Page 25 of Fake Dating the Prince

Chapter Six

BRAYDENwoke 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 himil 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.”

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