Page 43 of How to Date a Prince (Being Royal #1)
Chapter Thirty-Three
I finally lift my head up from my soup to meet his gaze. “Yes?”
“How was the filming yesterday?” my father asks curiously. He lowers the paper. It rustles.
I give an expansive shrug, set the spoon down, and sit back in my chair. Maybe I’ll try eating again in a few minutes. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
I nod. “We reviewed my footage together, and they interviewed me.”
“I see.” My father nods his approval, then brightens. “Like a confessional. I love confessionals.”
Somehow, I’m fairly certain he won’t love my Thomas Golden–related confessional where I spill my guts out enough to end the Empire and the American republic in one fell swoop for my Academy Award.
“Sort of? I’m not sure what that is, to be honest.” I plead ignorance.
“That’s the part of the reality show where they cut away to the contestant having a private reveal to the camera or host,” Father explains, brightening, getting into it like a man on a favorite topic.
Probably because it’s in his top three: reality show reveals, harassing me about progeny, and missing Mum. “About what’s happened.”
“Oh, right. Yes, there was some of that. We did a few interviews when we filmed in the summer too. On-site.” I sip some water like it’s some kind of cure for this conversation.
At least it’s great for the complexion. It’s a win for skin care.
“Apparently, all the other men had also come into the studio to do their voice-overs.”
My father folds his paper and sets it down to the side. He peers at me with great interest, leaning in. “And what did you say in your session yesterday?”
“I can’t tell you,’ I say mildly, pushing the bowl back. “NDA, remember?”
A hint of a smile plays over my father’s lips. “Very good.” Then, he gives me a serious look. “Aside from filmed reality, let’s discuss current reality. Auggie. I think it’s time you tried stepping back a little into regular life again.”
“I’m not up for public engagements?—”
“I didn’t say that. Just hear me out, please.” His blue eyes are rapt.
I listen, fidgeting with my signet ring.
“I know your recovery is difficult. But you are slowly getting better, which we’re all delighted to see. So, I think it’s time you tried engaging more.”
“Oh?” I ask warily, feeling a catch coming on. If he goes on about any kind of engagement—royal or marital—I’ll flee for the hills.
He sighs. “Auggie, I’m grateful you’re still alive, believe me. I can’t even begin to describe how worried I’ve been about you. And I realize you’re young, but I do suggest putting in an effort on dating to find a woman to marry?—”
I splutter. Marital-adjacent, then.
“—to carry on the family bloodline. And quash those silly rumors in the press about you and Thomas Golden being romantically involved. Outrageous. I don’t know where they come up with these ridiculous ideas.”
My lips press together as I hold his gaze, unwavering. I redden, even so, wishing I could will my complexion to behave itself. As if I have any self-control when it comes to Thomas, and my body knows it. “What if I don’t want to do that? Marry, that is.”
“Son, it’s not about what you want. It’s about duty and your responsibilities to the family and the monarchy, as well as the stability of our kingdom if it is to survive.”
Frowning, I grip the edge of the table. How many times can a man hear this same conversation before expiring on the spot? “Father, I?—”
There’s no way right now I can bring up the fact that I’m gay.
Family tradition, sweeping everything that matters under the rug.
If only I could hide there too, except there would be a prince-shaped lump beneath the antique rug underfoot, which would give me away.
I’m sure that’s the only problem with that scenario. Not like, say, denial. I grit my teeth.
“Yes?” he asks.
“What about me? Where am I in all this?” I sigh, shaking my head. This is the life I’ve been born into, after all. “Never mind.”
His expression softens. “Auggie. You’re right here, at home. Safe. Try dating. I hear it’s fun. If you like, I could have a list of lovely women looking for suitors drawn up for you.”
I groan. “Do these hypothetical women have a say? What if they find me repulsive? Or highly annoying? Or—something,” I try, my words spilling out in a tumble. My chest is tight.
My father sighs. “Augustus. You’re a very handsome young man, terribly clever, and a prince. What’s there not to like?”
“I’m not that clever,” I groan, looking down at my soup. “Actually, I’m the opposite of clever. Also, I think I’m finished. I’m sorry.” A butler comes to clear my meal. I look at my father again. “And I need to get ready for my appointment this afternoon.”
“Very well. And I will send a list over to you.”
“Terrific.”
“Don’t be sarcastic. It’s not a good trait.” He frowns at me, stern.
“See? People will hate my sarcasm, and I’ll die alone. My cats will eat me, starting with the soft bits. Here lies King Augustus, bachelor. To be so lucky to have my soft bits eaten by small yet persistent carnivores. At least they would have been good companions before they ate me.”
“Augustus.”
“Sorry.” It’s still a thrill to wind him up.
I excuse myself from the dining room and instead go get ready for my appointment.
Unfortunately, there’s no escaping my father when he has a mission planned out for me.
And now, all I can do is think of Renaissance Man airing next month, when all my secrets will be aired.
And wonder who is winning the challenges. And all I crave is Thomas.
* * *
According to Thomas’ very busy Instagram feed, when I download the app, he’s been far from idle since I last saw him.
Thomas, with his arms around two women, beaming at the camera. Thomas, looking stunning by the sea blue enough to be the Med again. Thomas, standing beside a criminally attractive man. I can’t help but notice their arms are touching. My face tightens into a scowl.
Scrolling back, I see the dark-haired man in several of his photos. Adam Theroux, according to the Instagram tag. Or more like @heythatadam. Which makes me dizzy to read.
Frowning, I continue. I’m seated in a reception room in the palace, with sunbeams flooding the room through tall windows. The rain has broken, at least for a little while.
I scroll through Adam Theroux’s feed as well.
And in return, Thomas appears in several photos.
In one, they have their arms around each other’s shoulders at some kind of black-tie event.
Adam turns out to be some kind of influencer-model, which makes sense given his sultry looks and enviable fashion sense.
In my head, I can only dream of looking like that.
He’s sculpted and mysterious and aggravatingly a lot around Thomas in recent weeks.
Which I don’t approve of, but Thomas can obviously go on and live his best life.
After all, I’m the opposite of an influencer, and I wear a proverbial crown.
I go deeper into my social media and internet dive, searching their names together. I’m rewarded with more images, including stock photos, gossip sites, and more social media. Along with a couple of magazines. I scroll through headlines till my eyes blur.
Thomas Golden and Adam Theroux Spotted Together in NYC
Out and Proud: Thomas and Adam Take Manhattan
Thomas Golden: Glow Up App Launch in New Year
Influencer Adam Theroux Throws Charity Ball for Halloween
Nope, that didn’t help at all.
A dark feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. Slump-shouldered, I look at a picture of Thomas. He looks incredibly happy. I mean, I’m happy he’s happy, but it hurts.
In a video, Adam leans into Thomas, beaming, before kissing his shoulder.
Well, then. I swallow hard. Whatever we had, Thomas has clearly already moved on.
They start showing up in photos together in late August. Which means they must have been dating by the time Thomas showed up at the palace as a surprise. What was Thomas playing at? Literally rubbernecking at the scene of the accident?
My eyes sting.
I’ll just need to date several eligible young women to appease my father and tell him I tried to be straight, but it didn’t take.
And to prove to Thomas that I’ve moved on too.
Or at least that I’ve tried. If Thomas can move on, so can I.
I’ll tell my heart to forget him. That’s all there is to it. With my resolve firm, I delete the app.
* * *
“Oh my God, you actually did a reality TV show? So the press is true!” Lady Laura Greyson, my date for the evening, can’t stop giggling. We’re out in an exclusive restaurant in London in a private dining room. She’s beautiful, long hair and long legs. And completely insufferable. I long for Katie.
“Yes.” It’s an indisputable fact. “As much as a fact as I made myself into a human projectile.”
“I did see the promos, actually. I thought they were computer-generated or something images of you. The show airs from next week?”
“Yes. And it’s really me. Not a deepfake.”
“Oh, we’ll have to watch them together! This sounds like so much fun. I can’t wait.”
“Mm.” I press my lips together. I could totally wait.
At least a lifetime, if not two. Watching myself is something to be endured, like a root canal.
And I’m sure Lady Laura isn’t waiting for the moment that I spill my feelings for Thomas before the British viewers.
Which, admittedly, will be awkward. Shit.
I mean, there comes a point where I can’t deny feelings or my desire and attractions.