Page 22 of How to Date a Prince (Being Royal #1)

Chapter Seventeen

W hen we wrap, I rush out of the room, ignoring Colin calling after me. This is really becoming my go-to way to exit a conversation. I walk blindly outside into the sun, blinking at the sudden brightness. I raise my hand to cast a shadow over my eyes.

Wilson’s nearby with one of the Renaissance men. He smirks, their conversation stopped dead at the sight of me. They’re seated shirtless in the lounger chairs. Whatever they’re doing, they’re not working on anything other than their tans.

I hurry past, heading down the track I walked the other night with Thomas on our impromptu hillwalking excursion.

I should have taken a bottle of water, but all I want is to get away.

Instead, I walk and walk, past the paddocks of horses who graze, past the stream, and through a couple of fields till I approach a rise of land.

At its summit, I hear a guitar, and I follow the sound down a swale to a copse of trees. Thomas sits on a log, singing, practicing his song for the challenge. He’s facing me. And he sees me but doesn’t stop. To his credit, he doesn’t even miss a note, though concern registers on his face.

And he’s good. Excellent, actually.

I look around for lurking cameras or boom mics, but I don’t see any, though that’s not a guarantee they aren’t out there. For all I know, they’ve got cameras on the entire estate. My shoulders tense.

Standing with my hands in my pockets, I listen to the last verse as he finishes his song. Thomas sets his guitar down. We consider each other, and I try to swallow down a lump in my throat. Around us, the tall grasses wave with the breeze.

“What’s wrong?” Thomas asks.

“Aside from the, err, obvious? Like you need to ask?”

“Just—don’t run this time, okay?”

Glancing around for a camera again, I keep standing in place despite my overwhelming flight instinct. “As for what’s wrong… everything. I don’t know. I just filmed a confessional, and it was a disaster. And then—then there’s last night.”

“Last night,” Thomas echoes. He looks nonchalant, yet I see the vulnerability in his eyes.

Like it meant something to him too. And we’ve both been caught being reckless.

“They’re obligated to have at least one disastrous confessional, don’t worry.

Makes for a good story arc. Anyway, you’re welcome to hide out here if you’re avoiding people.

As long as I’m not one of the people you want to be avoiding, that is. ”

I fidget with a sleeve of my light linen shirt. I swallow hard, then shake my head. My voice drops to a whisper. “I was, err, getting worried when I didn’t see you this afternoon.”

I take in the sight of him, his dark hair and green eyes. Like me, he looks tired, and he probably hasn’t slept enough either.

“C’mere.” He pats the log beside him. “If you want.”

“Thomas, they’ve recorded us,” I whisper. “They could be recording us right now.”

He doesn’t say anything, instead reddening, dragging his hands through his hair like he’s washing away memories of getting caught together. Meanwhile, I’m light-headed and nauseous at the idea we’ve been filmed and how I—we—we will be exposed literally for the world to see.

At last, he speaks. “They went a bit heavy on your foundation, I think. I like more of what you did in the club, frankly. Your eye makeup was amazing that night. Even with the sunglasses.”

I redden. “Well. They didn’t give me a chance to do my own makeup today.”

A long moment passes while we consider each other. The sun is dazzling, but Thomas more so. His tan has deepened. Mercifully, he’s wearing his shirt, unlike the others I saw a little while ago.

Finally, he replies, his voice low. “I was fucking worried last night.”

I shrug. “Me too, to be honest.”

“I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

“You’ll have to forgive me,” I murmur, “but my trust level with people is generally not very high. And especially not after what’s happened. Which isn’t your fault. But… well, it doesn’t feel great.”

“If it helps…” Thomas gives me a wry smile. “In this instance, I have as much to lose as you do. So, I’m trusting you with my secrets too. It’s not only about you and yours, by the way. You being a royal and me… very much not.”

I open my mouth, caught out. “Sorry. You’re right. Absolutely right. I’m being an arse?—”

“I didn’t say that. It’s that you don’t need to worry with me. As much or as little as I need to worry with you.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Right? Can we make a deal?”

“Right. Yes. I’m sorry, Thomas.” I shake my head at myself, at last sitting beside Thomas.

I consider him, then dare to place my hand over his on the log between us.

His gaze falls from mine to our linked hands.

His hand is warm, a much-needed comfort.

For a moment, I can imagine I’m someone out in the world, living freely in a moment where no one cares who I am. More than that, I’m free with Thomas.

Because of Thomas. Which is terrifying.

He squeezes. And he smiles when he looks at me again.

A few minutes later, after we sit in silence like that for a while, I gently take my hand back. We listen to the birds and watch a squirrel conduct its business.

“Today we talked about my family,” I say at last. “Including my mother. Who I tried baking for. And it was a wreck, as you saw. I never thanked you for the help with separating the egg.”

“It’s no bother.” Thomas shrugs. “I like baking.”

“You’re obviously brilliant at it.”

“It relaxes me, that’s all. Now, tell me. What relaxes you?”

I shake my head slowly. “Hell if I know.”

“You seemed pretty happy with the pottery last night,” Thomas points out. “And… after.”

I open my mouth and shut it. Air huffs out of me.

“What else?” Thomas prompts.

“I don’t know. Walking, I guess. Especially out in the country.”

“And?”

“Maybe talking to Katie, sometimes. Otherwise, I don’t.”

Thomas nods slowly, considering me. “Yeah. That explains a lot.”

“I need to deal with things on my own. Or ignore them. It’s just the way it is, Thomas. Whether I like it or not.”

He tilts his head, leaning ever so slightly closer.

I’m echoing his movement before I know it.

I shiver, considering him. If anything, he’s more stunning in full sun than the mysterious dark of last night.

His T-shirt reveals fine biceps and forearms—there’s no mistaking the muscles I felt last night.

But, if I’m honest, it’s not that he’s attractive—which he very much is—but he wants to know about me.

The real me, not the made-up prince most people are fascinated by or wanting an angle to exploit in the press.

We search each other’s eyes. I desperately want to kiss him again. And yet, there may be cameras or someone in the woods or who knows what. We shouldn’t be together. I lick my lips. Even so, the way he makes me feel in this moment is special. Even if this is clearly a disaster in the making.

“When you smile, Auggie, it’s one of the most amazing things to see. You’re entitled to have a life and be happy, too, and have some fun, you know. Nobody would begrudge you that, I don’t think. Not even the King.”

I give him a sharp look. “You don’t know my father. My happiness isn’t on his short list of priorities.”

“Your father, by the way, doesn’t own you.”

I shake my head, tensing again. “You don’t understand. I can’t explain what you haven’t lived, Thomas. Believe me. It’s not an easy situation. I don’t have the freedoms that you do.”

Uni was the time I felt the freest, away from the expectations of my father.

At uni, I had friends like Katie and banter and late nights eating kebabs in the street after a night of dancing.

I’d stay up all night watching shows on my laptop or hanging out with my friends at the local pub, without consequence.

“You’re a person, not a prop.”

I bristle, shaking my head at the cut of his words. My shoulders tighten.

“You’re overreacting.”

“I’m overreacting?” I ask, taken aback.

“Who went high drama at the club? Or last week after?—”

“Thomas.” My voice is barely audible, shaky and raw. I stuff my hands in the pockets of my shorts. “We can’t be seen together. This is already too long, out here. Every minute just ups the chance they’ll record us.” I swallow hard, my voice unsteady. “I can’t be seen alone with you anymore.”

“That’s such a cop-out?—”

“This is my reality,” I snap hotly. “I must be King one day, which might be a lot sooner than I want. And I need to find a wife?—”

Oh my God, my mouth. My eyes widen in horror as Thomas stares at me, flushed with anger. I’ve said way too much. I whirl and hurry off deeper into the woods.

And so I walk, cursing myself to next week and beyond.

But I’m caught in my life and not someone else’s.

And I don’t have the freedom to let my guard down again on this set.

Worse, Giselle has footage at least of us watching the sunset together from last week, and if she also has footage of what happened in the pottery bothy, my life is officially over.