Page 6 of How to Date a Prince (Being Royal #1)

Chapter Five

I wake up hoping the last couple of days were only bad dreams, but the newspaper remaining on my nightstand is an all-too-real reminder of the actual disaster night with Katie and embarrassing myself in front of Thomas Golden, as if the hot knife of shame still twists. And oh my God, I have to see him again.

The next morning after breakfast, I find out the day’s engagements have already been canceled. When I text my father to find out what’s happened with the schedule, I get no response.

As Lauren walks into my room pushing a rolling wardrobe rack laden with pre-approved wardrobe choices, I can’t help but gawp at him. “What’s all this?”

“For the program,” he says gravely. Every last strand of his white hair is styled in place. I hate to think how much product he’s using.

I stare at the clothes rack before us. It’s all very bland. Nothing controversial. No sparkles, silks, and definitely no pink.

Reaching out to touch a sport coat, I yank my hand back when it’s confirmed beige, draped over a pair of pale trousers. “Lauren, with all due respect, I can’t wear this on a reality TV show. It’s too…” I wave a hand at the suits.

“It’s bespoke.”

Great. Custom bland menswear for prime time.

I hold his gaze. Lauren’s as tall as I am. “What happened to my schedule, by the way?”

“Your father requested that your schedule be cleared in order to prepare for a very special engagement coming up in a few days’ time.”

My jaw tenses. I flip quickly through a beige suit, a greige suit, and a charcoal-grey pinstripe suit, the last of which must have been made for a banker, or maybe that’s Lauren’s idea of evening wear for TV.

A footman enters with a cart of shoe boxes. I hold back a sigh.

“Lauren, we’ll need to talk about all of this with my father.”

“He gave me no uncertain instructions to direct your wardrobe choices.”

I rub my temples. “And everything else is canceled?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Let’s revisit this tomorrow.”

He blinks at me in surprise. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes. I have somewhere I need to be. I’ll be back tonight. Don’t worry, I’m not taking a flight out of the country. No need to hide my passport,” I quip.

“Augustus.”

“Lauren.”

Lauren sighs. “Auggie…” he tries again, but I shake my head. At least today, the hangover’s passed, leaving me with a headache of my own—and my father’s—making.

“Please. Tomorrow.”

And I hurry off to throw a few things into a duffel bag and find my riding boots.

I hesitate and go into the adjacent office and stuff the Renaissance Man info pack into my bag.

I successfully ignored the envelope when it arrived last night, too busy feeling dreadful about how I behaved with Katie and Thomas Golden.

I make my way to my SUV and soon weave my way through London traffic.

When the city at last gives way to country, I take in my first deep breath in what feels like days.

Green countryside opens up before me, and I drive, blasting music all the way to Windsor Castle, with a quick stop in a village to pick up a sandwich.

After checking in with the staff at the castle and assuring them I didn’t need a groom to ready my horse, I make a beeline to the stables and change into my riding gear.

I bring my horse in from a nearby paddock. The ritual of grooming my horse, a grey called Willow, calms me. He nudges my chest in search of treats. In a pocket of my barn jacket, I find a couple of sugar cubes.

“Sorry, no carrots today.” I pat his nose, then finish with the tack.

I lead him out into the sunny afternoon, Willow’s tail swishing after us.

He’s not my Olympic-trained competition mount, long since sold because he still loved jumping, and there was no point in keeping him for leisure only, even if selling him broke my heart.

But Willow’s more than competent for my occasional ride, and others show him on the King’s behalf now that my mother is gone.

Beyond the stables, I adjust the stirrups and mount, feeling a million times more free out here.

I give the paddocks a wide berth, along with the arena and areas I used to train in, knowing the jumps are set up for others who still train here.

I can’t bear to watch competitions anymore.

I avoid everyone and do my best to get lost on the castle estate, as familiar as breathing.

When I break to eat my sandwich, I dare pull out the Renaissance Man info packs and offer Willow an apple.

“You don’t care about reality TV one bit,” I whisper to him as I lean against a tree.

Out here, it’s impossible to imagine any kind of TV or media amid the songbirds flitting about and the sunlight filtering through the woods.

At last, I open the thick envelope to look inside, complete with pen to sign off on the contracts.

After staring at the nondescript, thick envelope for an awkwardly long time, until my conscience stirs and the familiar discipline to duty comes, I finally sign the documents and waivers inside, mostly without reading them.

Very legal. Very dull. On one hand, if the papers have come to me, they’ve already been reviewed by someone else far more qualified to understand legalese and liability issues.

Like, say, a qualified lawyer who can do lawyery things.

It’s not as if I have a real choice anyway.

I skim the application my father prepared on my behalf, describing me and the challenges, which I barely read.

I turn quickly to the glossy brochures with the pitch packet about the show and the network, complete with stunning aerial photos of the Renaissance Man estate, a sprawling country house with verdant grounds, welcoming pastures, and woods.

Seeing the horse paddocks piques my curiosity and stirs the usual bittersweet feelings that anything to do with horses brings.

And then my memory of Thomas Golden springs back to life when I search the Renaissance Man show on my phone—complete with website, naturally—and I’m confronted with the handsome stranger from the club.

Immediately, my face burns with the memory of how I treated him.

Never mind the hint of attraction before that, which I cleverly annihilated in record time, a personal best.

Confirmed: he’s absolutely delicious.

Also, the man must be dripping with talent. It’s totally unreasonable to look like that and have talents too, as confirmed in the show pamphlet. Willow snorts beside me as if he’s in full agreement.

I’m going to be competing against Thomas Golden. What the actual hell. He’s quite the competitor, between his work for Habitat for Humanity, mountaineering, and who knows what else, aside from luxury hotels.

I smooth my hair. Next to me, Willow makes an attempt to nibble the info pack. I move the pages out of reach.

This show is going to be terrible. I can’t let my guard down around him.

Also, he probably hates me after I—well, I don’t know if there are any reasonable words for the most unreasonable way I acted when he asked me to dance.

And then made out with Katie in front of him, even if I had been imagining his lips at the time, which definitely doesn’t make things better.

At least there’ll be lots of other contestants around as a buffer.

It’s not like we have to be alone together. For a brief moment, I’m reassured.

And then I’m distracted again by his glossy headshot, even out here with Willow for company, with that same easy grin as if he’s shared a private joke with the viewers.

I can absolutely see why he’s been chosen for prime time.

He’s intriguing and knows how to play to cameras in the show’s trailer, complete with vistas of him rock climbing without a shirt, which nearly finishes me, and then there’s a teaser about an exciting secret guest to be revealed that will shock the country.

Which must be me.

Disaster. Guaranteed.