Page 3 of How to Date a Prince (Being Royal #1)

Chapter Three

W hich is how, before long, I’m in said sparkle-wear, with colorful bracelets, a black leather moto jacket, and Gav’s hat. My hair’s now dark. Katie and I head out at twilight in a separate car from Gav and Anne.

“You’ll feel better in the club, Auggie. Trust me.” Katie pats my arm reassuringly in the back seat. But I know depression can’t be outdanced, no matter how chic the club. If that was going to work, it would have done so in my party uni years.

“Like Sex on the Beach ever helped anyone.” I give her a sidelong glance.

Katie laughs.

“Speaking from personal experience,” I begin, “there’s sand?—”

“Stop!” Katie clamps her hands firmly over her ears.

Obligingly, I stop. We look at each other. She lowers her hands.

“It’ll be fine.” She echoes Gav from earlier, abruptly changing the subject in case I go off on any more sand or cocktail-related tangents.

“We’ll see. You could put me in the Tower instead.”

“Not tonight. The ravens can have you another time.”

The city slides past the window, my misgivings caught in my chest. London’s a kaleidoscope of colors in the evening rain, nothing but reflections and lights.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep—which is often—I have a driver take me through the city, a secret dark world.

I pretend I’m one of the people going about a regular night out, free to come and go as they please in blissful anonymity.

In disguise at night, I’ve gone walking down Picadilly Street, window-shopped for books, and passed bars where I pretended I was meeting friends for a laugh. Theo would be all over tonight. “Go big or go home,” he would say. He’s always the first in line for any party.

Tonight, there’s the red taillights of cars, the soft glow of streetlamps, neon shop signs vibrant beacons as the nighttime city awakens. We pass people queued for restaurants and clubs, past busy cinemas and theatres in Covent Garden. People laugh and take selfies and have fun, gathered in groups.

It might be an odd fantasy since my other escape during bouts of insomnia is working with clay, but what I’d love these days is a quiet potter’s life in some cottage outside a small village where no one knows me, where the big social event is hanging out at the local post office or a new take on fish and chips at the local pub creating a stir.

I’ll take a night at the cinema too, devouring a bag of buttery popcorn the size of my head.

“And here we are, lovely.” Katie looks out at the entry to the club, complete with boisterous queue. Her gaze flickers over to mine before she quickly glances out the window.

“It’s actually not too late to turn the car around?”

“Out.”

Before long, instead of starting a new life somewhere like rural Oxfordshire, we’re delivered into the thumping club.

Gav had the foresight to book a table in the VIP section, at least. It’s hipster approved, the place to be in London tonight, he assured us.

Brick walls are moodily backlit. The bar glows blue, the bottles of alcohol under spotlights.

It’s thrilling to hide in plain sight, helped along with our fake IDs, which get us in without issue once we were confirmed on the VIP list by the too-cool hostess.

Gav waves at us from the table in the corner as we enter the VIP lounge.

Beside him, Anne frowns at the sight of me.

The sinking feeling returns. Katie waves back cheerfully.

She heads over. And instead of facing Anne’s scorn, I beeline to the bar.

In short order, I’ve downed a shot for nerves, and I’m up a bellini.

I love being anonymous like everyone else in this club that thumps with bass and dazzles with strobe lights. My shoulders relax.

Katie soon joins me at the bar. She glances fleetingly at me before busying herself with her hair again.

I order her a bellini, too, and pay with the cash Gav gave me earlier alongside the fake ID.

Katie and I have had a pact for years now to marry for appearances’ sake if we’re both still single at thirty, but we both know I’ll be married off well before then.

Because progeny. Meanwhile, we like to keep the press guessing with the old are they or aren’t they a couple ?

To add to the confusion, Katie makes a point to be seen out with other men too.

I’m occasionally—grudgingly—spotted out with Suitable Ladies of the Appropriate Background, like I need to marry a rare breed of hound.

“You’re getting broody.” Katie clinks her glass with mine. She’s now fully focused on me. Her expression is all business, but the lingering flush over her cheeks gives her away. “Also, you and Anne eventually have to talk.”

“We do talk. Technically.”

She rolls her eyes. “Please pass the butter isn’t a real conversation. You know what I mean. You’re smart, Auggie?—”

“Name—” I remind Katie, giving her a meaningful look and a nod at the crowd around us.

Katie smiles, then looks around, too, to prove a point. “Don’t worry. As if anyone can hear us with the music. But let’s have it your way… Dave.”

“Dave? I’m so not a Dave.” I wrinkle my nose. “My fake name can’t be Dave.”

She pats my arm while I sigh. Then, I accidentally lock gazes with a man roughly around my age who is, quite simply, beautiful with his dark hair, fair skin, and perfect posture like a dancer’s.

He’s easy in the generous attention he’s getting.

The short-sleeved shirt he wears reveals muscled arms to go along with his athletic build.

He looks confidently at me from where he stands further down the bar. I bet he’s not a Dave either.

I quickly look away. God. I’ve been caught out already. We haven’t even hit the dance floor yet.

Katie follows my gaze and looks ready to stage an intervention. Her eyes then widen at the sight of the man in something like recognition. I have no idea who he is. I glance over at him again, and this time, he smiles?—

And he starts walking over to us.

“Fuck.” I grip my drink. He must have recognized us too.

Me.

We start to make moves to go join Anne and Gav at the table, the lesser threat at the moment, but we’re blocked by a crowd of people.

“He’s coming for you, Katie.”

“No. He’s looking at you, Dave.”

And before she has a chance to fill me in on who he is, he’s joined us. I pray Gav’s hat and glasses and my new hair color do something to disguise me, along with my unprincely clothes. My sequined blouse glitters.

“Hi,” says the stranger as I busy myself with my drink, looking down so the brim of my—Gav’s—hat hides my face in case of any accidental come-hither expressions. “How’s it going?”

He has an American accent and fantastic cheekbones. At least he doesn’t seem like the paparazzi or the press. I glance at him again from the corner of my eye.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.” His lips curl into a terribly appealing smile. It irritates me to no end that he can simply let that sort of energy out into the world without a public health warning. Like he’s got nothing to lose. “I’m Thomas.”

I do my best to pull a princely—or even a placid expression—rather than the reactive scowl that he deserves. The toes of my leather boots gleam, I discover.

“I’m Katie. This is Dave.” Katie basks under his attention. “He’s shy.”

“Shy?” he asks.

I glance up fleetingly, then try to study my boots harder. Maybe if I play dead, he’ll move along.

Except both of us can see he’s still intently looking at me.

A wave of panic clenches my stomach. Going out was a terrible idea.

It was different in uni with Katie and our friends, going to a college bop isolated from the world.

Heat rises in my face as I race through exit strategies.

Our night out didn’t involve security. I could use the old “I need to pee” line as an out, but there isn’t any dignity in it.

Tactical error. Forget dignity.

“I like your shirt, Dave.” His gaze is open and admiring.

Oh help.

I stare at the stranger.

His grin’s ridiculously charming. Infuriating, actually.

“Um. Thanks.” I tug my jacket sleeves over my knuckles. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have worn this flowing top with the low cut revealing my toned chest. Or the low-slung jeans, suitably tight against my arse.

But then royal training kicks in.

I relax my shoulders, lift my head fully to meet his keen gaze. And he’s still appreciatively looking at me till I’m breathless. I relent into a genuine smile before I can suppress that tell, a rare moment of unsuppressed freedom in my chest as I admire him right back. “That’s very kind.”

There’s no harm in looking for one moment. Or two.

The stranger’s gaze stays on mine. He has a soft mouth and great skin and, most of all, eyes that glimmer with good humor. It’s more than enough to make a closeted prince’s head swim. Or drown.

And then his smile broadens as he searches my eyes with something like hope.

My heart thunders as my mouth goes dry, to have his attention riveted like that on me, like we’re the only ones standing together here—despite the hectic club around us, the thumping music, the dazzle of lights.

Beside me, Katie coughs and shuffles, which barely registers.

It’s been ages since someone’s looked at me like that. Like he wants me . Not because of who I am or what I represent because he doesn’t know who I am. It’s plain and simple attraction, as if it’s any two people meeting in a club and wanting more of what they see.

Then, reality registers again.

Or maybe he recognizes me after all, despite Gav and Katie’s attempts to disguise me, and he wants to take advantage or sell me out. My heart sinks. The moment is broken.

“Wanna dance?” he asks. If he’s not giving me his best, most hopeful look, it’s up there, and my God, I’m thirsty for it. I’m desperate to say yes, please, anything. Like let’s get out of here and find somewhere more private.