by Ashlyn Kane
The Flip in the mirror now seemed to prove he could.
He shot the cuffs enough to show off the national flower and stepped out of the dressing room just in time to hear Bernadette ask, “Left or right?”
Still on the podium in his underwear, Brayden seemed perplexed. “Um? I think that one might be lost in translation.”
Flip fought down a blush. Maybe he could escape back to the dressing room unnoticed?
But no, because Bernadette looked up just then from measuring Brayden’s inseam, looked right at Flip, and switched to English. “Left or right?” she repeated, winking at Flip. “You know, when you dress. Which way do you… tuck?”
Brayden’s mouth dropped open. “I… that matters?”
Flip wanted to groan. Tailors asked that question so they could measure an inseam without accidentally copping a feel. But Brayden was out there in his underwear—Bernadette knew exactly where his dick was. She just had a sharp sense of humor when it came to her craft.
Bernadette nodded seriously. “Yes, of course. One leg will be sewn slightly wider to accommodate… you.”
Now Brayden threw his arms wide in exasperation, showing off excellent muscle definition across his back, shoulders, and chest. Flip swallowed. “What kind of guys have you been dressing, if you have to put extra dick room in their pants?” He gestured down at his boxer briefs, which hid nothing—not that Brayden had anything to be ashamed of. “I mean, you can basically see it. It doesn’t need its own trouser leg.”
Flip raised a hand to his mouth to smother a laugh. He didn’t want Brayden to think he was laughing at him—or at his dick, which Flip was trying very hard not to look at.
Bernadette similarly restrained herself, though she did betray the sliver of a smile. “They’re very closely tailored trousers, Mr. Wood.” She indicated his underwear with a tilt of her head. “These will be quite unsuitable. I’m sure Antoine-Philippe can vouch for that.”
Damn her. Now Brayden turned to find Flip watching him, only Brayden didn’t seem at all concerned about it. In fact, though his eyes widened and his cheeks went even rosier, the slack set of his mouth and the way he licked his lips suggested an entirely different emotion from embarrassment.
“Oh my God. I cannot believe I didn’t know you were a fucking prince. It’s basically tattooed on your forehead. I am an idiot.”
Flip had to clear his throat. An answering heat rose in his own cheeks. “I take it you like the suit.”
“Let’s just say I am regretting my choice to stand here in my underwear.” Brayden put his palm over his face, but a second later he put it down again and grinned. “Bernadette, can you make me look that good?”
“I’m a tailor, not a miracle worker.” She rose from her crouch with more grace than Flip expected and smiled at Brayden. “But I think I can work with these materials.” She gestured to indicate—well, Flip assumed she meant Brayden’s hair, his smile, his physique, his general unassuming charm.
Brayden fist-pumped. “I am gonna look bangin’.” Then he glanced sideways at Flip. “I mean, I will look totally appropriate for a prince’s escort.”
Flip would probably be lucky if he didn’t show up in a leopard print, from Bernadette’s gleeful expression. She loved crafting suits for him, but as a member of the royal family, Flip couldn’t wear anything too flashy. She’d have more fun with Brayden. He looked forward to the results.
Having finished with her measurements, Bernadette let Brayden down and sent him to the fitting room with a few more-or-less stock garments to double-check the accuracy. Bernadette opened the blinds, and Flip unlocked the door, only to find his driver and bodyguard, Celine, wearing an apologetic expression.
Resigned to his fate, Flip opened the door. “Your demeanor suggests my free morning has been rescheduled.”
“Apologies, Your Highness.” She sounded as contrite as she looked. “Only your aunt called. Apparently Princess Clara is having a difficult time, and she wondered if you might stop by, seeing as you have a special bond.”
A special bond. Flip supposed that was what developed between members of the aristocracy who were deemed unsuitable for rule by right-leaning media. Flip failed to impress them, being gay and having the wrong color skin for European royalty. Clara, on the other hand, had been born with a congenital limb defect, and was—or would be, one day—a woman, to boot. Hardly an improvement over the current monarch and her prince consort, from a Neanderthal’s point of view.
Flip would have liked to spend the morning with Brayden as he’d planned, maybe even have lunch with him somewhere and go over what he could expect on Friday night. But Clara was, and might remain, his heir, and he knew a little about being a royal brat. She had to come first.
“I’ll go, of course,” he said, holding in a sigh. “Let me finish here and I’ll be ready.”
Bernadette gave him a knowing look as he walked away from the door, and quickly picked her pincushion off the desk as he made his way to the platform. “Bad news?” she asked as she briskly checked the fit across his shoulders and chest.
“Clara wants my help bullying her mother over something. Or vice versa.”
Bernadette nodded and gestured for him to remove the jacket. She took it and set it aside to check the waistcoat. “Duty calls.”
“Yes.”
She was perfecting the hem of his trousers when Brayden sashayed out of the dressing room, halfway between rakish and resplendent in a very traditional American-style tuxedo that Flip never expected to see again, at least not on Brayden.
“Haven’t worn one of these since my high school prom.” He tugged at his cuffs and grimaced a bit, whether in discomfort at the formalwear or some distant memory.
He would have made an awkward teenager, Flip thought, before he grew into his body.
“You’re probably going to have to tie the tie for me. I’ve only ever done a clip-on.”
Bernadette shuddered. “Not on my watch.” She finished fussing with Flip’s trousers and stood to take in Brayden.
Flip stepped off the platform so Brayden could take his place. “As much as I was looking forward to our lunch, Brayden, I’m afraid I’m needed elsewhere. I apologize.”
Brayden shrugged eloquently. “Hey, you’re an important guy. I get it. Bernadette can help me pick out the right color and pattern for this thing without you, I bet.”
“Count on it, Mr. Wood,” Bernadette answered in a voice that certainly meant she would be doing the choosing.
“I’ll send Celine back to get you once she’s dropped me off, and she can take you to lunch wherever you want to go. Are you available Thursday? I’d like to make it up to you.” Even a single, simple date with no romantic intentions was impossible to accomplish uninterrupted. Perhaps Adrian had been right to break up with him.
“I think I can work you into my busy sightseeing schedule,” Brayden said with a shake of his head. “Go on, get on your white horse and get out of here.”
“Put your regular clothes back on first,” Bernadette said. “If you get horsehair on those trousers, I’ll make sure Clara’s your only option for the line of succession.”
Chapter Three
BRAYDEN filled his Wednesday with cultural experiences—a morning at the national museum, a boat ride through the city’s canals, and then a guided walking food tour. The food tour was his favorite. The guide pointed out well-kept local secrets and places that didn’t make TripAdvisor lists, and recommended specialty dishes in each restaurant or café. And at the end, he mentioned he was celebrating his first anniversary of starting the company, and he bought everyone a round of drinks.
Brayden clinked glasses of lingonberry beer—apparently a Christmas specialty—with his fellow travelers and didn’t think at all about the country’s crown prince or what he might be up to.
Well. Not much, anyway. Not until he got back to his hotel and found a neatly wrapped parcel waiting for him at the foot of his bed. Curious, he removed the lid of the box and brushed
aside a sheet of tissue paper to reveal—
Underwear—basic black underwear in a boxer-brief cut. One pair, with a smooth, satiny sheen along the waistband.
Brayden didn’t know what these very normal-looking underwear had done to warrant the fancy presentation until he lifted them from the tissue and realized they were made of some kind of space cotton or something, because no material made on earth had ever felt so soft and smooth. The legs had no visible hem, but the fabric seemed unfrayable.
James Bond underwear.
He couldn’t decide whether to be amused, flattered, or offended. Maybe he should try them on and decide afterward.
But no—integrity first. He took out his phone and composed a text, taking a moment to appreciate how completely absurd it was that he had a mobile number for the crown prince of a European nation. I know I have to let you buy me a tux, he wrote, but the underwear are more an escort thing than a date one. FYI.
He didn’t expect a reply—for all he knew this wasn’t even Flip’s direct line, and oh God, maybe he’d just aired the crown prince’s dirty laundry to some poor PA or something and Flip would be mortally embarrassed… if embarrassment happened to royalty. But his phone chimed a moment later and answered almost all of his questions. Bernadette sends a pair with every suit purchase to ensure we don’t ruin the lines of her art. I’m sorry. I should have warned you.
Well, that made Brayden feel better, but also worse because he’d bugged Flip about something when the guy was obviously busy. I feel so important—the royal tailor micromanaging my underpants. He paused and debated whether to continue. What the hell. Flip wasn’t obligated to respond. Hope whatever damsel you rescued yesterday appreciated your intervention.
He set the phone on the nightstand and went to clean up before bed, because he still had jet lag and that lingonberry beer had him feeling warm and drowsy. When he returned, his phone flashed with a few new messages.
The first was a picture of Flip sitting in an armchair with a lapful of child, probably a girl from the length of the blonde hair. Based on her pose and the hour, Brayden guessed she was fast asleep.
The royal etiquette handbook frowns on selfies, but I had Johan take this one, so it doesn’t count. Princess Clara thanks you for yielding your claim on my time.
Brayden went warm at being trusted with the photograph. Maybe this date was just a favor and a once-in-a-lifetime experience, but still. He’d earned the trust and friendship of a prince. That was pretty special in itself… and a prince who was sweet with kids too. Brayden was soft for that. Etiquette handbook, eh? You can give me the cliff’s notes tomorrow. Bedtime for me. Good night to you and Princess Clara.
Good night, Brayden.
HE woke up to an email from his sister. Part of him wanted to avoid opening it, but if he did, she’d just message him on WhatsApp or stalk his Instagram.
Apparently she’d already been stalking his Instagram, because she opened with Hey little brother, that’s a nice tux you’re wearing… what’s up with that?
Sometimes Brayden needed to use his brain before his phone.
Lina went on with:
Everyone’s getting really excited for the cruise. Mom and Aunt Pat have been on the phone for an hour every day planning all the stuff they want to do. Me, I’m going to take my Kindle full of pulpy historical romances, park my butt on the sun deck, and do as little as possible for ten glorious days. In the Caribbean.
I get why you’re not coming. I do. But I’m going to miss you. Uncle Walt sprung for king rooms for all of us (though everybody else is doubled up—guess we’re the only two bachelor(ette)s left), so if you change your mind, you can bunk with me. I barely even kick in my sleep anymore. Seriously, anytime. I’m attaching the cruise schedule. I know you can get a flight. Meet us in Nassau. I don’t care.
If not, I hope you’re having fun in Lyngria… and that you didn’t just spend your travel budget on formal wear (seriously wtf).
Your big sister,
L
Brayden had plenty of time before he had to meet Flip for lunch, so he rolled over in bed and debated his reply.
Hey sis.
I can’t come.
For a moment he just left it at that and squirmed. He’d lied when he told Flip he got seasick, but the truth was too complicated to explain to a near stranger. Even his family only mostly got it.
Next year we’ll do Christmas in November like we usually do, and I’ll be there. I promise.
That would satisfy her… he hoped.
As for the tuxedo, well, you know how I am about experiencing new things. Turns out someone I know from my flights needed a date to a fancy event here in town and was so desperate he promised to spring for a tux!
Wow, that sounded way different written out than it did in Brayden’s head.
WE ARE NOT HAVING SEX (I totally would, but he’s not interested, and he’s so far out of my league no one would even believe I was his sugar baby). It’s just a favor that sounds fun. Get to see how the other 1 percent lives, you know? Besides, it’s good to have a local guide to recommend things.
Tell everybody I say hi, and don’t you dare forget to bring them my presents.
Brayden
He hit Send, and then he lay in bed for a little longer, staring at the ceiling and feeling sorry for himself. He missed his family, but he couldn’t spend Christmas with them… not yet.
Maybe next year.
Eventually he noticed the time and had to hustle into the shower, where he let the water wash away most of his thoughts. Then he shoved his feet into his boots, wrapped up in his jacket, and grabbed his phone from the nightstand so he could flip open the directions Flip had sent yesterday.
Outside, the sun was out and the sky was a rich, deep blue, as though it knew it had only a few hours to lift people’s spirits and was making the most of them. Brayden checked his map and the time and then stopped for a mug of mulled wine from a vendor, which he sipped as he walked along the cobbled streets.
He turned left to go toward the main square and then took the middle street of three that branched off it in the direction of the water. A few feet later, he was there—a two-story café in a bright pink building. The brass plaque outside read TEMMEL EIS.
Flip’s instructions said to come up to the second floor, so Brayden ducked inside. He noted the cheerful glass display cases and the black-and-white checkered floor as he walked through the café and took the worn stone stairs at the back. Celine, Flip’s driver from yesterday, waited at the door in a smart suit.
“I’m not late, I hope,” Brayden joked as he got to the top of the stairs. Unless his phone was lying to him, he wasn’t.
“His Highness insisted we arrive early,” Celine replied, expressionless. She pulled open the door for him and let him through. “Have a pleasant lunch, sir.” Then she let it fall closed again.
Flip sat at a table by the window, evidently engrossed in something on his tablet. He didn’t seem to register Brayden’s presence until Brayden took the seat opposite him.
Flip looked up with a start, and the tablet clattered to the table. “Brayden. I’m sorry. I was off in my own world. Obviously.” He looked a little upset with himself, and his fingers convulsed into fists and loosened a few times.
“Do you want me to stand up and come back in so you can pull my chair out?” Brayden guessed, and Flip flushed guiltily. “No, that can’t be it. A crown prince can’t be pulling chairs out for plebs like me. And a handshake is too formal, so we’ll have to deal.”
Flip visibly, consciously relaxed. “I suppose you’re right. Did you have a good day sightseeing yesterday, Bernadette’s surprise notwithstanding?”
Brayden gave him a quick rundown of the day, with special emphasis on the lingonberries, and finished with, “How was your commitment on Tuesday? I hope everything turned out okay.”
“Ah, well.” Flip offered a tight smile. “I actually went to visit my cousin. She’s nine. Minor crisis about her wardrobe for
tomorrow night, and she needed my backup against her mom and royal tradition.”
Brayden thought about Princess Clara asleep in Flip’s lap, and warmth suffused him. Flip would be a great king one day. “A true hero.”
Flip’s cheeks went a bit pink. That was cute too, that Brayden could make a crown prince blush, when he must be used to flattery. “Even if I did leave the horse in his stall this time?”
“If Clara can forgive it, I can as well.”
“Excellent. With the forgiveness out of the way….” Flip brandished the tablet. “Shall we order lunch?”
Brayden took it and glanced down at the screen to find it was a menu—a strange one, with pictures that looked like familiar dishes, but off somehow. After a moment he realized. “Are these all ice cream?”
“I hope you’re not lactose intolerant,” Flip said as though it had just occurred to him. “I know it’s silly, but I try to come here every time I’m home, even in the winter. This is my first chance now that I’ve moved home permanently. Usually I just come by myself, eat, and leave, but….”
Brayden tapped to flip the menu to the next page. Was that poutine? Stark yellow ice cream shaped into french fries, smothered in caramel sauce and flakes of white chocolate. The next page had “pizza”—a crepe covered in a red jelly, with ice cream mozzarella and circlets of chocolate that looked like olives. He was six pages deep before he realized Flip had trailed off and was waiting for a response, and it took another twenty seconds to realize Flip must have just shared something with Brayden that he rarely did with anyone else.
Pushing the tablet away, Brayden looked into Flip’s eyes. “This is the best lunch ever. What’s good?”
The tablet apparently could send their order through for them, and a few moments later Celine entered with—
“That ice cream is bigger than my head,” Brayden said faintly. “I think I’m in love.”
