Fake Dating the Prince

by Ashlyn Kane

  He reminded himself she was too big to spin around, and she wouldn’t like it in public anyway. “I saw. You didn’t save your first waltz for me?”

  “You were busy doing prince things. Brayden was bored.”

  Brayden sputtered and set down his water glass. “Hey, now—”

  Flip grinned and leaned over their table. “I thought I might steal Brayden for a dance. If that’s all right with you, Clara?”

  Sighing exaggeratedly, she said, “I guess,” and then burst into giggles.

  Brayden let Flip pull him out of his seat and lead him back toward the dance floor. “Your cousin is a riot.”

  “Oh, believe me, I know.”

  The song wound down before they could do more than clasp hands, leaving them standing together somewhat awkwardly as the emcee introduced an entirely new group of musicians—and accompanying dancers.

  “This is new,” Brayden commented as a group of people in Nehru-style formalwear set themselves up at the back of the stage with a dhol drum, an ektar, and a sarangi. Then a man and two women took to the forestage, dressed in bright salwar kameez. When the musicians began to play, Flip was surprised to recognize a song his father had often played when he was growing up. Just as the emcee called on anyone who knew the dance to join in, Flip’s father appeared through a parting crowd. He caught Flip’s eye and smiled deeply.

  Flip looked at Brayden. “I don’t suppose you know how to dance a bhangra.”

  Brayden lifted a shoulder sheepishly. “Believe it or not, I do, actually.”

  Flip’s father could never know. He’d have them married off inside a week.

  “The instructors at my grandma’s dance academy, we all used to take turns teaching each other. It was fun. I’m pretty rusty, though.”

  Clearing his throat, Flip gestured toward the space in front of the stage. All around them, the crowd had moved back to make room for the dancers. “Would you care to join me?”

  Brayden looked torn, but he shook his head and squeezed his fingers around Flip’s. He hadn’t even realized they were still joined. “Another time. They’re not doing this for some white boy from Scarborough. This is for you and your dad.”

  As though on cue, Irfan appeared over Flip’s shoulder and gestured with both hands for him to join. Behind him the dance was already underway, with the three scholarship dancers forming the beginnings of a circle. Irfan moved to the beat as well, obviously itching to get started.

  Flip cast a backward look at Brayden, hoping it didn’t seem too longing, and then lost himself in the familiar movements as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, kicked up his feet, and prayed Bernadette had left enough room for him to move without tearing a seam.

  Tomorrow some right-wing blog would claim he was going to convert the entire country to Islam and outlaw eating beef—facts were not their strong suit—but tonight he didn’t care. His father was in his element, moving with the practiced ease of someone who’d danced in a dozen Bollywood blockbusters, and his enthusiasm was contagious.

  Flip spared a glance at Brayden as the song wore on and found him—consciously or not—dancing the same bedi step as Flip, clapping and hopping in place, several steps back from the action. Mostly, though, Flip needed his concentration for the dance, which was taken right from one of his father’s movies. He had memorized it as a child, but that was a long time ago.

  His father hadn’t broken a sweat and didn’t even huff for breath when he said, “Your Brayden seems like a nice boy.”

  Flip needed to copy his father’s cardio routine. They traded places as the choreography called for, and Flip managed not to say he’s not my Brayden. “I’m fond of him,” he said, and wished he’d been able to agree with his father instead.

  “And he can dance bhangra!”

  Uh-oh. “Dad—”

  Too late, though. He was dancing over to Brayden, still in perfect time with the choreography, only instead of the clap at the end of the bedi step he was making come-hither motions to get Brayden to join them.

  Brayden protested for several seconds, long enough that the step changed to jhumar, but Irfan kept gesturing with his left hand even as he lifted his right, and finally Brayden gave in to the encouragement of the people around him and joined the dance for the last verse.

  Flip’s dad was probably composing the speech he’d give at their wedding.

  Brayden obviously hadn’t seen the movie—he moved just a split second behind the changes in the choreography. But his form was perfect—straight trunk, toes pointed up on dahmaal, low and wide on the chaal, arms at the perfect angle. And the way he smiled as he did it, broad and uncomplicated, oozing joy even as he shot Flip a vaguely sheepish expression…. Damn it. This wasn’t what Flip had planned at all.

  He hadn’t meant to plate himself a perfect piece of cake and then deny himself the pleasure of eating it.

  The dance wrapped up to boisterous applause and even a few whistles. Flip shook hands with the dancers and complimented their performance, flushed equally from the exertion and the attention to part of himself he normally kept private. He thanked the choreographer for inviting him to join in, but before the crowd could descend upon him, likely full of questions about bhangra, Brayden appeared at his elbow.

  “I could use a water break,” he said, sliding his arm through Flip’s. Then he addressed the assembled guests. “Do you mind if I borrow him? I need someone to make sure I don’t die of dehydration before I find a waiter. And maybe someone to double-check I didn’t rip a seam.”

  Flip let himself be led away, not sure whether the emotion swirling through his chest was gratitude or dread.

  BY the time Brayden climbed into the back of the car for Celine to drive them back to his hotel, he felt like he’d been through a meat grinder. He practically fell against Flip when the engine started.

  It didn’t help that their adventure together was coming to a close.

  He took a deep breath, inhaling whatever simple soap Flip washed with, and made himself sit up. Just because he felt pathetic didn’t mean he had to act like it. He had some dignity. “Is this the part where I tell you I had a really nice time tonight?”

  Flip’s smile looked as tired as Brayden felt. “Is that your way of letting me down easy?”

  Brayden shrugged and turned to look out the window. The lamps were all lit and cast the streets in a sort of cozy, ethereal glow. Beautiful. “That’s the story, right? I’m supposed to break your heart.”

  “That’s what we agreed,” Flip said softly.

  The car rolled down otherwise empty cobblestone streets. It had to be two in the morning, if not later. Tomorrow—late; Brayden wasn’t getting out of bed before ten at the earliest—he’d check out one of the hop-on, hop-off tours or maybe see about a trip into the countryside. He’d heard there was snow in the mountains, and a horse-drawn sleigh would make a great Instagram post.

  It probably wouldn’t be as much fun alone, though.

  “After we fake break up, can we still be friends?”

  Flip’s silence was all the answer he needed, but Brayden turned to look at him anyway. His expression didn’t give much away—he’d probably had actual lessons on maintaining a poker face—but his lips turned down at the corners, and the skin around his eyes was tight.

  “Yeah,” Brayden agreed quietly. “They’re not going to believe we broke up if we keep hanging out together. It was a nice thought, though.”

  The car turned the corner onto his hotel’s street. Finally Flip said, “It really was a good night. I’ve never had that much fun at the Night of a Thousand Lights before. And that’s…. Thank you for that.”

  Brayden was about to tell him he should do it more often, that fun looked good on him, but he found himself focusing on the window past Flip’s head. People seemed to have congregated on the street outside his hotel. At two o’clock in the morning on a misty, chilly December night. Were they trying to catch pneumonia?

  The car slowed to a stop,
and Brayden automatically reached for the door, too tired to remember he ought to wait for Celine. But when he popped it open, a bright light blinded him and someone shouted a question in French, too garbled for Brayden to hear over another, this one in English.

  “There he is! Mr. Wood, how long have you and the crown prince been an item?”

  “Is there any truth to the rumors of a secret engagement?”

  “Mr. Wood, can you comment on Prince Antoine-Philippe’s management of the Crown Mining Co.?”

  “Over here, Brayden! How big is the prince’s—”

  A hand closed around his arm and jerked him back into the car. Over the voices of the reporters, he heard Flip curse and then instruct Celine to take them back to the ring road until otherwise instructed. Flip leaned over him to close the door, and Celine peeled rubber as they sped away, leaving Brayden’s hotel in their dust.

  The roar of the engine quieted some a few moments later, and a hand touched Brayden’s arm. “Brayden? Are you okay?”

  He took a deep breath and shook his head, which felt stuffed with cotton. “I think so. What was that?”

  “Paparazzi.” Flip’s expression could have frozen the fires of hell. “The ball was televised. Someone at the hotel must have recognized you and leaked your whereabouts to the press.”

  Brayden’s heart was still beating about twenty times a minute too fast. “Jesus. Well, that’s inconvenient.” All his stuff was there.

  Flip slumped back in his seat and wiped a hand over his face. “I should have known this would happen. The press was always going to be interested in you, and then I introduced you as my boyfriend…. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Hey,” Brayden said weakly, too raw from shock to hide the sting those words evoked. Tonight was just an arrangement, and he’d let himself forget that. Flip wasn’t the only one who’d lost sight of practical matters. “I agreed to this plan. I demand my share of the should-have-known-better blame. I was too dazzled by the whole… 1 percent glamor and charm and once-in-a-lifetime thing to stop and think.”

  That hung in the air for a few heartbeats before Flip said quietly, “The press attention comes with the territory, I’m afraid.”

  “I guess.” Brayden leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. God, he was tired.

  They drove in silence for a few more moments, and then Flip asked, “What do you want to do?”

  “Honestly?” He forced his eyes open again and glanced across the car. “I just want to go to bed and deal with this in the morning.”

  Flip nodded, straightened his posture, and knocked on the partition. It rolled down a second later. “Take us back to the palace, please, Celine.”

  The partition rolled up, and Flip turned his attention to Brayden. In the light from the streetlamps they passed, he seemed very human. “You can stay with me tonight.”

  Chapter Six

  BRAYDEN woke up cradled in the embrace of the world’s most comfortable mattress. For several moments he lay there with his eyes closed, stretching languorously. The sheets had to have a thread count in the thousands, and the comforter was the perfect weight. This hotel was worth every penny. He rolled over and snuggled his face deep into a fluffy, perfectly supportive pillow.

  A pillow that smelled like Flip’s soap.

  Brayden’s eyes shot open.

  He was in a large, airy, yet somehow cozy bedroom, the walls a muted gray blue. Three floor-to-ceiling windows stretched upward fifteen feet or so. The heavy damask curtains remained undrawn, so weak sunlight filtered in. It had to be getting close to noon, if not later. Against one wall stood an antique writing desk, meticulously cared for and in perfect condition, with a scattering of documents on the surface. The bed was a king-size four-poster that could have been pulled straight from any child’s picture book featuring a castle.

  Aside from Brayden and a mountain of pillows, it was empty. The smooth coverlet on the other side indicated Brayden had stayed there alone.

  Oh my God. Did I kick a prince out of bed last night?

  No. Surely it was just one of Flip’s many guest bedrooms. But then why did the sheets smell like him? And why the obviously-in-use writing desk?

  Okay, so this was Flip’s bedroom. Now that the fog of sleep had lifted, Brayden remembered Flip showing him in here, offering him a pair of pajamas to change into—which he was wearing, and they were awesome—pointing out the en suite bath, and then leaving him to settle in for the night. Brayden had been so tired and discombobulated he hadn’t thought twice about whose bed this was.

  Brayden sat up.

  Someone had set out a bathrobe—simple but luxurious—and a pair of slippers, which he put on, because the floor was freezing. The perils of nineteenth-century architecture, probably. Then he went and got lost in a bathroom larger than his first apartment, standing under the spray of a shower that definitely did not rely on nineteenth-century plumbing.

  Afterward he dried off on the most luxurious Egyptian cotton towel known to man and, faced with the choice of putting his pajamas back on or raiding Flip’s closet, redressed in the pj’s.

  And then he had no choice but to face the music. With no small amount of trepidation, he crept to the massive wooden door to the bedroom and pulled. It opened soundlessly on smooth hinges, onto an enormous but simply appointed living room with the same towering ceilings as the bedroom. Flip sat on a comfortable-looking sofa, wearing a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses, chinos, and a burgundy sweater over a collared shirt. He had his slippered feet propped up on a footstool, and a cup of coffee steamed invitingly on the end table next to him.

  Brayden froze in the doorway, his stomach a rictus of knots. This was so… easily, comfortably domestic. He’d never expected to find himself here at all, never mind with a prince—a sweet, genuine, attractive prince.

  A sweet, genuine, attractive prince whose parents and entire country thought he was dating Brayden.

  Brayden tapped his fingers against the door and Flip looked up.

  “So,” Brayden said. “Good morning.”

  Flip set his newspaper down on a whole stack of newspapers on the couch. Brayden clenched and unclenched his fists.

  “Good afternoon, actually.” Flip moved the pile of papers to the side and gestured for Brayden to sit.

  Brayden sat. “So. How famous am I?”

  Flip cleared his throat. “Maybe we should have breakfast first. Well, lunch.”

  Oh boy. “That bad, huh?”

  Grimacing, Flip gestured to the far wall, where a console table stood with a variety of electronic devices. “You plugged in your cell phone last night. It’s been, ah, fairly active for the past hour and a half.”

  Brayden’s stomach made a rude noise. At first he thought he might be sick—but no. “Okay, yes, lunch first and then… that.” Which brought him to another salient point. “Uh, I don’t suppose I can borrow something that’s not pajamas?”

  “No need, I think.” Flip pointed out a familiar rolling suitcase that had been conveniently stashed out of the way just underneath the console table. “I took the liberty of asking Celine to retrieve that from the hotel for you. Let me know if there’s anything missing. We can threaten them with legal action.”

  Now there was a scenario he hadn’t foreseen. “You think someone wanted to get their hands on my Andrew Christians?”

  “I think the staff at your hotel demonstrated a deplorable lack of respect for your privacy, and I wouldn’t rule out further trespass.” The hard edge to his voice made Brayden wonder which poor hotel manager had gotten an earful. “It was one of the employees who leaked your whereabouts on Twitter. Hence the impromptu welcome from the paparazzi.” He blew out a breath and the tension in his shoulders relaxed. “That’s really all you traveled with in that little bag?”

  Brayden shrugged. “The hotel has a laundry service.”

  Flip shook his head. “You should see my father pack for a trip. It’s incredible. Mother calls him il divo.”


  Brayden wondered where Flip fell on the packing scale. “They seem very….” He waved his hand, trying to encompass their general lovey-doveyness without saying it out loud. “My parents are like that too.”

  “It’s wonderful and occasionally mortifying, isn’t it?”

  “That’s an accurate assessment.” Brayden stood and retrieved the bag. The light on his phone was flashing with just about every possible notification, and as he stared at it, it began to ring. Lina’s face popped up on the call display. He sighed. “I might as well do this now, if you don’t mind…?”

  Flip shook his head and gestured to the bedroom. “Please, be my guest.”

  Brayden took the call sitting on Flip’s obscenely luxurious bed. He didn’t think his legs could stand the scolding. And he was right, sort of.

  “Oh my God,” Lina almost yelled in his ear. “I’ve been calling you for two hours!”

  That was hardly Brayden’s fault. “Stop getting out of bed so early.”

  “Me? Tell that to Grandma, she’s the one who woke me up. ‘Brayden is dancing on my YouTube suggested videos,’ she says.” Oh hell. He wasn’t looking forward to that conversation either. “Are you seriously telling me you neglected to mention your mystery sugar daddy is a legit prince? A legit prince you’re actually dating?”

  “I…,” Brayden said and then stopped. He and Flip hadn’t officially broken up as far as anyone knew. Not that there had been anything real to break up, officially, but—he glanced at the window. How good was spy technology these days? Was someone eavesdropping on his cell phone conversation through the glass with some kind of fancy laser listening device? “Sorry.”

  “Sorry? Good Lord.” There was a thump. Brayden imagined Lina flopped over dramatically on her bed. “Tell me everything.”

  “What? No. I just got up. I’m starving. We’re doing lunch in like ten minutes.”

  And didn’t that sound incriminating. He held the phone away from his ear as Lina shrieked. “Where are you right now?”

  “Uh. In Flip’s apartment at the palace.”