Page 32 of Fake Dating the Prince

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 softtsking 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’Smeetings 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 SundayNew York Timescrossword.

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.”

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