by Ashlyn Kane
He couldn’t have said exactly how he knew. His father was an excellent actor. But something gave him away, and Flip whirled. “What did you do?”
“Nothing!” Irfan protested, taking half a step back with his hands raised.
Flip wasn’t convinced.
“Okay, maybe I tried to nudge him a little bit while we were out shopping,” Irfan admitted. “I thought maybe if I hinted that I knew your relationship was fake from the beginning, he’d sac up and tell you he’s in love with you and you would make the whole thing real before he went home and left you with a broken heart!”
Flip froze with his hand on his fly. “I’m sorry, you did what?”
“It works in the movies!”
“Dad!” Flip finished zipping and ran his hands through his hair. What a disaster. “You’re going to tell me everything on the way to the airport,” he said darkly. Then another horrifying thought occurred to him. “Oh no, did you tell Mom?”
“What do you take me for? Of course I didn’t tell your mother. I love you and I don’t want you to die.” Irfan pushed him toward the door. “That doesn’t mean she didn’t find out on her own, so for both our sakes, let’s hope you can fix this before she stops pretending she doesn’t know.”
Shit. “All right, good point, let’s—” Flip stopped abruptly. “Okay, but that was days ago. Why would he leave now?”
His father paused and stood up straight, his hands dropping to his sides. “Hm. Good question. What were you doing when you last saw him?”
Panic clawed at Flip’s throat. If he said it out loud, it became a real possibility—that Brayden had left to avoid having to say no.
If he didn’t say it out loud, though, he would have to try to puzzle out the meaning behind Brayden’s disappearance alone, and he didn’t think his head was clear enough for that.
“I was about to ask him to marry me.”
The words seemed to suck all the sound out of the rest of the world. For several long seconds, silence reigned. Finally his father said, “I think you’d better think about your exact words. What did you say? How did you say it?”
Flip swallowed and thought back. He’d been nervous, and not just nervous but thrown off from his interactions with Minister Bechard, and he’d started setting up his proposal like he would an argument—points against first, so he could refute them.
Everything became… regretfully more complicated.
That sounded bad.
Some more critical members of the press might have dubbed you an unsuitable match for me. But while you have conducted yourself well…. What? He’d never finished that sentence. That could just as easily be leading up to it’s not good enough for me, please pack your things.
“I am an utter wanker.” How could he have bollocksed this up so completely?
His father clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s okay. Your mother needed two tries too.”
For fuck’s sake.
Flip picked up his momentum again and exited the bedroom into the living area. He needed shoes and a coat. His passport, maybe, if he was going to have to fly somewhere. Where had he left his gloves—on the table?
He hadn’t, but while he was looking, his eyes caught on a square of white paper—his own stationery from the desk in his bedroom. Was this the note he’d looked for? Or—
“Read it in the car,” Irfan ordered. “Come on, let’s go.”
Flip let himself be hurried. His father was right. But before the door closed behind him, he ran back for one more thing.
He wouldn’t be caught unprepared this time.
BRAYDEN had purchased a coffee and a pair of sunglasses—not easy to find at Virejas Airport in the dead of winter—and spent the remainder of the time before his flight in the first-class lounge, an indulgence he paid for with some of the money he’s saved from his refunded hotel stay. For two hours he hid behind a week-old copy of the Guardian, nervously bouncing his foot up and down.
Miraculously, it went even worse than he’d feared.
He’d hoped that the first-class lounge would be less crowded, perhaps populated only with a few well-to-do patrons who would be too polite to stare or at least to talk about him when he was within earshot. Maybe they’d even be jaded—surely they rubbed elbows with Europe’s wealthiest on the regular. Who would even care about the brand-new (ex-)boyfriend of Lyngria’s future king?
Clearly some deity somewhere had seen Brayden’s incredible hubris and was acting to correct it.
Though many of the passengers seemed to be traveling alone, that didn’t prevent them from turning to each other, or the lounge staffers, and whispering to each other.
“Isn’t that…?”
“Why isn’t he with the prince?”
“He’s not as handsome in person.”
“Do you think they broke up?”
“Should we ask him?”
Brayden felt lucky that his flight was called for boarding before anyone gathered the courage to make inquiries to his face. But his luck didn’t hold. As he buckled into his seat in economy class, his neighbor squinted over at him. “You look familiar.”
“I get that a lot.” Brayden pasted on a plastic smile. He’d never been airsick a day in his life, but his stomach felt as though it might revolt at any moment, and he felt a hair’s breadth away from a breakdown. He put his headphones on before takeoff, hoping to telegraph how much he didn’t want to speak to anyone.
His neighbor kept glancing at him from the corner of his eye and then texting frantically until the flight attendants asked that everyone put their phone in flight mode until they reached cruising altitude.
His stomach fell away along with the ground as the plane took off. That was it. It was done. He’d left.
Now he had another week and a half of his leave of absence to heal his broken heart before he had to go back to work, a thought that filled him with dread. What would Joanna and the others say? Luis? Would they ask about Flip? Would his passengers recognize him?
Maybe this was the kick in the ass he needed to finally quit his job. He’d spent enough of his life traveling. He’d gotten over Thomas’s death. He didn’t need an excuse to keep him from settling down anymore. He could get a regular nine-to-five, have a family, find someone to come home to every night the way he had for the past three weeks.
Compared to the way he’d felt in Flip’s arms, that was cold comfort. But it was all he had, and he clung to it as the plane swung north.
I’M so sorry, read the paper, just one line among several disjointed ones, some crossed out, others underlined.
Flip’s stomach lurched as his father turned onto the highway. Their bodyguards usually kept his speeding to a minimum, but today they didn’t have any, and Flip couldn’t complain. The flight to Paris—the one Brayden would be on if he was going home—was scheduled to begin boarding in twenty-five minutes.
I should have been more careful about social media. I don’t want to—
Here several words had been scratched out and written over each other to the point of illegibility.
The past few weeks have been perfect. I hate that my actions led to more media garbage for you when
When what? The line ended without a conclusion. Flip rubbed his suddenly damp palms on his trousers and huffed in frustration.
“If you’re not going to read that out loud,” Irfan said, “stop making those noises. You’re making me curious.”
Flip flushed and consciously reined himself in.
I know I don’t belong in your world. I’m always afraid I’m going to embarrass you, and I hate the idea of disappointing you.
“For fuck’s sake,” Flip half shouted, and ended up reading that part aloud because he needed to vent about how stupid Brayden was.
“Is this a Hallmark movie?” Irfan asked as he took the exit for the airport. “I didn’t know he was such a hand-wringer. He’s perfect for you.”
Flip wasn’t sure whether to be insulted. “Hey.” But that reminded him. �
�What did you say to him, anyway?”
His father kept his eyes on the road and passed a slow car in the right-hand lane. “I perhaps… mentioned… that you were a good actor but not as good as me, and I knew you were lying.”
“Yeah, you said that already,” Flip said impatiently. “That wasn’t all of it. There’s something else.”
Now he squirmed and flicked his gaze from the signage overhead to the one marking the nearest exit. He had to be feeling pretty guilty if he was betraying this much emotion. “Okay, so maybe I asked him what he was getting out of it.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Flip repeated.
“In hindsight, it was not a good idea.”
“No shit.” Flip rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was getting a headache. “What were you doing when this happened? Was this when you were shopping?”
Irfan took the exit for the airport, and his face went slack. “Oh—oh shit, we had just stopped to pick up the stupid tabloids—the one where some internet creep found his Instagram—”
Reflexively Flip crumpled the note. “That’s it, then. You were going for ‘maybe you should talk about your real feelings’ and he heard ‘someone’s going to use you to make Flip look stupid.’”
As if Flip cared about that. As if it mattered the slightest in the larger picture of things—the picture where Flip went to bed with Brayden every night and woke up with him every morning.
“Flip.” Irfan reached over and put a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
“You were trying to help.” And maybe, just maybe, Irfan’s interference would allow Flip to head this off early, before it became the issue that would destroy them. The flight to Paris hadn’t left yet. There was still hope.
He had to believe there was still hope.
They squealed into the airport departures lot with fifteen minutes to spare. Irfan pulled up in front of the main doors and slammed the car into Park. “Go get your man,” he said with gravitas.
Flip was already out the door.
At this early hour, the security line was just starting to form as weary business travelers in work suits shuffled blearily along until they could get their tepid airport coffee. But Flip had a diplomatic passport, security clearance, and no carryon to check through.
“Everything in order, Your Highness,” the security attendant told him as he handed back his phone with the mobile boarding pass he’d downloaded in the car. “Have a nice—”
But the second Flip had his phone back, he was sprinting down the terminal, cursing his stupid expensive shoes for having the type of sole that slid precariously on smooth floors. Gate A7—he needed to get to A7—
He skidded around the corner just in time to see an airline employee open the door to the Jetway. “Wait.”
The passengers in the seating area turned toward him, faces painted in mirror images of mild surprise—surprise that turned to shock when they recognized that the disheveled man with the mismatched ensemble and unshaven face was their crown prince.
At least three people took out their phones.
“Wait,” Flip repeated dumbly, and then called on all of his reserves to project an aura of calm as he approached the desk so he could speak more privately. Several other passengers watched him avidly, and perhaps they could read lips, but he couldn’t help that. He needed information. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly to the desk attendant. “But could you tell me, please, if Brayden Wood is on that plane?”
“Your Highness,” squeaked the freckle-faced young man who had just opened the Jetway door. He must have batlike hearing, or else the acoustics in there were incredible. Damn it. “It’s not our policy—”
“Oh shut up, Stefan,” said the woman at the desk. Her nametag read Danielle. She looked back at Flip. “He’s not on my passenger manifest, sir.”
Right. Of course. “Thank you very much,” Flip told her, trying not to let on that his world was crumbling.
The sympathy on her face let him know he hadn’t fooled her. “Would you like to board, sir? Our VIPs are always allowed priority boarding.”
He shook his head. “Thank you, no. I won’t be traveling today. An urgent matter has come up.”
“I understand. Have a pleasant day, sir.”
He didn’t know quite what to do when he walked away from the desk. His chest felt tight, and panic bubbled below the surface. This wasn’t how he’d envisioned this going. How could he be too late?
He swallowed hard and forced himself to accept the possibility that Brayden might be gone for good. The airport was almost empty. He felt sure that if Brayden were there, he’d have seen him. Which meant Brayden’s flight had already left.
But it was a very small airport, and Brayden had a window of only a few hours. If Celine had dropped Brayden off here, and if he’d gotten on a plane instead of, say, taking a taxi somewhere else—
A screen above him showed the day’s scheduled departures. One was boarding now, with three more scheduled throughout the day.
Five were marked DEPARTED—ON TIME.
And suddenly Flip knew where Brayden had gone.
EVEN when he rolled his suitcase under the double bed in his hotel room, Brayden couldn’t quite believe he’d gone through with it. For the first time since he’d begun traveling, he’d actually followed through on that promise to himself—if I can’t stay where I am, I’ll go back to someplace I loved.
This wasn’t exactly the place, of course. Brayden couldn’t afford to stay in a glass igloo overlooking a valley, especially not if he were really going to quit his job. He had a view of a snowy parking lot, and considering the occupancy rate of the hotel around the holidays, he was lucky he had that. But the room was clean, and the hotel had a package that included ski or snowboard rental. He’d spent the afternoon on the slopes, losing himself in the hush of snow under his feet and the sting of powder on his face, pushing his body until everything ached. No one recognized him with his goggles on. It was practically paradise.
He’d have had a lot more fun if Flip were there too.
Maybe he should have just gone home, but his family wouldn’t return until after New Year’s, and he couldn’t face his empty apartment.
At the moment, though, his empty hotel room wasn’t any more appealing. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, but he didn’t want to be alone either, especially not alone and cold and wet.
Fortunately Brayden’s travels had taught him one thing—ski resorts always had a bar. And a strong drink by a roaring fire sounded like heaven.
THE bar was a bust. Sitting next to a crackling wood fire with a hot toddy only made him long for the evenings he’d spent with Flip, and the ache inside him deepened.
He’d thought the sauna would present the same issue, but it wasn’t intimate like the one at their glass igloo. The quiet drone of conversation—mostly in Finnish—soothed him. He leaned his head back against the wall and let the heat and steam loosen his aching muscles.
The door opened and a hotel employee stuck his head in and said something in Finnish to the guys sitting next to the door. They exchanged looks and got up to follow.
Brayden closed his eyes and tried to plan for his future. If he quit his job, what would he do? He could probably find work as a translator, either for the government or privately. But his heart wouldn’t be in that any more than it was in his current job, and he wouldn’t have the travel benefits to keep him happy enough to fake it. He could get a teaching degree, but then what? Teaching jobs weren’t exactly easy to come by, even if he had nepotism on his side.
One by one the other bathers filed out, leaving the room silent except for the occasional hiss of steam. Caught up in self-pity, Brayden didn’t move.
Maybe he could return to his grandmother’s studio. She might consider selling the place to him when she retired, not that Brayden had much saved to give her for it.
Of course, every time he taught the waltz, he’d think of Flip’s sure grip and warm eyes, the steady pressure of his hand on Bray
den’s waist, the way their bodies moved together. It had taken Brayden ten years to get over teenage heartbreak. How long before he could imagine a future for himself—one he wanted—that didn’t have Flip in it?
He’d been foolish to ever believe he could pretend to be involved with Flip and walk away with his heart intact. He should have known better from the first time Flip rushed off to be his cousin’s knight in armor. From the first time he shared that sometimes he ate ice cream for lunch. From the first time Brayden made him laugh.
He should have known, just as he should have known Flip couldn’t be for him. He didn’t blame Flip for wanting to break it off. Even if all he wanted in the world was to go back to Lyngria right now and beg him to reconsider.
“Brayden.”
The hair on the back of his neck rose. He opened his eyes.
Flip stood in the doorway to the sauna, cheeks flushed, his normally coiffed hair in disarray. That, paired with his expensive mismatched clothing, lent him a sort of hopeless air. He looked like a wealthy man who’d just come off a bender—or a prince who’d suddenly discovered his lover absent from his life.
Brayden’s mouth worked without his permission, and he wondered if he was seeing things. “What are you doing here?”
“Coming after you. Obviously.”
That didn’t make any sense. “Why?” Not that he was complaining.
Flip went on, just as calmly, as though he didn’t already have sweat beading at his temples, “Tell me you don’t love me and I’ll let you go.”
Brayden swallowed hard. “What does that have to do with anything? You’re the one who wanted to end things.”
“I wasn’t breaking up with you.”
Brayden waited a few seconds for that to sink in. It didn’t. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I wasn’t breaking up with you,” Flip repeated, flushing either with the heat or embarrassment or both. “I wanted to talk about our relationship, but it wasn’t anything bad. I was nervous and flustered, and that made me sound… formal and distant when I meant to be affectionate. I started badly and it got worse from there, and then I got interrupted….”
