Page 8 of How to Date a Prince (Being Royal #1)

Chapter Seven

I t’s a sleepless night in an unfamiliar bed.

The room feels more February than June and vaguely damp, but at least the duvet is cozy.

As ever in these kinds of places, beautiful but not airtight, there’s a draught.

Even with the warm bed, it doesn’t keep me from tossing and turning, and there are no midnight drives or pottery wheels at hand for distraction.

Shivering as I push back the fluffy duvet, with reluctance, I slip out of bed.

After going back and forth with myself, I ended up having dinner last night sent up to my room.

But now, for breakfast, I must make the decision again: public or private.

Because my performance begins the moment I walk out the door of my suite.

At least Alyse has provided assurances that there will be no filming within my room.

Breakfast performances are familiar territory from both the palace and mealtimes with my father, where we both ignore my lackadaisical eating habits, something that started in the torment of boarding school.

Everything was out of my control, except what I ate—or didn’t, as a protest vote.

At Eton, I often felt the odd man out. Too famous to fit in, somebody once told me.

“Own it,” Gav advised me then, his go-to advice. Easier said than done.

After a shower and a shave, I dress, following Colin’s advice for smart casual.

I choose grey jeans and a light blue cashmere-blend jumper that I know works well with my eyes.

I slip into my Adidas trainers for comfort.

The branding’s distinctive, but I can’t imagine they’ll be filming my feet.

Otherwise, this would be a lot more like OnlyFans, and that’s definitely not what I signed up for.

Black is forbidden, according to Lauren, who vigorously read the instructions. No wild patterns, no branded logos.

Breathe, Auggie.

At last, I open the door and head downstairs for breakfast to prove to myself—and the others—I can do this. Mercifully, there are no cameras in sight. Nick has replaced Alyse, my usual two bodyguards, trading off on shifts. He’s a distant shadow.

As I near the breakfast room, voices echo out into the hall. The air smells of baking and fry-ups. Laughter rings out. Dishes clatter. Another deep breath, and I enter the room as nonchalantly as I can, as if royals pop around for breakfast all the time.

Everything goes quiet. People peer at me, a room full of watching eyes, cast and crew alike.

There’re at least a couple of dozen people in the breakfast room.

I do my best to smile, but it probably comes out more like a grimace.

Doing my best to ignore them, I head over to the buffet, collecting a tray.

People start to talk amongst themselves again. I make a beeline for the tea before finding fruit and eggs, beans and toast. I’m given a wide berth. Whether that is because Nick is giving them a steely eye or because I’m persona non grata here, I can’t say.

I turn to find a table where I can eat out of the way and nearly bump into a human wall. Apparently, Nick’s protective influence ripples only so far, but then again, I suppose he’s showing some restraint on security takedowns for the sake of filming. Everyone here’s been vetted, after all.

“Sorry,” I say out of instinct and training.

The person continues to stand in place like a barrier, blocking my path. Not any person—it’s Thomas Golden. He lifts an eyebrow. Thomas Golden looks even more glorious in the daylight, with a sweep of dark hair and a built physique still visible under his tailored shirt. He narrows his eyes at me.

The disaster night that helped land me here comes flooding back in all its awkward glory.

And unfortunately, he looks terribly hot when he’s irritated.

“Hello, Dave.” His gaze is unyielding. I’d sure give a lot right now for even a fraction of yield.

Shit. So, he does recognize me. I shiver, meeting his eyes.

His jaw’s set.

“It’s Auggie. And I’m terribly sorry.” I try again, in case it takes this time.

I give him a tentative smile, lifting my eyebrows in the way that would always guarantee me a grin from Gav.

Followed usually by some smart remark about me being a wanker, and we would happily trade insults. Those were the old days, anyway.

“Apology not accepted.”

It’s my turn to frown back. “I said I’m very sorry.”

“Not good enough.” His tone is crisp.

“Not good enough?”

“You were beyond rude, and I’m not accepting your apology at this time.” His gaze is ice, riveted as though he bores holes through me with the intensity of his glare.

“Well.” I consider him. “You’re entitled to your opinion. And I was beyond rude, yes. Please see previous apology.”

“Let’s talk about who’s entitled. Is that the sort of manners they teach you at prince school?”

“I regret to inform you that you’re also coming from a life of privilege.” I gaze at him meaningfully. “And now, here we are. And prince school, I’m afraid, is not all it’s cracked up to be.”

Stalemate.

There are murmurs from the men at a nearby table, who listen in. Other conversations carry on in the background. Cutlery scrapes on plates, people laugh, and the yellow breakfast room is filled with sunlight. Except, that is, for our personal storm cloud with room for two.

Thomas Golden shakes his head and brushes past me to the tea and coffee station. I lower my head slightly and slink to an empty table by the back corner near an exit, both to be out of the way and to have an escape route, if needed.

My face gets hot, and my guts twist. I deserved that. I then hold myself tall, knowing people are watching and listening in.

Right, then. Five minutes into breakfast, and I’ve made my first enemy of the day.

With everyone keeping their distance, I draw out my phone and look Thomas Golden up again, my exile granting me privacy. For the moment, I ignore my breakfast offerings except for the tea, which is the most important part of any meal.

The internet confirms Thomas Golden is the heir to the Golden Hotels empire.

There are photos of him looking rugged at times and at others sleekly entrepreneurial, suited at business presentations or in outdoor gear when scaling mountains.

Thomas Golden summits Mount Kilimanjaro , reads a caption beneath a lofty peak.

Because of course he scales fucking mountains.

I can’t even go to Hyde Park for a walk alone.

It has to be said Thomas Golden’s spectacular in a parka and aviators.

These days, I more often use my premium outdoor gear for aesthetic photo shoots in the city, given my schedule of public engagements and the Royal Family’s Communications team campaign for me as a Cool Young Royal TM , where I need to keep my outdoor gear spotless.

So, instead, I end up using vintage utilitarian items when out at Balmoral, left behind by generations of royals who also loved a moment of peace.

Then again, fifty years ago, things were different.

We would release family portraits at Christmas and a few occasions throughout the year or for key events.

Now, everyone’s online all the time, and the tabloids are digital as well as print.

Plus, everyone has a camera on their phone, with plenty of people looking for some quick way to make some money if I do something silly.

Like what happened with Katie. My guts twist. I miss my best friend.

I would give anything to talk to her right now.

Meanwhile, on my phone, Thomas Golden’s taking selfies with his father in alpine settings with shocking blue skies and rugged peaks in the background. It’s enough to make anyone swoon just a little.

With my head down, I scroll and take reluctant bites. I can’t walk away from a tray of food because people will notice.

Thomas Golden’s based out of New York. This is a British show, so I have no idea what he’s doing here.

In terms of branding, I get why having a prince on would be a major coup, but not an American businessman.

It doesn’t make sense. Maybe it’s a path into some awkward cross-cultural misunderstandings for ratings.

“Hi.”

Startled, my head snaps up from my involved study of Thomas Golden. I instantly lock my screen and put my phone face down on the table. Jax stands there, giving me the same friendly grin as yesterday.

I relax, telling my fight-or-flight instinct to take off without me. “Hi. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Auggie. Mind if I join you?” Jax offers. He’s wearing a lavender shirt with the sleeves rolled up like he’s all ready for business and jeans. He lifts his mug of tea in greeting.

“Of course. Please.” My manners make an appearance, and I gesture at the chair beside me. Jax hasn’t either actively despised me or given me a wide berth so far. Maybe Jax is being strategic. He must be.

“What do you think of all this so far?” Jax gives an expansive gesture, encompassing the room and presumably the estate. And the show.

“I’ve never had an experience quite like it.” It’s an honest answer, if a bit obvious.

Jax laughs and nods. “Me either. I think Wilson’s the only one who’s done a reality TV show before. And Travis is a serious influencer. And of course, Thomas too.”

Of course Thomas Golden. I push my eggs around my plate with my fork, as if I move it around enough, it will eventually evaporate.

“Right.”

“And you’re our only royal.” Jax grins. It’s easy to feel more relaxed around him, at least. And curiosity gets the better of me. “Which kind of makes you an influencer too.”

I splutter on my tea, and Jax laughs again.

“Sorry,” he says. “But the monarch really is the OG influencer. I mean, think of all the patronage and everything else at court.”

I can’t help but laugh at that too. “Well, maybe. Fewer camera crews in medieval times.”

“Yeah, that’s true. Anyway, you’re always welcome to join at my table.” Jax gives a nonchalant shrug. “If you want.”