Fake Dating the Prince

by Ashlyn Kane

  His mother took a seat on the piano bench a few meters away and watched him. “It can wait until after the weekend. Parliament’s not in session again until January anyway.”

  “I know.” He took a few deep breaths and ran through one of the breathing exercises his father had taught him in order to release the tension from his body. “I’m just nervous.”

  “You still believe everything can be perfect.” She smiled—not her public expression but one she only allowed in the privacy of their residence at the palace or at their summer home on the island. “That’s why you don’t know when to stop.”

  “I know when to stop,” Flip murmured, but maybe he didn’t. For months he’d been working on this proposal, a plan to turn the royal family’s biggest asset, the diamond factory a few kilometers south of the city, over to the government to be run as a public holding. Before that could happen, he wanted to assure himself that the people in charge were competent, capable, incorruptible agents who would serve the public’s best interest.

  Signing off on people’s integrity was hard.

  She chuckled. “I see that. I hear Celine has a new background check to run.” She crossed her legs in a way that indicated to Flip she didn’t intend to stand for some time.

  He turned away from the desk and faced her. As usual, her expression betrayed nothing—not to a casual observer. But she was Flip’s mother, and he knew her better than almost anyone. The slightest curve of her mouth, that was hope. The single line on her forehead, easily mistaken for a wrinkle if you didn’t know better, that was tension. She worried too much.

  “She’s already run it, as I’m sure you know.” And Brayden was as squeaky clean as anyone could wish for. “You’ll meet him tomorrow, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I’m worried that my only son has a new man in his life and didn’t tell his mother.”

  “What am I, chopped liver?” Flip’s dad entered the library from the back door, clad in a kurta pajama and his usual house slippers. “When do I get to give the shovel speech? I’ve been practicing.” He put on an exaggerated Southern US drawl. “You treat my son with respect and have him home by ten—”

  “Irfan,” his mother admonished, but her voice was warm. It seemed to serve more as an invitation. Flip’s dad crossed the library to press a kiss to her cheek, sit beside her, and take her hand.

  “You’re right, we wouldn’t want to cramp his style. ‘Make sure you feed him breakfast before you send him on his walk of shame’—is that better?”

  Flip groaned and ran his hands through his hair. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Hey, I have your back.”

  “I know that. But seriously, there’s a reason I haven’t introduced him.”

  “Why, is he hideous?” Irfan addressed this question to his wife. “I know we’re an intimidatingly good-looking family—” He cut off and made gestures to indicate her face, her figure, et cetera. Flip loved his dad.

  “Irfan.” She was laughing outright. “Stop. I want to hear his explanation.” She lowered her voice. “Besides, I saw his new man’s photograph.”

  Oh boy. “It’s just a date,” Flip said helplessly. He meant to tell more of the truth, that it was just a favor, that Brayden was in Lyngria on vacation for a few weeks and that nothing would come of it, but it got stuck on his tongue. “He didn’t even know who I was when I asked him to come.”

  “Oh, so you’re ashamed of us,” his dad began, mock indignant.

  But Flip couldn’t take any more. He didn’t know why it should bother him that his parents were excited to meet his date—why he didn’t want to tell them it was nothing more than a convenient arrangement—but he didn’t want to lie more than he had to. “Dad,” Flip pleaded.

  Irfan sobered. “All right. But you don’t have to hide him from us, you know. No one is upset you’re not marrying Prince Harry or whomever.”

  “Remember when you used to date that Belgian duke’s son—what was his name?”

  “Armand,” Irfan supplied with a shudder. “I don’t think I ever saw him crack a smile.”

  “He smiled,” Flip said defensively, though it truthfully hadn’t been very often. Armand had been a poor match in that regard, not that many people could keep pace with his father’s sense of humor.

  “Or that executive from Toronto you brought home a few years ago. He was nice enough, but—what’s the phrase—he was dull as a post?”

  “It’s dumb as a post, dear.”

  “No, I mean he was boring. I thought I was going to have to learn to sleep with my eyes open.”

  Irfan had never missed a single beat during a state dinner, which Flip knew because they’d discussed at length how important it was to be engaged and informed, especially because certain factions would be hypercritical of them regardless. Trevor really was fairly boring, though.

  “Can we be done dissecting my love life?” Flip pleaded. “You can meet Brayden tomorrow. But no shovel talk. We’re taking it slow.”

  “I’d expect nothing less,” his mother said, and though her tone was warm, Flip could have sworn it held a hint of disappointment. She stood, patting her husband’s leg as she did, and crossed to the desk to kiss the top of Flip’s head again. “Get some sleep, sweetheart. I won’t have you begging off dances because you’re tired. You don’t want to fall asleep on your date.”

  In fairness, Brayden had probably already seen him asleep with his mouth open on one of their transatlantic flights together. But still. “That would be rude of me.”

  Irfan stood too and squeezed Flip’s shoulder. He waited until Mom was gone and then for Flip to meet his eyes. “Whatever happens with this boy, your mother and I just want you to be happy.”

  Flip’s throat tightened. “Thanks, Dad.”

  Then he was left alone.

  He had a feeling sleep could prove elusive tonight.

  BRAYDEN was half terrified when his phone rang at eleven o’clock in the morning. He was just puttering out of the shower, debating how fancied up to get when he knew Celine would be picking him up in an hour to be professionally fussed over.

  He was so flustered that he answered without checking the caller ID—rookie mistake.

  “So this party you’re going to with this guy who’s not your sugar daddy,” Lina said, without waiting for him to say hello.

  Brayden blinked and then checked the time. “Isn’t it, like, four in the morning where you are?”

  “I wanted to make sure you didn’t have an excuse to blow me off.” She yawned into the phone. “Anyway. Talk.”

  Brayden sighed, plucked his fancy new underwear from the box, and put them on. Then he immediately took them off and put on regular, plebeian underwear, because they felt entirely too good to wear while he was on the phone with his sister. “About what?”

  “About what, he says. I don’t know, about whatever event you’re going to that’s so fancy you’re not only going to wear a tuxedo, but having someone tailor one for you?”

  Brayden decided he’d better not tell her that actually, he was pretty sure Bernadette was going to make the whole thing from scratch. “It’s a charity ball. A fundraiser for a scholarship program that sends underprivileged kids all over the world to art school, or something.” He could have described it better, but that ran the risk of Lina googling the thing and realizing who Brayden must be attending with. No, thank you. He could do without his sister marrying him off to a prince, even in her head.

  “Mm-hmm. So we’re talking multiple thousands of dollars a head. Not including your tuxedo.”

  “Look, I met him at work, okay? He flies my usual Toronto to Paris and back. First class every time. Yeah, he’s rich. So what? A couple grand means nothing to him.”

  Lina huffed. “Must be nice.”

  “Right?”

  “But okay. He’s rich. And you said he’s super hot.”

  “Like the face of the sun,” Brayden confirmed.

  “And this is just a favor. You’re not his r
eal date, and he doesn’t expect you to put out at the end of the night, even though you totally would.”

  “Succinctly put, thanks.”

  He could practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Shut up. I’m trying to understand. He’s rich, he’s hot, he dates… but not you. He’s been recommending local places for you to go, so he’s obviously not a total asshole.”

  “So…?”

  “So what’s wrong with him, Bray? Is he a serial killer? Does he have BO so bad you need a hazmat suit to get within ten feet? If he’s so great, why doesn’t he have a real date?”

  Brayden opened his mouth to reply, then realized: “I have no idea.” Put like that, it was a bit strange that Flip didn’t have a cadre of suitable men on tap. Certainly he had to know someone more appropriate than Brayden, who was going to spend the whole night using the wrong fork, making crass jokes, and probably being a royal embarrassment. Why didn’t Flip have a date?

  But why did it matter? It wasn’t like Brayden was looking to date him, no matter how hot and charming he was. That was punching above his weight.

  “I’m just saying,” Lina said. “Why you? Is it just coincidence? Or is there a story there? You know I love you, bro, and I’d never ask you to change. But, like, consider that maybe this guy does actually like you and maybe try not to break his heart.”

  Brayden had not yet recovered from that bombshell when the hotel phone rang, probably to announce his ride had arrived. Shit. “Okay. I promise I’m not running away from this conversation, but I have to go. My car is here.”

  “Your car that your mystery man sent for you,” Lina deadpanned.

  Because he’s a prince! Brayden wanted to say. He doesn’t have time for stuff like that! He’s used to having people do things for him! But he couldn’t tell her. She’d never believe him anyway. “Love you,” he said desperately. “Bye!”

  “Remember what I said,” she admonished and then hung up.

  Brayden answered the hotel phone and promised he’d be right down, only to realize he was still mostly naked and wearing the wrong underpants. He’d better move fast.

  BY the time Brayden had dressed for his final fitting at Les Fils Royaux, he’d talked himself down from his panic. Lina didn’t know anything. There were plenty of good reasons for an eligible person not to date. Such as not being interested in dating, like Brayden. Such as being asexual or aromantic. Such as significant past trauma. Such as having the paparazzi all up in one’s business.

  Brayden really didn’t blame Flip for doing his solo thing, though obviously, if this tux didn’t make him want to bone Brayden, he was hopeless.

  “Well,” Bernadette said as she stood back after adjusting the hem of his pants over his shiny new shoes, “what do you think?”

  Brayden looked at his reflection in the mirror, at his broad shoulders framed in a perfectly tailored jacket, then turned ninety degrees so he could see the curve of his ass. Unsurprisingly, Bernadette had been right about the underwear. He looked at the slim-fit trouser leg. He looked at Bernadette. “I look hot.”

  She snorted, one hand on the curve of her stomach. “You’re all right. Nothing pulling funny? It’s not good for business if your pant seam busts on national TV.”

  “I promise you left enough third-leg room,” Brayden said, rolling his eyes. Bernadette rolled hers right back, and Brayden returned his gaze to the mirror.

  The crisp black lines of the tuxedo lent him a gravitas of posture he didn’t normally carry, but the semigloss damask on the lining kept it from feeling stifling. And Bernadette had let Brayden inject some personality in the form of a raw silk vest, tie, and pocket square in bright amethyst.

  “Then my work here is done.” She dusted off her hands theatrically. “Now go take all that off so I can package it up. I don’t trust you not to wrinkle.”

  And then Celine brought the car around to ferry him to the palace, to Flip’s private apartments, where presumably valets and butlers and professional hair and makeup people would primp Brayden until he was fit for public consumption by the caliber of public who consumed Flip.

  Okay, that sounded like he was going to an orgy and not a fancy charity ball. But still.

  Brayden hadn’t made it to the palace yet. Only parts of it were open to the public, but the tours had good reviews on TripAdvisor, and apparently the holiday decorations were something special to see. Driving up to the place, Brayden could believe it.

  The palace sat a kilometer or two outside the city proper, surrounded by a topiary garden that was a little brown with the season. A crushed-gravel driveway a good five or six cars wide went on forever, lit on either side by old-fashioned streetlamps, each adorned with a wreath and bow. And there, at the end of it, with a dormant fountain in front, sprawled the palace itself—a mostly rectangular building three stories tall, sheathed in gray stone, with a copper roof. Cheerful yellow light poured out the windows into the already-darkening afternoon.

  It would look like the perfect postcard if they got a little snow.

  By now Brayden was used to waiting until Celine came around to let him out, but that didn’t happen. Instead, the partition behind her rolled down and she turned to face him. “I’ll have your things sent up,” she promised, and then the door opened to reveal a man in what could only be described as a butler’s uniform.

  “Mr. Wood, I presume,” the man said. He stepped back at attention as Brayden eased himself out of the car. “You are expected, sir. If you’ll follow me?”

  Brayden couldn’t have said exactly what he expected. At some point he’d thought Flip would show up and they’d get ready together, or maybe he’d get to meet the royal family (and wasn’t that insane, that that was a legitimate thought). Instead the butler—he introduced himself as Johan—led him through the wide marble halls of the palace, swiping a key card now and again to access areas that obviously weren’t open to the public. Their footsteps echoed up to cavernous ceilings adorned in more crown molding than Brayden had ever seen in his life.

  Someone had decorated the common areas with a heavy hand toward Western Christian iconography, even if some of it was the modern, secular variety with fat Father Christmases and reindeer and much of the rest was just trees and wreaths, but behind private doors, things were more subdued, as though real people might live there rather than demented holiday elves.

  A handful of cards, including one obviously handmade by a child, adorned a mantel that wouldn’t have fit in Brayden’s apartment back home. No professionally decorated fifteen-foot tree in here either, just an eight-footer with a hodgepodge of ornaments. And though Brayden wasn’t an expert on Indian culture, he thought he detected some elements of the décor with that influence. They passed by an alcove with soft lighting, the focus of which seemed to be an intricately carved table that might have been an altar. On a side table farther down the hallway sat a bluish statue with four arms.

  After another moment or twelve of gawking, Brayden was led into a bland blue-gray room with good natural lighting and no carpet on the stone floor. A round-faced woman a few years older than he was smiled at him and extended her hand. “Mr. Wood? I’m Irina.”

  Her French had a noticeable accent—Polish, maybe, the country’s fourth official language, even though from what Brayden had read, very few people living here spoke it as their native tongue. He shook her hand. “Nice to meet you. Please, call me Brayden.”

  “Brayden.” She nodded and smiled and took a step back. “I will do your hair and makeup.”

  That sounded more like an order than a question, but honestly, Brayden was probably due for a haircut. He sat when she indicated the sole chair in the room.

  He still hadn’t seen Flip by the time he’d been snipped and coiffed and shaved—just his face, fortunately—and powdered, which made him sneeze. Then Johan returned to escort him to a dressing room, and Brayden thanked Irina and went to dress.

  “His Highness sends his regrets that he was unable to greet you personally,” Johan inton
ed. “I was given to understand he had duties elsewhere.”

  “Princess Clara didn’t like her dress again?” he guessed.

  Johan’s face betrayed nothing, but Brayden thought he detected an aura of affirmation. Brayden tried again as he stepped behind a screen for modesty to start the process of getting into a tuxedo. One had to be on one’s best behavior in a palace, surely. “So when will I see Flip?” He flung his sweater over the top of the screen, mostly because he’d seen it in a cartoon, and then wondered what he was going to do with it. Then he realized that was stupid—Flip would probably have it laundered and delivered back to Brayden’s hotel room. But he was starting to worry he’d have to enter the party solo, and while he didn’t generally have a problem making small talk, he also didn’t generally hang out with the uber-rich and famous.

  “His Highness has arranged for your driver to bring you to a private anteroom at the opera house prior to the ball.”

  Well. That was better than nothing. Brayden knotted his tie—badly—buttoned his waistcoat, donned his jacket, and then stepped out for inspection. “How do I look?”

  Johan ran him up and down with an appraising eye. “If I may?”

  Brayden inclined his head, and Johan retied his tie and dismissed invisible lint from Brayden’s shoulder with an actual brush. “Very good, sir.”

  Very good, Brayden echoed in his head. So why were his palms sweating? God, had he put on enough deodorant? This was absurd. Tonight had zero stakes for him, and Flip was a crown prince. Whatever Brayden did, Flip would be fine. He couldn’t possibly commit enough faux pas to permanently damage Flip’s reputation in one night.

  That was just it, though—Brayden didn’t want Flip to just be fine. He didn’t want to make his life difficult. He wanted his friend to enjoy his evening, but he also didn’t want to do anything that would embarrass Flip.

  “This would have been easier if we never became friends,” he muttered under his breath as Celine slowed the car around the back of the opera house. Belatedly he remembered to turn off the ringer on his phone. God forbid Lina tried to call him in the middle of this or Brayden got drunk enough to let her in on what was really happening. Nope. He needed his head in the game.