Fake Dating the Prince

by Ashlyn Kane

  “Good luck,” Celine told him, and with that Brayden went inside.

  FLIP didn’t mean to spend half the afternoon with Clara, reassuring her she looked beautiful in her dress. He certainly didn’t mean to have to mediate a diplomatic incident with Poland after having his hair cut and before going over his introductory speech for the evening.

  Worst of all, he didn’t intend for Brayden to spend the afternoon in the palace by himself, neglected, potentially unprepared for the media frenzy that was Flip’s life.

  He had a thoughtful, erudite, heartfelt apology composed and ready to deliver, and then Brayden walked into the anteroom, laughing over his shoulder at something the opera house guide had said, and Flip forgot every last word of his five languages.

  It only lasted a second—long enough for Flip to be able to enjoy the way Brayden’s trousers clung to his hips and backside, the way the slim, tapered leg made him look taller than his six feet, and the way the well-cut material emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Even the loud amethyst waistcoat, tie, and pocket square suited him perfectly; Brayden should never attempt to be demure. For the moment, his flyaway hair had been tamed in a style reminiscent of classic Hollywood, in that modern retro way that seemed to be in fashion once again. With his eyes crinkled at the corners in laughter, he looked particularly dashing.

  Fortunately, before Flip could embarrass himself with more staring, Brayden’s laugh turned into a smile and broke the spell, leaving behind a moderately good-looking man with more than his share of charisma. “Hey,” Brayden said, brimming with his usual cheer. He held his arms out at his side and spun around once. “How do I look?”

  Flip didn’t have it in him to obfuscate. “Like one of the scholarship alumni. I expect everyone will spend the night wondering which film they’ve seen you in.”

  Brayden grinned. “Let’s hope they don’t find the video from my cam-boy days.”

  Flip must have blanched, because Brayden hastened to add, “Oh my God, no. I’m kidding. I promise I’m not in any internet porn. Or other porn.”

  Laughing off the worst of the adrenaline, Flip shook his head. “This should be an interesting evening.”

  Brayden sobered. “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior—or a whole other person’s best behavior, even. I’m not going to do anything that will reflect badly on you. I’ll just… keep to myself.” He looked so earnest and determined.

  Flip thought about the possibilities, about the different ways the night could go, and found that Brayden’s promise presented something of a worst-case scenario. “Don’t,” he said, surprised when it came out forceful. “I mean, maybe don’t make any pornography jokes to anyone but me”—Brayden grimaced sheepishly—“but don’t be someone else.”

  I like you.

  Except Flip couldn’t say that. Could he?

  “Brayden lite, then,” Brayden said as he nudged his shoulder against Flip’s. “Slightly more personality than work Brayden, 90 percent fewer dick jokes than off-the-clock Brayden.”

  “Maybe eighty-five,” Flip returned, biting back a smile.

  “Good deal.” Brayden made as though to put his hands in his pockets, but immediately stopped himself. Bernadette had probably read him the riot act. “So. Do we have a game plan? How exactly does this work? I assume you have schmoozing to do and I’ll just slink off to the bar for a thirty-dollar martini?”

  Flip’s stomach twisted. He didn’t especially want to explain. “Actually, ah, I need to talk to you about that.”

  “Sounds ominous.” But he didn’t seem worried. “What’s up?”

  There was nothing for it. Flip steeled himself and blurted out the truth. “My parents saw Celine had orchestrated a background check on you and assumed that we’re dating. I mean, beyond this single engagement.”

  Brayden froze, expression unreadable. “Oh?” he said neutrally. “A bit upset, are they?”

  Shit. Oh no, he was angry. Flip knew he’d bollocks it up. “Actually they’re very excited to meet you. It turns out they’ve hated every boyfriend I’ve ever introduced them to, and even on paper, you’re more interesting than any of them.”

  Brayden let out a breath that turned into a quiet laugh. “For a second I thought you were going to tell me I’d been disinvited.”

  That wasn’t the reaction he anticipated. “So you’re… fine with my parents thinking you’re my boyfriend.”

  Brayden shrugged. “I mean, lying to your parents isn’t ideal, but from my perspective, what’s the big deal? We have fun tonight, tomorrow you can tell them I did something unforgivable in a boyfriend but not bad enough for a guest pass to the palace dungeon, and that’s it.” His face lost some of its openness, but not before Flip noted the thin set of his mouth and a tightening around his eyes. “Too bad, though. I’ve enjoyed having a local guide.”

  Flip forced himself to relax. “I… me too. Not that I’ve had a local guide. I mean.” He sighed and then immediately regretted his lack of self-control. “You know what I mean.”

  Brayden rubbed his shoe against a scuff mark on the floor. “So… you want me to put on a show for your parents?”

  “No,” Flip said quickly. He didn’t want to think about why that idea horrified him. “Just… be you, like we talked about.”

  The shuttered look eased somewhat, and Brayden’s shoulders crept down from where they’d risen around his ears—probably the best Flip could hope for. “All right. So I’ll meet your parents. When?”

  “Soon.” Flip fought the urge to check his watch. “They’re supposed to meet us here before we go in. Which will be… well.”

  Brayden raised an eyebrow. “Which will be what?”

  Closing his eyes, Flip took a moment to center himself. “You’re not, I don’t know, shy of attention, are you?”

  Brayden raised the other eyebrow, and Flip realized his mistake and laughed. “No, you’re right. Stupid question. Because my parents think we’re…. Anyway, you’re going to be formally introduced by the royal herald to everyone at the party as my date. Surprise!”

  Brayden laughed. “God, you are so lucky you picked me up on that flight. No, you don’t have to worry about me being the center of attention. Shockingly, I enjoy that. The only part I’m worried about is making sure I don’t make you look like an ass by mixing up the titles for dukes and barons and—I don’t know, eating with the wrong fork.”

  “‘Sir’ and ‘ma’am’ will work fine in a pinch. Most people don’t know that stuff these days. And you don’t need to worry about the forks—”

  “It took me a year to figure it out,” said Flip’s father from the door to the main hall, where he and Flip’s mother had just entered. “And I had tutors. What do they say in North America? Fake it till you make it.”

  A little on the nose, Dad. Flip cleared his throat and stood up straighter. He didn’t think about how easy it was to let instinct take over, to put his hand on Brayden’s back as they stepped forward to meet his parents halfway. “Because tonight is canapés only. Mom, Dad. This is Brayden. My boyfriend.”

  Chapter Five

  DESPITE his assurances to Flip, Brayden blanked out most of meeting his parents and the introduction to a ballroom full of important people he didn’t know. The curved baroque ceiling went up three or four stories, with arched balconies on all sides. Brayden had never seen so much finery in one place.

  But by the time he and Flip had descended the marble staircase arm in arm to the elaborately tiled floor below, he had a handle on himself. Sort of.

  They waited to one side while the herald introduced Flip’s parents, Queen Constance and Prince Irfan—the only people important enough to be introduced after Flip and Brayden, which was, not to put too fine a point on it, a mindfuck.

  Fortunately, once Flip’s parents had made it down the stairs, flowing like water in a way that must have taken years to perfect, Brayden felt some of the pressure leave his shoulders. In an unrelated incident, he noticed a passing waiter carryin
g a tray of lemon wedges and nudged Flip’s side. He gestured with his head. “Tequila shots?”

  Flip turned to follow his gaze. “What—no, not tequila shots. Those are garnishes for the seafood frittura.” He’d gone a bit pink.

  Something about the way he said it…. “You’ve never done a tequila shot,” Brayden said. That blew his mind almost as much as the opulence around him. “How old are you again?”

  “Hey.”

  “I’m just saying. You’re the crown prince. I bet if you ask nicely, one of the bartenders will find a bottle of tequila and a salt shaker.”

  “We do them with orange and cinnamon here.”

  “Excellent, we can do a taste test.”

  Flip groaned and led Brayden by the hand farther onto the floor. “Maybe later. First I have to play host.”

  “You never did get around to explaining that.” It was a little too easy to let his fingers intertwine with Flip’s. Maybe Brayden should have been an actor. “I mean, I know the whole thing is a fundraiser slash showcase… deal. What does a host do?”

  “My first duty is to introduce the first act. In this case, the orchestra that will play the majority of tonight’s music.” They had crossed the floor to a raised stage area where musicians in tuxedos sat at rest, eyes on the conductor.

  “That seems easy enough.” Brayden didn’t know why he had to come along for that. “What’s the second duty?”

  “Opening the dancing.”

  Brayden looked up sharply and narrowed his eyes. “You could have mentioned that at some point a little earlier in the evening. For example, when I asked for a rundown on how the night was going to go. Or, you know, when you asked me to this thing in the first place.”

  Flip grimaced. “I sort of forgot? If you’re not comfortable, I can dance with my mother. It won’t be a scandal. Do you even know how to waltz?”

  Ugh. Brayden couldn’t help the face he made. “A waltz? Really? All the variety in the world and you want to dance the world’s most boring dance on national television. Are you trying to put your people to sleep?”

  Flip started to smile. “So you do know how to waltz?”

  Snorting, Brayden listed on his fingers, “Waltz, fox-trot, tango, salsa, cha-cha, swing, hip hop. I’m a passable belly dancer, but I never got the hang of the robot.” Off Flip’s incredulous look, he shrugged. “My grandmother owned a dance studio in Toronto. I taught there for the better part of a decade, until I finished university. Best after-school job ever. What, you think rich people are the only ones who can bust a move?” He still missed those days.

  Next to them, a woman cleared her throat. “Your Highness… if I may?”

  Oh Jesus, they’d been overheard and Brayden was already making Flip look bad. They both glanced over to see the conductor, who was smiling indulgently at them. “We have rehearsed a Viennese waltz, if that will suit.”

  Brayden looked at Flip, who lifted a shoulder as though it didn’t matter. The Viennese waltz was twice the speed of the English style and could be fairly tricky, particularly with a new partner. Brayden smiled like a shark. “I’m in.” Then he realized: “I supposed I’d better let you lead?”

  “You can lead the belly dance,” Flip promised him and ascended the stairs to a small podium to introduce the musicians.

  Everyone else must have understood what Brayden had needed explained to him, because all around him, important people in gorgeous clothing had backed away around the perimeter of the dance floor. The lights dimmed and—Brayden wasn’t exactly a wallflower, but he didn’t think a spotlight was necessary either.

  The conductor waited an interminable moment while a second spotlight followed Flip down the stairs to where Brayden stood. Then she raised her baton and Brayden raised his chin.

  Flip’s warm brown eyes were steady when he met Brayden’s, and he put his hands on Brayden’s body as though they had a right to be there—a proper hold high on Brayden’s back, Brayden’s right hand in Flip’s left. Brayden settled his left hand on Flip’s shoulder, conscious to keep his grip light. This close, he expected Flip to smell like some kind of heady, intoxicating, expensive cologne, but when he inhaled, Brayden smelled only a mild, pleasant-scented soap.

  Flip mouthed, “Ready?”

  “Born ready,” Brayden answered.

  Flip smiled, and the orchestra began.

  Brayden forgot to be nervous and let Flip spin him around the dance floor.

  If this were a competition, they would have angled their faces away from each other, the better to put on a display for the audience. But they hadn’t rehearsed, and Brayden allowed himself the excuse that he needed to watch Flip for his cues.

  He didn’t. Brayden felt every move Flip made as he made it—every breath, every step, every turn. The space between them never widened, never shortened. Flip moved and Brayden followed him, half a centimeter away, in perfect time with the orchestra and the beating of his heart. That part—the physical steps—was as easy as any dance he’d ever done.

  Holding Flip’s gaze while they did it, though? That was nerve-racking. And yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Flip was smiling at him—not because Brayden said something outlandish or ridiculous or because people expected it, but a warm, simple, content smile, like he was pleased to be here in this hall with Brayden. Like the mere fact of the two of them together made him happy.

  Brayden strongly suspected he was going to panic about that later, but right now he only seemed capable of smiling back.

  “Reverse?” Flip asked as they neared the end of the floor.

  “Obviously,” Brayden agreed, and they switched to a slightly more complicated step, one that had each of them crossing their feet every second rotation. Their positioning never faltered, and Brayden found himself smiling wider. They were good at this, and he’d forgotten how much he enjoyed dancing with a talented partner.

  They breezed through another set of change steps, and then Flip suggested, “Fleckerl?”

  That wasn’t traditional for the Viennese. Maybe Flip watched too much Strictly Ballroom. But— “All right, show-off,” Brayden teased, and Flip laughed as they spun in a quick circle. He dipped Brayden at the end of it, either to prove his point or just to be silly.

  They almost missed a step on that change, and Brayden took control for a split second until they recovered. Then they were spinning the other way, back to the natural turn for the final bars.

  The music died down, and for a moment, the ballroom seemed to hold its breath. Brayden’s chest heaved with exertion, not from the physical exercise but from exhilaration. The last time he’d felt this alive, he was bungee jumping in Portugal. Flip’s cheeks were flushed and his expression full of the same warmth that had suffused it throughout their dance, but he looked a little taken aback too. Maybe Brayden had surprised him.

  Belatedly, Brayden realized the assembled crowd was applauding, and heat rushed to his face. The surprise slid from Flip’s face and he dropped his right hand, spun Brayden out to the side, and told him to take a bow.

  “You owe me a tequila shot,” Brayden replied.

  FORTUNATELY for Flip, he didn’t have to endure an entire evening dancing with Brayden, who was far too charming and too attractive and too dangerous to get close to, especially with their arrangement expiring in just a few hours.

  He wished he’d thought about that a week ago.

  In the meantime he had elbows to rub and purse strings to loosen, so he left Brayden speaking with his aunt and let the scholarship administrator take him on a tour of the most generous donors. He tried not to think about how much he’d rather be dancing.

  “Your young man is quite the dancer,” said the heiress of a chain of upscale jewelry stores. “Is he an alumnus?”

  Flip fought not to blanch. The last thing he wanted was for someone to draw parallels between his situation and his parents’. “No,” he said too quickly, and then he reminded himself to take a breath before answering. “No, his grandmother owns a studio.
He’s a former instructor.” Thank God Brayden had told him that much.

  “Really? Maybe he can teach my two left feet a thing or two.”

  “Maybe you should start with the macarena, honey,” her husband said and kissed her cheek as though to soften the blow.

  The heiress shoved playfully at his chest. “As if you’re any better.”

  This was clearly either about to devolve into foreplay or escalate into an argument. Flip made his excuses and moved on to his next mark.

  Perhaps three-quarters of an hour passed before Flip managed to find himself at a lull. Knowing he only had a few seconds in which to make his escape, he cast about for the nearest exit—

  And yelped when an unseen hand dragged him behind one of the Doric columns. “Shh,” Brayden said, eyes sparkling. “Come with me if you want to live.”

  Then he pushed Flip ahead of him into the service room behind the bar.

  “Have you been drinking?” Flip asked, bemused, as Brayden continued nudging until they stood in front of a long plastic table serving as a prep area.

  “Not yet,” Brayden said cheerfully. “Now where’s—there he is.”

  A tall blond man entered from the bar and offered a bow. “Your Highness,” he said. “Your escort said you requested this specifically.” He brandished a bottle of Don Julio Reposado.

  Brayden beamed. “Isn’t Sven great? Say thank you, Flip.”

  “Thank you, Sven,” Flip said dutifully. One of the most important etiquette lessons his mother had drilled home was Don’t be rude to waitstaff. Then he turned his attention back to Brayden, who had procured a pair of shot glasses and a plate of citrus, presumably from Sven. He placed them on the table.