Page 21 of Fake Dating the Prince

She looked at him suspiciously and then wiped her hand on a linen napkin and shook. “Clara.”

Clara—Princess Clara? He decided it would be impolite to ask. “Nice to meet you, Clara.”

She ate another caper. He wondered if she’d deconstruct the entire thing and eat it in components, or if maybe she only liked the capers. “I saw you dancing with Flip. You’re a good dancer.”

That answered his question, mostly—if she was leaving theprinceoff Flip’s name, it was probably because she didn’t think of him that way. “Thank you. I had a lot of practice, starting when I was even younger than you.”

Clara considered the remains of the hors d’oeuvre and then took a bite of what remained more or less assembled. When she had swallowed, she fastidiously wiped her hands again. “Are you Flip’s boyfriend?”

“Uh… yeah. I am.” Had Constance delegated the shovel talk to the nine-year-old? That seemed especially devious. Brayden had agreed to this charade without realizing it would entail lying to children. “Is that okay?”

She finished the last bite and wiped her hands yet again. “You’re not like his other boyfriends.”

What didthatmean? Brayden looked down at himself, self-conscious. He thought he’d cleaned up nicely, but maybe he’d forgotten to tuck in a middle-class label somewhere. “Oh?”

“They didn’t dance like you. And they followed Flip around all night.” Was Brayden supposed to do that? He really didn’t want to do that. “And they only wore black and white.” She said this last as though it disgusted her, and Brayden realized her dress matched his vest.

“You sound like you didn’t like them very much,” he said carefully.

Clara shrugged one bony shoulder. “They were okay. But Flip likes you better.”

Brayden swallowed around a suddenly dry throat. “Oh? What makes you say that?”

“Because youarebetter.” She started ticking things off on her fingers. “First there wasArmand. He’s going to be a duke. But he didn’t smile, and he smelled like cheese.”

Brayden took a moment to be fervently glad he’d remembered extra deodorant. “He sounds serious.”

“He didn’t even have fun at Midsummer. Midsummer is when you get to drink elderflower wine and dance in the heather fields and stay up all night. And he talked to me like I was a baby. I was seven and a half!”

Nodding seriously, Brayden agreed, “It sounds like Flip is better off without him, for sure.”

“After that, he didn’t have a boyfriend for a long time. And then he metAdrian.” She inflected the name with the linguistic equivalent of an eye roll as she ticked him off on her fingers as well. “Aunt Constance said he followed Flip around like a lost duck. Do ducks really get lost?”

“I don’t know. Maybe some of them do.”

“Adrian smiled a little bit. More than Armand, anyway. But he was so boring. He didn’t like anything except going to the beach. At least Armand liked cheese.”

“Maybe too much,” Brayden reminded her.

“Liking cheese is not the same as smelling of it.” Clara pushed the empty plate to one side and leaned closer over the table as though to better examine him. “Now there’s you.”

“Now there’s me,” Brayden agreed, trying not to show fear. Curiosity, though—there was no help for that. “Why do you think Flip likes me better?”

“Because he smiles at you.” He would have bet that if they’d been talking in English, she would have addedduh. Brayden was torn between relief and disappointment at this simple answer, which didn’t reveal much, but then Clara went on. “And he looks at you when he thinks you’re not looking, like now.”

Alarmed, Brayden moved his head to look, but Clara stopped him with her hand on his arm. “No, don’t turn. He’ll be embarrassed. Anyway. He always dances the opening dance with Aunt Constance, but tonight he danced with you.Andhe took you for ice cream.”

Brayden felt a little faint. “He told you about that?”

“It’s our spot,” Clara said. “He promised he would only take special people there. So he must like you alot.”

Brayden had gone into the evening certain that no one would seriously believe Brayden thought he could be an appropriate suitor for a crown prince. And now here a nine-year-old had laid waste to his careful rationale. “Well,” he said, and if it came out a little strangled, Clara had a pretty small sample size to compare it against. “I’m glad.” Then, desperate to change the subject, he asked, “Do you want to dance?”

Clara’s pleasant, open face shuttered. She frowned at the tabletop. “I don’t know how.”

Finally something Brayden felt equipped to respond to. “Then you’re in luck, because it just so happens that I am a fantastic teacher.” The orchestra was playing a leisurely waltz—boring under most circumstances, maybe, but perfect for a beginner. He stood and bowed, offering his hand. “Milady. Might I have this dance?”

For a second she looked at him, her lips pressed together in a tight line. Then she stood up and put her hand in his.

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