Page 15 of Fake Dating the Prince

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 intoned. “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 befine. 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.

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