Fake Dating the Prince

by Ashlyn Kane

  “Yeah. Uh, it’s not every day you not only have to meet your boyfriend’s parents, you have to meet your boyfriend’s parents, who govern a small European nation.”

  “We do okay.” Irfan preened.

  Brayden held back a smile. “Sorry, that should be ‘your boyfriend’s mother, who governs a small European nation, and her husband, who used to be a movie star.’”

  “I’m like Grace Kelly.”

  Why had Brayden been nervous about this outing, again? “Exactly.”

  Lyngria didn’t have much in the way of shopping malls, having escaped the widespread damage of World War II that paved the way for such developments in neighboring countries. Instead, Irfan parked in an underground lot, and their security detail led them to a set of pedestrian-only streets with small shops lining each side.

  “First stop,” Irfan said with his characteristic cheer. But instead of entering one of the shops, he walked up to a small newspaper stand run by a smiling woman with a bindi.

  Oh God, Brayden realized as Irfan and the woman exchanged words in Hindi. Irfan had come to collect gossip rags and newspapers. The racks at the stand were full of them—English, German, French, Polish, even a couple with writing systems Brayden couldn’t identify. He ran his fingers over the covers and front pages of a few and marveled at the absurdity of it all while Irfan talked to his friend. UFOs on this one. Bigfoot on that one. Speculation as to the true parentage of some Greek aristocrat. The next rack over was a bit more tame, featuring nonbonkers headlines about the financial market, a jewelry heist that got busted, the latest of various political goings-on.

  And then he saw his own face. He tilted his head, and his heart sank as he read the headline.

  Glass Houses—Inside Prince Flip’s Secret World

  With a sick feeling in his stomach, Brayden hastily looked around, but the street seemed miraculously empty. Maybe Irfan’s guards had cleared it out prior to their trip, or maybe people had deduced that the thick gray clouds overhead portended a thick, fierce snowstorm. Either way, Irfan was busy, and there was no one else to watch him as he discreetly reached for the tabloid and flipped through it so he could read the article.

  Could Prince Flip’s new suitor be offering a window into the private life of Lyngria’s most (in)eligible bachelor?

  It certainly seems that way. Savvy Instagram users have ferreted out the secret handle of Brayden Wood, Flip’s brand-new beau—so new, in fact, that as recently as October, Wood tagged a picture of a drink at a Paris establishment well-known for its hookup culture with #noboyfriendnoproblems.

  Brayden’s stomach dropped. How had they found him? He didn’t use his real name on Instagram, and he certainly hadn’t taken any pictures of the royal family or used them in hashtags. His handle was @whatwoodbdo. A little corny, maybe a bit suggestive… but not something that should’ve been picked up unless someone was specifically looking for it.

  Of course someone went looking for it.

  Since his arrival in Lyngria, Wood has treated his followers to a unique glance inside the world of our future monarch—and it looks a lot more familiar than one might think. The collection of Lyngria-based photographs includes a shot of poutine ice cream from Virejas’s own Temmel Eis (aptly captioned “lunch fit for a king”), one of Wood’s ensemble for the Night of a Thousand Lights Ball (“#notasugardaddy”), and a set of wineglasses from what seems to be a surprise romantic getaway.

  Brayden felt sick. On the one hand, he hadn’t posted anything damning. On the other, the idea that he might have inadvertently allowed the whole world to spy on their intimate stay in Finland made him want to throw up and then toss his phone in the canal.

  The tabloid had run a few of the pictures as well and included a note that it had archived them on its own site in case he locked down his Instagram. Which he should have done two weeks ago, clearly.

  While little is known about Brayden Wood aside from his occupation and his skill on the dance floor, it seems his social media may have much to tell us. We can only hope that his future posts will be as enlightening as these.

  Brayden put the newspaper down, his ears hot with shame and his stomach a burbling mess. The tabloids they’d read the day after the ball had made him laugh. But back then there’d been no stakes. Now?

  Now everyone was going to think Brayden was a gold digger—he’d as good as implied it in his own words. Now the whole world knew he and Flip had gone on a quiet retreat together, and they’d assume—well, most of the truth, that they’d spent a great deal of time naked in bed together.

  He needed to be more careful. What would Flip think? Brayden hadn’t asked his permission to post those things—he’d figured that since Flip wasn’t in them or mentioned by name, it wouldn’t matter. He’d been naïve.

  “What’s this?” Irfan asked, stepping away from the shopkeeper. He plucked the paper from Brayden’s grasp. “Oh, I have that one already.” He gave it back and patted the paper bag he held. Not a single comment about the contents of the article. “Ready for the next stop?”

  Brayden took a deep breath and replaced the paper on the rack. “Yeah,” he said, trying for unconcerned. He missed by several tones. “Let’s go.”

  They walked side by side, flanked, preceded, and followed by bodyguards. “So, Christmas shopping,” Irfan said. “Last minute. I like your style.”

  “I bought my family’s gifts at the beginning of November,” Brayden confessed.

  Irfan chuckled and gestured to his right. “Let’s go in here.”

  From outside appearances, the shop seemed to be a bookstore. But inside, Brayden also found shelves of toys and board games—the old-fashioned kind that didn’t need batteries. Some of them were not just old-fashioned but old. Secondhand, maybe, but in good condition.

  He glanced at Irfan. “I don’t suppose you know which games Clara already has in her cupboard?”

  Irfan held up his phone. “I have a picture.”

  That was as far as they got before someone recognized them—or at least recognized Irfan, who seemed happy enough to pose in a few selfies. Brayden mainly managed to escape notice, perhaps due to Gilles the bodyguard, who was almost seven feet tall, had the most intimidating resting bitch face Brayden had ever seen, and was sticking close to Brayden’s elbow. Considering Brayden’s extremely recent brush with internet fame, he was grateful.

  Finally Irfan disentangled himself from his admirers and made his way over to Brayden, who held up an ancient English version of Clue. “Think she has this one?”

  “I think that’s perfect.”

  Brayden paid for his purchase and they moved along, wandering in and out of various shops. Clara turned out to be the easy one. Brayden tried not to wonder what each shop’s employees might say about him after he left or whether they’d read that tabloid article. Maybe they were now following his Instagram.

  Surreptitiously, he took out his phone and deleted the account.

  “Do you celebrate Christmas?” he asked Irfan finally as they continued down the street, needing something to distract himself. “I know Flip said the two of you are going to spend the day meditating because it’s Gita Jayanti, but I mean usually.”

  Irfan popped a handful of candied nuts he’d bought from a street vendor and chewed before replying. “I’m not a Christian. But I like Christmas as a secular tradition—charitable acts, time with family.” He shot a sideways look at Brayden. “Presents.”

  Brayden mentally put him on the Yes list for gifts. No big deal. Just find a suitable gift for a reigning monarch, her husband, a crown-prince boyfriend, and his aunt. Also maybe Celine. All while not panicking about being accidentally famous.

  Easy.

  He took a deep breath. “So. Any hints?”

  They chatted idly as they shopped. Brayden picked out a colorful silk scarf for Aunt Ines and, when Irfan wasn’t looking, a set of knitting needles and yarn in Constance’s favorite blue.

  Three down.

  They were meanderi
ng through a department store when inspiration struck—except there were enough people around to make Brayden nervous. He stood staring at a purple plaid flannel pajama set, high-quality material, softer than a kitten.

  Irfan must have guessed the direction of his thoughts, because he said, “Ines gets him pajamas every year, you know.”

  Brayden caught the slightly wry note to his voice and lowered his own. “Yes, fussy silk ones, and instead he wears the ones he must’ve had since he was a teenager. A few more washes and they’ll disintegrate.”

  Irfan laughed. “You noticed.”

  “Hard not to.” He looked around. “But, uh. How do I buy pajamas for the crown prince without the whole country finding out about it?” And putting it on the internet?

  “Leave that to me.”

  In the end Brayden picked out a pair of slippers too, on a whim—in a matching amethyst, with removable inserts that could be microwaved. Irfan gave him a bemused smile, but he spoke quietly to one of the shop attendants, who nodded and took Brayden’s credit card. They wandered over to a display of sweaters while a different attendant boxed up the appropriate-sized gift and bagged it, and then the package, receipt, and credit card were delivered to them as they left the store.

  “Buying underwear must be hell,” Brayden observed.

  Irfan waved this off. “We just buy them online like everybody else.”

  Brayden wondered about the name on Flip’s credit card. Would it say Antoine Philippe like the entry on the passenger manifest? Or maybe Antoine-Phillipe of Lyngria? That probably wouldn’t fit on a single piece of plastic. “The royals,” he mocked, referencing a hundred memes. “They’re just like us.”

  “Only when we’re not swimming in piles of money.”

  “Or holding audiences with—who was Flip off to talk to today?”

  “The prime minister of France.” Irfan shot him a sideways look, and something in his tone shifted slightly to the left. “My son is a skilled diplomat, you know, and a passable actor. Those are related.”

  Brayden didn’t know quite where this was going, but he nodded anyway. “Sure. That makes sense.”

  “But not as good as me,” Irfan went on. He stopped at a roadside stall and bought a mug of hot cider for each of them. He handed Brayden his and then blew across his own and started toward the antiques shop on the corner. “And I’m his father. I always know when he’s putting on a show.”

  The penny dropped. Brayden sloshed apple cider over the rim of his mug and onto his fingers, but he hadn’t even hissed at the pain before Irfan handed him a napkin. What could he say? Sorry? You caught us? I know what you think, but actually we’re together for real now?

  “Flip is a stubborn man. He doesn’t do things he doesn’t want to do.” Great, so at least Irfan didn’t think Brayden had blackmailed Flip into anything. Probably he wasn’t about to get locked in the royal dungeon. “The question is, what are you getting out of it?”

  Brayden looked at the cider, which didn’t hold any worthwhile replies. When he looked up, Irfan was still watching him.

  “You don’t have to answer. Whatever is going on with you and Flip is your business—for now.” He sipped his cider. “But if I discover you acted in bad faith with him, I will have the palace chefs bake you into the Christmas pie.”

  He let that hang in the air a moment, and Brayden was left wondering if Irfan thought Brayden had only wanted to get internet famous. He was scrambling for something to say when Irfan shook himself and said, “Ooh, I gave myself chills with that one. Come on. Constance loves antiques. I bet you find something good in here.”

  Brayden trailed helplessly after him.

  As they shopped, he mulled over what he’d say to Flip. Then, back at the palace, between wrapping gifts, he jotted things down on some stationery from Flip’s desk—phrases like I’m sorry and I feel awful for letting you down and I don’t want you to think I’m not taking our relationship seriously.

  But Flip never brought up the article, and Brayden didn’t know how to broach the subject. Hey, just FYI, someone internet stalked me and found out things about us, and oh by the way, your dad is totally onto us?

  That night he lay awake in bed, trying to sleep with Flip’s cold feet pressed against his calf because they’d forgotten the Magic Bag.

  If Irfan had guessed the truth about their relationship, who else might know? Who could guess? Celine, probably, and Bernadette. Maybe some of the palace staff, if they realized Flip had slept on his own couch that first night. More people than Brayden cared to think about, anyway.

  Flip hadn’t brought up Brayden’s Instagram. Either he didn’t know—he’d been busy all day, after all—or he didn’t want to start an argument. Brayden couldn’t blame him, this close to the holidays. Maybe he thought Brayden had already learned his lesson.

  And he had. Perhaps it had all started as a charade, but it was real now, and that meant Brayden had something to lose. It was time to start acting like it. He didn’t care what people thought about him, but Flip was good and kind and sensitive. Brayden wouldn’t give anyone a reason to think anything else.

  FLIP wasn’t much for Christian religious celebration, but the church in oldtown Virejas hosted a prize-winning choir, so he cajoled Brayden into dressing in slacks and an amethyst sweater—Flip couldn’t help being the slightest bit possessive—and they went downtown, with just Celine to look after them. He laced his fingers with Brayden’s and led them up to the highest seats in the gallery, overlooking an altar painted in vivid blues and gold leaf.

  “How traditional of you,” Brayden said as they settled on the hard bench, their fingers still entwined.

  “Hush,” Flip admonished and squeezed his hand. “Just listen.”

  The choir performed Handel’s Messiah with little fanfare, but Flip liked the meditative nature of it, the ritual. Most of all he liked that it seemed like something he could do with Brayden next year and the year after and the year after that. The performance might change, but the important details—the way Brayden’s hand felt in his, his thigh pressed next to Flip’s, the acoustics of the building, the sense of peace—those would remain the same.

  It was possible he’d been dwelling on his plans for the future a lot in the past few days. He’d barely had time to think about Brayden’s unfortunate second baptism into tabloid fodder. He was too busy building castles in the sky.

  They kept a comfortable silence on the drive home, though they had the partition up. Brayden kept his fingers laced with Flip’s until Celine pulled up outside the palace.

  Flip kissed Brayden’s cheek and squeezed his hand. “Go on inside without me? I’ll be a few minutes. I need to talk to Celine about something.”

  Brayden gave him a curious look, but he got out of the car when Johan opened the door. “All right. Don’t be too long, okay?”

  “I won’t. I just need to talk to Celine about holiday coverage,” he lied. “Put the kettle on for me?”

  Brayden always put the kettle on. “Of course.”

  When he’d closed the door, Celine rolled down the window to the back seat. “What’s up, boss?”

  Flip took a deep breath. “I want you to set up internal interviews—someone who’s looking for a long-term commitment but who already has a solid amount of experience as head of an individual security team.”

  Celine paused. “Your Highness?”

  “Brayden’s going to need a permanent detail.” The idea still seemed impossible, but he couldn’t deny how right it felt. He knew that sometimes their duties would separate them, and Brayden would need his freedom when Flip was occupied elsewhere. “We’ll start looking in the New Year.”

  Celine broke into a smile. “Yes, Your Highness. And… congratulations.”

  When Flip entered his apartment, he spotted his tea mug right away—one with antlers for a handle that Brayden had bought in Finland at the hotel gift shop. It was already steeping with his habitual nighttime blend—something with lavender and rosehips an
d absolutely no caffeine.

  He had every intention of starting that conversation about social media—he needed Brayden to know he wasn’t angry and that Flip would put a whole team of Cedrics at Brayden’s disposal if he wanted to have an official account—but he heard the water running in the shower.

  Serious conversation could wait. Flip skipped the tea and went straight to the bedroom, following Brayden’s trail of stripped-off clothes and leaving his own.

  Brayden had left the bathroom door only partially closed, and he looked up when Flip opened the shower door, eyelashes clumped together, skin rosy pink. “What’s a guy have to do for some privacy around here?” he teased, stepping back unnecessarily to make room. “These are the prince’s private rooms, you know.”

  Flip could have bantered with him for hours. Instead he kissed him and stepped under the spray to take his face in both hands and taste his smile. Brayden spread his palms on Flip’s chest, tangling lightly in the hair there, but he went easily when Flip nudged him back against the shower wall. “We’d better hurry up before he catches us, then.”

  Brayden’s breath rushed out in a whoosh as Flip trailed kisses over his chin and jaw. “Is that… is that so?”

  Flip hummed into the juncture of his neck and slid his hands down Brayden’s back to the curve of his ass. “Think you can be quick?”

  “I….” Brayden exhaled shakily as Flip eased himself to his knees. “…think that won’t be a problem.”

  Flip didn’t bother taking it slow. Tonight he wanted to take Brayden apart hot and dirty. He pinned his hips to the wall and swallowed him down, teasing his thumbs over the tops of Brayden’s thighs. Brayden cursed as though he hadn’t expected that, and his cock went from half-hard to fully erect against Flip’s tongue.

  “Oh my God,” Brayden moaned. He had one hand braced against the wall, the fingers balled into a fist, but he raised the other, brought it to Flip’s face, and traced his orbit and then his cheek before thumbing at the corner of his mouth. “Fuck.”

  Flip had never given head in a shower before, and the thrill of it superseded the ache in his knees and the difficulty of breathing without getting water in his nose. His own cock bobbed between his legs, wanting attention of its own, but Flip focused on the sweet salt of Brayden’s skin, the minute trembling in his thighs. Everything was slick and hot and steamy, and when Flip wet a finger and pressed it between Brayden’s cheeks, he moaned and curled his fingers tight into Flip’s hair and said, “God—sorry—fuck,” and came, salt-sour on Flip’s tongue.