Page 39 of How to Date a Prince (Being Royal #1)

Chapter Thirty

I t’s Friday night, and Anne’s back from her summer adventures for a couple of weeks before heading back to Cambridge for the year.

She suggests a night in away from the chaos of the media storm beyond the palace walls to watch a film with her and Gav and Katie.

I can’t remember the last time we had a night doing something all together.

Then, I remember—it was the night I met Thomas in the bar, when my mouth proved to be the liability I always imagined it to be.

And the time before that was New Year’s, a disaster for the ages, when Anne was convinced I was about to kiss Gav after too much to drink.

Once Anne returns home, she shows up an hour later at my room with a giant box of nail varnish. And now we’re settled by the windows at a table in my large room overlooking the gardens. Camden’s in cat loaf pose on the windowsill.

“You can try this if you want.” Anne offers a crimson nail varnish from her collection, giving me a tentative look. “Or this one?” The next selection is lavender, which is one of my favorites.

Since the accident, I haven’t put too much thought into my appearance.

I shower. I shave. I mostly live in pajamas at home, like I wear now, and athletic wear for the physio.

All of the fashion and all of the clothes I love so much remain in the closet.

It’s safer to keep them under wraps. I’d love to blame my wardrobe for my problems, but even Lauren’s campaign of ceaseless greige couldn’t prevent me from falling for Thom.

My lips twitch as I consider her. She holds up the two bottles while I waffle.

“I don’t know if I have the coordination to paint my nails.

” Confession time. Which is true, but also, putting nail varnish on links back to the old Auggie from uni and, more recently, with Thomas.

There must be a way to purge the man from my memories.

Except I haven’t got the foggiest clue how to do that.

All the usual distractions—horses, dancing, hijinks—are currently off the table. “I mean, I haven’t tried.”

I’ve only made a half-hearted attempt at drawing since the accident, even though my therapists said it would be good practice for my fine eye-hand coordination.

Technically, I can do it, but it takes a lot of concentration.

Or at least it did the last time I tried.

Which was once. I mostly stared at the last images in the sketchbook, my various designs for the tableware set and the studies for the sculpture, remembering being together with Thomas in the pottery bothy in blissful debauchery, which is truly the biggest distraction of all.

Things I most definitely can’t tell Anne about.

My head droops.

“Auggie? I can paint your nails if you want. Before the others arrive.” Anne searches my eyes.

There’s something vulnerable in her face, and belatedly, I realize I’ve shaken her up too.

Because there was a time when we were younger, we were good friends, and I was her big brother she looked up to.

I would take her outdoors on adventures or ride double on my horse when we were small, with Mum leading us around the paddock.

She offers the nail varnish again and gives me a hopeful look. “If you pick a color.”

I lift my head a moment later to meet her gaze more evenly, and I let myself relax into a half smile. “Lavender.”

“Good.” Anne gives me a small smile in return. “Here. Give me your hand.”

I’m quiet as I watch her work methodically: bottom coat, color, topcoat. It really is a beautiful shade. Then, I sit still for my nails to dry.

“Gav and Katie should be here in a few minutes. Do you want me to help you find something to wear?”

“I suppose I shouldn’t wear pajamas to watch a film with friends, even if I’m home. I have a reputation to uphold,” I quip.

“Let’s see what you have.” Anne brightens hopefully, leaping up.

We go into my walk-in wardrobe. “I can’t touch anything yet,” I remind Anne, looking around and pausing over in the beige and khaki department with chinos and white shirts, which Lauren loves so much. “My nails are wet.”

She runs a hand along the trousers hanging from a rail. She pulls out a pair of black jeans. “This.”

“Okay.”

“And this?” She points at a pink top with a low cut. Fun, but not palace approved.

I shake my head. Pink is far too dangerous. Beautiful too, but trouble guaranteed to lead to more trouble, something I can find all too well on my own.

“Or this?” Her next selection is a patterned floral shirt with winding vines and leaves.

I shake my head again. I’m not sure nature can be trusted either.

In the end, I pick a soft, lightweight grey cashmere pullover. It’s a compromise. Even though it’s summer, it’s cool in the palace today.

She leaves me to get dressed, which I manage better on my own than those first days, though I’m still careful about bending down to tie my shoes.

Waves of dizziness can come unprompted. One day, I tell myself, I won’t feel like I’m orbiting the Earth like a satellite whenever I pull a shirt over my head.

I come out, changed, and step into some trainers that are loosely laced.

“Mostly good.” Anne gives me a critical look.

“Mostly?”

“Your hair.”

I walk over to the bureau with its mirror.

My reflection shows me with rumpled hair and a little bleary-eyed, with my hair showing its waves and a little blond from the summer sun.

No product, no styling. Good enough for a night in.

Not quite ready event-ready for my close-up in Vogue .

At least there’re no photographers inside the palace to worry about.

I turn away from the mirror. “I’m as ready as I will be.”

Anne starts to lead the way out.

“Wait.”

She pauses, glancing over her shoulder, a question in her eyes. “What do you need?”

I clear my throat. “I need to apologize to you, actually.”

“For what? I’m not responsible for your wardrobe choices.”

“Not that.” I laugh, before drawing a deep breath. “About New Year’s.”

It’s her turn take a sharp breath. “Oh?”

“About Gav. I’m sorry, Anne. Even though nothing happened, I know you think you walked in on something.

It’s just… well, Gav and I have known each other forever.

And yes, when we were younger, in school, there was a kiss.

But that’s it. He’s one of my closest friends.

Like you. And I don’t want to hurt you. I’m sorry for that night. ”

She tosses her long hair over a shoulder, frowning. “Auggie… I…”

“I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize your relationship. And neither would Gav.”

Anne relents, her expression softening. “I know. He’s said the same thing. And I know he’s bi.”

“I should have said something sooner.”

“I know it’s complicated. And Gav is a flirt. I know that, too.” Anne relents, giving me a hug. “I’ll forgive you. I’ve just been so worried.”

“I know.” I give her a reassuring smile. “But I’m here, see? And getting better.”

“Thank God.” Anne shakes her head. And we head down to the reception room to wait for the others.

When Gav and Katie arrive, Gav hugs me tightly. The ferocity of his grip shows me he was truly worried, despite his casual demeanor. It’s the first time he’s seen me since the accident. He was away in Paris for an internship in the summer when he wasn’t off with Anne, away from London.

“So good to see you.” Gav holds me at arm’s length, giving me a grin.

“Good to be seen?”

He smiles, satisfied. “Excellent. This is the viewing party I was promised.”

“I thought we were watching a film,” I complain. “Not me.” I’ve mostly watched things in shorter bursts, mindful of too much time with screens. At least I’ve gotten over Gav’s cologne making me dizzy, which is some kind of personal growth.

We’re in a reception room, which is as cozy as it can be in a palace. The high ceilings give an airy feel, and the ornate walls are covered in paintings and photographs of various family members. I try not to look too closely in case I see my mother.

“Where’s the pizza I was promised?” Gav says lightly.

Instead of the takeaway order, Katie arrives before the pizza, but only by five minutes.

When the pizza arrives, we dig in like it’s the last call ever for carbs and cheese on Earth.

I’ve shaken off all the usual unease about my place in the world, buoyed by my visitors and, surprisingly, by food.

Quite possibly because there’s nothing regal about pizza or something we would ever serve at a banquet at the palace.

“Nothing like cheese and carbs,” Katie says happily, biting into her next slice with enthusiasm, as if we’re back with friends in a college common room.

I’m on my next slice, cheered by the company. “Food of the night gods.”

It’s a little awkward at first, the group of us together, but very quickly, everyone eases into the conversation during the meal.

At least, they do, with banter and jokes.

I mostly listen in, but I’m smiling and laughing.

And for a while, it feels like old times.

Pre-accident. Pre-almost-kiss with Gav on New Year’s. Pre-fucking everything up.

We move to the plush sofas, which are legitimately comfortable, and we get ready to put on a film with the projector. The selection is The Devil Wears Prada , Katie’s suggestion, because she knows I adore Meryl Streep and Anne Hathaway.

Gav’s pouring drinks, which is wine for everyone else. I take a generous glass of sparkling water. Alcohol and I, in my current state, do not get on. They open snacks into bowls: popcorn, crisps, sweets. Katie’s distracted. She keeps texting.

Everyone settles in to start watching. We’re only fifteen minutes into the film when the door opens into the darkened room, and our heads pivot like one to the doorway.

Gav pauses the film. The frozen image is the only light in the room. I squint.

“Mr. Golden,” announces a butler, with two backlit shadows from the lighting in the corridor. And another figure enters, a silhouette I’m very familiar with, even in the darkness.

My chest tightens, an instinctive response. Meanwhile, my brain struggles to catch up.

It can’t be.

The door closes. And I can’t breathe.

Anne turns on a small lamp at the end of the sofa where she sits, casting a gentle pink glow.

It’s unmistakably Thomas.

He looks stunning as ever in a smart shirt and trousers well tailored to fit his athletic build.

And his smile is as warm, the special smile I’ve seen him give only me.

The smile I remember from lying in his arms in his flat high above London in our few stolen days together when we made believe the real world didn’t exist.

All thanks to reality TV, no less. I can’t say reality TV didn’t deliver in my case. But now, seeing him in front of me is an all-too-painful reminder of what we gave up. And now, the epic mess we’re in with the media.

My father will murder me if Thomas is found within the palace.

And he’s supposed to be on set or at a protest tonight against the Royal Family, and I have no idea how he’s here. My face burns.

“Hi, Auggie.” Thomas approaches, tentative.

I can’t help it: I burst into tears.

Concern immediately washes over his features. “I can leave if you don’t want to see me. I knew it was a risk coming. But Katie messaged me and said you could use some cheering up.”

I shake my head in disbelief, thrilled and overwhelmed and heartbroken all at once. “Why are you even in London?”

“Work. Filming. You know that.”

He steps closer to me.

“You mean you’re here for a protest.” My jaw lifts, but my voice wavers. I force some steadying breaths down like I have some pretense of control, but frankly, I don’t. “To bring down the kingdom. Or spring the ravens from the Tower.”

He gives me a wry smile. “Well, actually?—”

“You have got to leave before anyone else sees you,” I hiss. My shoulders shake, my chest so tight I can barely get in a shuddering breath.

“We’ll leave you alone for a few minutes,” says Anne, pointedly gathering Gav and Katie, who’re rubbernecking shamelessly, and they at last slip out of the room to give us something like privacy.

“I heard you weren’t well.” His voice is low. “That you’ve been having a hard time with your recovery. The media has gone crazy, and I had to see you.”

Swallowing hard, my voice wavers. “I thought you were off doing the show or whatever you’re doing with your app. Or your empire. Leave me out of it.”

“Republic. Since July 4, 1776. You might’ve heard of it.” The smile’s plain in his voice, and my heart leaps to see him. “Auggie?—”

“Thom, you must leave, right now. No joke this time. Before there’s an international incident.

The Royal Family is meant to be apolitical and definitely, definitely not supporting people who want to bring down the kingdom,” I repeat, my voice low as I catch his arm, searching his eyes.

My hands shake. “I—I don’t know how you got in, but you must get out the same way.

However you got smuggled in. My father can’t find out you’ve been here.

Or the paparazzi. No matter what my friends might have said or done. ”

I tremble, fearful. Frozen in place, I stare at him. Words evade me like running water.

Thomas frowns hard in disbelief. “Are you serious? I just—I’ve had it?—”

“ Now. You don’t understand.” My voice is unsteady, the room starting to spin. “I’m not kidding about an international incident?—”

“This was a mistake, clearly.” Thomas’s expression is cold as he eyes me. “I should leave.” Hurt, he pauses at the door to look at me one last time and storms out.

Then he’s gone. And that’s even worse.

I rush from the room down picture-perfect corridors to my bedroom. I want to burn everything down, unsay what I did. Because for a few weeks, Thomas meant everything, even if it was make-believe and temporary in our own world.

My father is right that bloodlines do matter if the monarchy is to survive, whether I like it or not. Anne would inherit if I abdicated right now. Which I can’t do. I owe my life to the Royal Family and to duty. I can’t face abdication—I would disappoint my mother. And my father.

It would mean I would have failed my life’s purpose.

Plus, I don’t know if Anne has it in her plans to rule. My cousin James, who is next in line after Anne, is a train wreck, and his brother John is even worse.

I’m doomed.