Fake Dating the Prince

by Ashlyn Kane

  They returned their dishes to the wheeled cart, and Flip called for housekeeping to come fetch it while Brayden took his turn in the bathroom.

  Housekeeping came and went. Flip sat on the couch, but he was restless and jumped up again a second later. It had been only a few months since he’d shared a bed with Adrian, but that was different. They had dated for a year, and they were comfortable with each other physically.

  Of course, physicality aside, Flip felt more comfortable with Brayden than he had with anyone since secondary school, so that excuse didn’t hold water. He might as well admit to himself that he was attracted to Brayden—that he wanted their arrangement to grow beyond the charade they’d begun. He wanted to kiss Brayden, make him laugh, make him gasp, make him moan—

  “Bollocks,” Flip muttered aloud. He’d chosen a poor time to consider that train of thought.

  A second later he heard the water shut off in the bathroom, and then Brayden poked his head into the living room. “You’re up,” he said, voice a little softer than Flip was used to—an intimate voice, part of him noted, for an intimate time.

  Damn it.

  It turned out that left to his own devices, Brayden slept in boxer briefs and a long-sleeved T-shirt, faded with years of use, that read Maplewood High School Baseball Team. Flip tore his gaze away from the name emblazoned across those broad shoulders and removed his own favorite pajamas from the wardrobe. Then he closed the bathroom door behind him to have a private, if very brief, crisis.

  What was he doing? He was about to get in bed with a man he barely knew because, at the end of the day, he was too much of a coward to tell his parents the truth—that Brayden had agreed to attend the ball as a favor and nothing more. Because it had been so long since his parents had been so full of anticipation, as though they’d known Brayden was special even before they met him. Because they were right, Brayden was special, only now Flip had gotten tangled up in the lie and—

  Brush your teeth, he told himself firmly.

  His brain was still spinning when he left the bathroom. Brayden looked up from his cell phone and cracked a tired smile when Flip opened the door. “What happened to the fancy pj’s?”

  Self-consciously, Flip glanced down at himself. These were his favorites, a decades-old set of flannel bottoms with holes in the hems and a college T-shirt. “They’re in pristine condition because I never wear them except on Christmas morning. Don’t tell my aunt. She gets me a new set every year.”

  Brayden crossed his heart. “Scout’s honor.” He set his phone on the bedside table. “I never thought—is this side okay? I’m a left-side-of-the-bed guy, but it’s your bed, your rules.”

  Flip’s brain took an abrupt turn into pornography, and it took him a split second too long to find his voice. “It’s fine. I don’t have a side preference, but I find it too drafty close to the windows.”

  Brayden grinned. “Good thing you found a nice Canadian boy to take the cold side of the bed, then.”

  “Nice? Is that what you are?” Flip slid between the sheets and automatically turned to face Brayden. He was right—there was plenty of room for two and little chance they would brush against each other by accident, never mind initiate anything inappropriate.

  “Hey, I’m good enough to fake date you. What, Prince Antoine-Philippe doesn’t date nice boys?”

  Flip honestly thought about it and had to wince. “Not historically.” He paused. “Actually, as a family, our track record for nonscandalous relationships is fairly terrible.”

  Brayden snuggled down across from him and faced Flip. “Oh?”

  “Well, I told you about my parents. And my mother’s younger brother—Clara’s father—he’s worse.”

  Now Brayden raised his eyebrows. “Present tense? I sort of assumed he was dead.”

  “No, just removed from the line of succession and banned from the country.” Off Brayden’s look of surprise, he elaborated. “He never approved of my father, but he didn’t try to do anything about it until he had an heir of his own. His failed power grab coincided with the discovery of his affair with Clara’s nanny.”

  “Jesus. Your family doesn’t do anything by halves.” His expression turned soft but still shrewd. “Clara said your exes were boring. She didn’t mention any inherent evil…?”

  He was fishing, but somehow Flip didn’t mind. “The ones she’s met weren’t evil. She maybe had a point about the boring thing, though.” He sucked in a breath and debated how much of the truth to give away. But then he decided that Brayden could find out nearly anything he withheld on the internet anyway. “Before Clara was born, though, when I was still at boarding school in the UK, my first boyfriend, he was a piece of work.”

  Brayden tucked his hands under his pillow. “Yeah?”

  “I mean, we were children. I suppose it’s possible he didn’t grow up to be the Antichrist.” That got a soft smile, but not the laugh he’d been angling for. Brayden could already read him too well for that. “I was a shy teenager. Miles was one of the ‘in’ group. Everyone liked him. Everyone wanted to be like him.”

  Somehow Flip half expected Brayden to say but you’re a prince. But he didn’t. He just shifted his body some and drew his legs closer to his chest. “And you?”

  Flip shook his head slightly and tried to play it off, though he had a feeling Brayden would see right through him. “I fancied myself in love with him, of course. When he started wanting to spend time with me, I felt….”

  Brayden waited.

  “Included,” Flip decided. Until then he’d felt so conspicuous—few boys at his prestigious school came from any parentage other than white—and his innate shyness made it difficult enough to make friends. Add his sexuality on top of that…. “Miles was out and proud, defiantly so. When he wanted to be my boyfriend….”

  “You were pretty pumped, huh?”

  “I’m surprised my teachers didn’t have to scrape me off the ceiling.”

  “So what happened?”

  Flip shrugged. This part of the story hurt the worst. “Oh, we dated for a little while, and then he got tired of me and sold his story to a tabloid.”

  Brayden inhaled a sharp breath. “Oh, Flip.”

  He suddenly felt the urge to turn away. “It’s nothing near as awful as what happened to you—”

  “What, because nobody died means it didn’t hurt to be betrayed like that?” His voice was as soft as the pillowcase beneath Flip’s head. “Come on. It’s not a contest.”

  Flip inhaled through his nose, held it for a moment, and then let it out slowly. “I know that. In theory.”

  Brayden gave him a wry twist of a smile. “It’s always the application that’s the trick.”

  “Did you study psychology?” Flip asked a bit accusatorily, smiling a bit in spite of himself.

  “Just the freshman 100 course. I majored in modern languages.”

  Of course he did. Of course Flip had been too blind to see how perfect Brayden was for him until he’d committed to pretend to date him, and trying to change the rules now would be not only awkward but inexcusable. “How many do you speak?”

  “Six.” He yawned and snuggled into his pillow. “Why, how many do you speak?”

  “Five.” Now he felt like he should be picking up Spanish in his spare time.

  Brayden had closed his eyes, but he opened them again and smiled sleepily. “Hey. Something I beat you at. Imagine that.”

  Flip made a face at him, prompting a sleepy snort. “It’s not a contest,” he said, mimicking Brayden’s line from earlier.

  “Yeah, yeah.” He yawned again, and it struck Flip how young he looked like that, wearing a T-shirt from his youth, curled up in bed and almost hugging his pillow. He was obviously exhausted.

  “Go to sleep,” Flip murmured, feeling suddenly protective.

  “Mmm,” Brayden agreed. “Turn off the lights, then.”

  With a quiet laugh, Flip turned to do just that. The room plunged into darkness. If not for Brayden’s quiet
breathing, he might have been alone.

  “Good night, Brayden.”

  That steady breathing was his only reply.

  Chapter Seven

  BRAYDEN woke to the distant sound of running water. He stretched and opened his eyes, but with no light spilling from behind the heavy drapes, he couldn’t guess the time. His body told him to keep sleeping, even if Flip wasn’t, but he was overheating. In search of cooler sheets, he rolled into the middle of the bed and kicked the coverlet down. Perfect. Oblivion claimed him again.

  The next time he opened his eyes, Flip was walking past from the bathroom, wearing only those ancient flannel pajama bottoms that clung to Flip’s ass and hips—and nicely framed his cock, which Brayden discovered when Flip turned thirty degrees to grab something from the wardrobe. It wasn’t Brayden’s fault. The bed was at cock level.

  No, Brayden told his own dick, firmly, and closed his eyes, knowing he was blushing and praying Flip didn’t stop to notice he wasn’t sleeping.

  Finally he heard the door to the bathroom snick closed and he let out a long breath. It figured Flip would be just as gorgeous shirtless in ratty pj’s as he was in a custom-fit tux. Brayden had better get used to that.

  He was halfway back to sleep and getting cold—his shirt had ridden up his back and he was starting to goose-bump—and debating pulling up the covers again when the bathroom door opened again and he lost his chance. Flip’s footsteps fell soft but sure nearly all the way to the door, and then he paused.

  Brayden panicked, sure he’d been caught—though why that mattered when Flip was dressed and presumably not sporting morning wood, he couldn’t have said. But he kept breathing as Flip approached the bed, made a soft tsking noise, and twitched the blankets up to Brayden’s shoulders before he left.

  Brayden’s heart wanted to have feelings about it, but he fell asleep in self-defense.

  When he finally crawled out of bed for good, his phone proclaimed it to be nine, and he quickly showered, dressed in Cedric-approved clothing, and went in search of Flip and/or coffee and/or food, in that order of preference. A note on the dining table informed him Flip had gone off for a rescheduled meeting with someone from the mining company and would likely not return until dinner. But it did give instructions for ordering breakfast, and a carafe of coffee sat waiting for him on the sideboard, so the morning wasn’t a total loss.

  Along with the breakfast instructions—which Brayden used to order yogurt, fruit, and scrambled eggs, and felt heinously awkward about—Flip had left a series of contacts Brayden might find interesting. He could call Cedric if he wanted to get started on that etiquette lesson (ha, ha, Brayden thought) or the palace private-tour operator (maybe), and so on.

  He called the tour operator first. Her name was Louisa, she was a college student studying international relations, and if she gave a single crap that Brayden was allegedly sleeping with the crown prince, she didn’t show it. She chatted casually with him while she showed him around the rooms on the usual tour, though “we’re actually closed to the public today since it’s Sunday.”

  That probably explained why Flip had suggested it for today, then—no chance of Brayden being mobbed.

  Like any respectable royal family, Flip’s had its share of bad blood and crackpots. “And this is where, in 1741, King Claudius pushed the archbishop out the window. He survived, and the king was excommunicated and replaced on the throne by his sister.”

  Brayden looked down at the drop. “Talk about having God on your side.”

  “Since that incident, Lyngria has maintained a strict policy of the separation of church and state.”

  Inevitably the tour also included a trip to the other throne room.

  “You know, I never got why this is included in so many tours,” Brayden said as he stuck his head into the royal bathroom—this one not in use since the early 1900s. “‘Come and see the room where the ancestors of our nation’s sovereign once took their morning dump.’ I don’t see the appeal.”

  “Me neither,” said Louisa, “but you won’t believe how many people I get taking selfies in here.”

  Brayden supposed the ornately appointed room, done in rich purple velvet and gold leaf, would make an interesting backdrop for an Insta post. And hey, there was a window for royal ventilation, so maybe the lighting was good.

  The tour of the public areas ended, and Louisa handed him a map. “That wraps up my usual spiel. Any questions so far before we go on to part two?”

  Brayden raised his eyebrows. “Part two?”

  Louisa shrugged. “You’re His Highness’s official guest. He asked if I could show you around some of the private areas as well so you’ll know your way around. None of the personal quarters—you’ll still need an invitation for those—but the library, the gym, the conservatory—”

  “Can we go now?” Brayden said, doing his best not to bounce on the balls of his feet. This was an opportunity few would have. Trust Flip to make sure Brayden got in a good day sightseeing even if he was sort of under house arrest.

  “Well, we can,” Louisa hedged, “but I’m supposed to take you to the kitchen for lunch first.”

  Flip had really thought of everything. “Lead on.”

  FLIP’S meetings ran late Sunday, and Monday threatened a repeat performance. He managed to squeak away just in time for dinner, with the promise that he would return to finalize things the following day. Celine would have to rearrange his schedule again, but at least the whole business would be over with, and then maybe he could find some time to show Brayden around.

  He entered his apartment hoping to get Brayden’s input, but no one answered when he called out. Brayden didn’t answer his text message either. Frowning, Flip went in search—first the gym, then the library. Finally he followed voices coming from the common living room his parents shared with Clara and his aunt.

  “K5.”

  “Miss!” Laughter.

  Curious, Flip pushed open the door.

  His father and aunt were arranged on the comfortable sofa, each with a pile of knitting at their side. Dad looked to be starting in on another pair of socks in his wife’s favorite colors, purple and aqua. Aunt Ines was putting the finishing touches on a baby blanket for Bernadette. In the armchair sat Flip’s mother, lips pursed over the Sunday New York Times crossword.

  Brayden and Clara sprawled on the floor in front of the roaring fire, playing Battleship. From the look of things, Clara had finished toying with him and was about to go in for the kill.

  “E8.”

  “Hit,” Brayden sighed, long-suffering. “You sunk it.”

  “I hope you didn’t go easy on him,” Flip said as he closed the door behind himself.

  Clara rolled to her feet and rushed him for a hug, half knocking the wind out of him. “Don’t worry. I didn’t.”

  “Yeah,” Brayden agreed. “That’s the third time she’s handed me my uh—” He stopped, his gaze darting to Flip’s parents and Ines. “Battle fleet.”

  “Nice save,” Flip’s dad said without looking up from his knitting.

  Clara rolled her eyes. “I know the word ass. In three languages.”

  “Clara Elisabeth!”

  “I mean, the word butt.”

  Flip and Brayden caught eyes and very carefully did not grin.

  “Brayden is an excellent loser,” said Irfan. “Even if his family doesn’t have any goats.”

  “Irfan,” Flip’s mother laughed from her chair. “You need to get some new material.”

  Irfan looked at Brayden. “I don’t think she understands how dad jokes work.”

  “Are you and Brayden going to stay for dinner?” Clara wanted to know. “Mom said you might want privacy. But you’ve been alone all day. You should spend time with us.”

  Now Irfan looked at Flip. “I don’t think she understands how privacy works.”

  Flip’s mother threw her husband an exasperated look full of amusement and affection, but it was Ines who intervened. “Clara, you’ve monopol
ized Brayden all day. Sometimes adults need to spend time alone together. Remember we talked about this.”

  Flip’s cheeks heated. Nothing like your aunt casually implying, in a room full of family members, that you might like to whisk your fake boyfriend away for sex.

  Brayden had gone red too and was rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, as though for want of something to do with his hands.

  “Well they have to stay now,” Irfan said. “You killed the mood.”

  Flip wanted to put his face in his hands, but Brayden just shot his father a wry look. “Ye of little faith. But I don’t mind staying for dinner if Flip’s up—I mean, if Flip wants to.”

  Irfan looked delighted at the slip-up, but Flip stepped in before he could capitalize. “I do actually have a few updates on the diamond front for you,” he said, grateful Brayden had given him the opportunity to collect himself. “It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, but I’d rather do it now while it’s fresh. And then no work at the dinner table, I promise.”

  Family dinners were one of the things Flip missed most when he was based in Toronto—his mother insisted on them whenever possible growing up, to instill in him a sense of normalcy in a world that often wasn’t. When Clara and Ines came around, the tone changed somewhat, but still, the rhythm of food and conversation and ribbing resonated with something deep inside him. With any subset of the five of them, it always felt like home.

  Flip hadn’t expected it to feel the same with Brayden there. Certainly it never had with any of the real boyfriends he’d brought home over the years. But perhaps he’d been dating the wrong men, because Brayden fit as though he’d always been there, riffing with his father and then turning around to ask insightful questions of his mother.

  By the time they placed their dishes on the cart to be returned to the kitchen, Flip was almost expecting it when his father took him aside and said, “You know the goat thing isn’t really a problem, right?”