Page 4 of Fake Dating the Prince

Damn North American euphemisms anyway. “I meant a date,” Flip clarified quickly. “Not the other sort.”

“A date, huh? To a fancy dance?” He licked his lips, chasing away a stray drop of coffee. “To be clear, are you asking me?”

Flip nodded once and resisted the urge to wipe his palms on his suit pants. Why was it suddenly so warm in business class? “Yes, I—if you’re still available.” As though Brayden could have made plans in the three minutes since the conversation had begun, but Flip felt as though he owed the man a graceful exit. “I know you’re only in town for a few weeks, but I would enjoy your company, and your presence would shield me from a number of well-intentioned matchmakers. I would, of course, take care of all the details.”

“Details?” Brayden echoed. “I, um. I’m flattered, and actually, rescuing you from people who want to bore you to tears sounds like it might be fun, but I definitely didn’t bring a suit, and I imagine this kind of event has a strict dress code.”

“Black tie,” Flip admitted as Brayden winced. “Don’t make that face. It was white tie last year. This was a major concession on the part of the royal tailor.”

“That is not a real thing.”

It was, but Brayden likely wouldn’t believe it until he met the woman. “If you’re amenable to an evening of dancing and canapés, I will of course provide a suitable ensemble, including access to the royal tailor.” Bernadette would love to get her pins on Brayden’s figure. “No strings attached,” he added in an uncharacteristically desperate bid to secure Brayden’s agreement.

“Dancing and canapés and a free tux,” Brayden mused. “That does sound pretty awesome.”

Flip’s spirits lifted. “So you’ll come?”

He realized the innuendo too late, but Brayden took pity on him and didn’t comment. “Yes,” he said and held out his hand. Flip shook it eagerly. Brayden’s grip was strong and sure. “It’s a date.”

Ohbollocks. It really was.

Chapter Two

BRAYDENhad scrupulously researched his vacation, eager to squeeze as many new experiences out of it as he could. But like every time he went somewhere, he found himself captivated by the novelty of his surroundings.

His hotel, located in a former palace, boasted thick stone floors and high ceilings and plumbing that creaked and groaned charmingly, as though it were a friendly ghost. A few minutes’ walk and he could be in the main square, with its multicolored facades and the Gothic spire of the cathedral stretching into the sky. Though the sun rose late and set early, Brayden found the glow of the shops and streetlights warm and welcoming—fortunate, since the temperature was hovering around freezing. But for a boy who’d grown up in Scarborough, it wasn’t too bad—until the wind kicked up off the Baltic, at least.

Also, market stalls lined all the pedestrian streets, offering roasted nuts, pickled fish sandwiches, and mulled wine, as well as handmade gifts—hats and scarves, slippers and sweaters, pottery and tree ornaments and fruitcake. Brayden spent the whole first day walking from stall to stall, sampling everything, until the time change and the cold and dark caught up with him and he dragged himself back to his hotel to upload the highlights to Instagram.

The next day he awoke to his hotel phone ringing, and he blinked disoriented into the darkness and managed to clear his mind enough to answer. “Hello?”

“Good morning. I hope I didn’t wake you. Is this Brayden?”

Brayden decided not to cop to still being asleep at—he glanced at the bedside clock—past nine. The day was getting away from him already. “Yes, hi.” He stifled a yawn. Drat. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I’d been awake for an hour already.”

On the other end of the line, Antoine backtracked gracelessly. “I apologize. If this is a bad time—”

“It’s fine,” Brayden assured him as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and looked around for the hotel-provided slippers. These stone floors were a bugger on warm feet. “I prefer to get up earlier than this, actually, but the late sunrise is throwing me off. What can I do for you, Antoine?”

“Please, my friends call me Flip.”

“Flip.” Brayden smiled despite himself. Antoine was so poised and proper that the incongruous nickname felt perfect. “What can I do for you at quarter past nine in the morning?”

“I was hoping you remembered our agreement for Friday night, and I was able to clear my schedule until lunch. I don’t suppose you could make yourself available for some shopping?”

“At the royal tailor’s?” Brayden teased.

“Bernadette informs me that we’ve already cut things very close by giving her only four days to prepare,” Flip said, his voice grave. “I would hate for you to miss out on your bespoke-dinner-jacket experience.”

“And I would hate to embarrass my horrifically posh date by wearing something off the rack.” Brayden slid into the slippers. “Give me ten minutes to shower and then—should I meet you somewhere?”

“No need,” Flip assured him. “I have a car. I’ll see you soon, Brayden.”

With no time to waste, Brayden got acquainted with the shower, which did gurgle and hum a bit but had excellent water pressure. He wished he had time to test out the different settings on the expensive-looking showerhead, but that would have to wait until after his appointment.

He didn’t realize until he was dressed and standing outside the lobby that his hotel was on a pedestrian-only street. Wondering if he’d been had, he glanced from the cheerfully decorated potted cedars that bookended the hotel doors to the Christmas lights that adorned the lampposts. A bakery down the street exuded the smell of cinnamon and sugar, reminding Brayden he hadn’t eaten since last night. A handful of people strolled down the cobbled street, oblivious to Brayden’s indecision. Should he go back inside? Maybe Flip had the wrong hotel?

But then, from two blocks down, came a low rumbling of tires on stone, and a long car with blacked-out windows rolled serenely down the street as curious passersby turned to look.

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