in his journal with a fountain pen.

It’s a surprisingly comfortable way to spend time in each other’s company.

I’m intensely curious about what he’s working on.

However, I don’t want to bother him, because courtesy, but also because he’s ridiculously attractive as he focuses with intent on his notebook, and I’m indulging in the view.

“What do you think you’ll make?” Thomas asks into the quiet a while later.

“Something with clay.”

He looks impressed. “Wow. Clay?”

I nod, not up for sharing anything more. He’s already seen too much in my sketchbook. Who knows how far he got into it. God knows if he’s found the nudes from my life drawing classes. And, strategically, he’s at a competitive advantage knowing what I want to work on. “And you?”

“I’ll probably write a song,” he says. “It’s either that or a poem.”

It’s my turn to look impressed. “You can sing?”

Thomas laughs. “Don’t look so surprised. I can also play the guitar. Feed and dress myself too.”

“I can’t say the same for me with the last two points, unfortunately. I can dress myself sometimes when no one is looking. That’s the truth.”

Thomas shakes his head, looking more somber, and I haven’t even mentioned staff.

“Well, consider coming downstairs for dinner or drinks sometime. If Wilson’s not around, it’ll even be civil.” It could be my imagination, but his expression softens ever so slightly. And then his face brightens with a smile like a flood to my senses. My breath catches for a moment before I reply.

“Imagine.” I shake my head. “If I can reach some kind of peace with an abolitionist, maybe there’s hope for Wilson too.”

And I excuse myself and find the appropriate person to put in my materials request for tomorrow, feeling cheered.

* * *

I stay in my room for dinner, reading the latest Vogue , which brims with all kinds of style inspiration.

After I finish reading, I decide to go on a walk around the property.

I avoid the dining hall. When I go to the kitchen in search of a bottle of water to take with me, I emerge from the walk-in fridge to the sight of Thomas as he arrives in the kitchen.