Fake Dating the Prince Epilogue by Ashlyn Kane

Fake Dating the Prince Epilogue

 

Hi all and welcome to the Dreamspinner Press blog! I’m Ashlyn Kane, and I’m here with an extra-special treat for you today. Well, I think it’s special, anyway. I’m here to promote my new book—you know, this one:

perf4.250x7.000.inddWhen fast-living flight attendant Brayden Wood agrees to accompany a first-class passenger to a swanky charity ball, he discovers his date—“Call me Flip”—is actually His Royal Highness Prince Antoine-Philipe. And he wants Brayden to pretend to be his boyfriend.

Being Europe’s only prince of Indian descent—and its only openly gay one—has led Flip to select “appropriate” men first and worry about attraction later. Still, flirty, irreverent Brayden captivates him right away, and Flip needs a date to survive the ball without being match-made.

Before Flip can pursue Brayden in earnest, the paparazzi forces his hand, and the charade is extended for the remainder of Brayden’s vacation.

Posh, gorgeous, thoughtful Prince Flip is way out of Brayden’s league. If Brayden survives three weeks of platonically sharing a bed with him during the romantic holiday season, going home afterward might break his heart….

 

Fake Dating the Prince came out June 18, so by now you may have had time to read it. If you’ve already made it to the end—or if you’re not afraid of mild and predictable spoilers—go ahead and read on for a sweet little epilogue.

*

Flip had been sitting at the desk in the bedroom for forty-five minutes, alternately huffing and scratching at something on his horribly expensive stationery with his absurdly posh fountain pen, before Brayden got fed up being half-naked in bed by himself and set down his phone. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Flip startled so bad he dropped the pen onto the carpet. Brayden winced. That ink would be a bugger for the palace cleaning staff to get out. “Damn it,” Flip muttered, the color in his cheeks darkening.

Oh boy. “Did you forget I was in here?” Brayden asked incredulously.

Flip’s flush deepened. “I was concentrating.” He was looking at Brayden now, though, taking in the fact that Brayden was wearing only boxer shorts and his old baseball T-shirt, the one Flip kept threatening to burn. Good.

“Uh-huh.” Brayden stretched, closing his eyes to slits so he could gauge the way Flip watched him. Whatever he’d been concentrating on, he was distracted now. “I feel so neglected. What could be more important than your devoted fiancé waiting in bed for you, barely decent?”

Apparently the question was a mistake, as Flip sighed deeply again—a habit Brayden treasured because Flip was too polite to make the sound in public—and flicked his attention back to the papers on his desk. “I’ve been writing my vows. Well. Trying.”

Oh. Well, if thoughts of marrying future Brayden were what had distracted Flip from ravishing the present one, Brayden guessed he could be forgiven. Especially since Flip had trouble expressing emotion in high-stakes situations. He had the tendency to sound like a press release. Not romantic. “Want some help?”

Flip wrinkled his nose. “They’re supposed to be my own words, you know. It doesn’t count if you do it for me.”

Brayden sat up in the middle of the bed. “Who says I would? Mom’s an English teacher, remember? I’m good at prompting.”

“Prompting,” Flip repeated.

Brayden had him eating out of his hand now. Not the body part he wanted, but he was confident he could upgrade. “Uh-huh. I, of course, will be absolutely winging my extremely romantic and heartfelt promises that I make to you in front of your entire country and most of Europe’s media”—yeah right—“but I’m willing to give you a sample, and then you’ll have a template to follow.”

“Why do I feel like this is some kind of romance training wheels?” Flip wondered aloud, not really to Brayden at all.

Brayden ignored this and reached deep for the right words. He sat up straight in the middle of the bed and reached out a hand imperiously; Flip took it, because he was absolutely soft and did basically whatever Brayden told him to. Brayden looked deep into his future husband’s gorgeous dark eyes and reflected that it was a good thing he was just as gone on Flip, or he’d have to get self-conscious about how sappy they were. He cleared his throat and placed his free hand on top of their joined ones.

Then:

“Dear Darla,” he began solemnly. “You make me—no, that’s not right. Hmm.”

Flip’s mouth twitched.

Brayden started over, reaching up to brush an errant lock of Flip’s hair from his forehead. “When you decide you want to start the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start right away—”

Flip narrowed his eyes. Brayden would have to up the ante.

“I’ve come here with no expectations,” he went on, squeezing Flip’s hand as he switched movies, “only to confess, now that I am at liberty to do so, that my heart is, and always will be, yours.”

He meant that, and he could tell Flip knew it too, from the way he squeezed back and the way the skin around his eyes softened and his lips pursed infinitesimally, as though he had to hold himself back from smiling, or kissing Brayden soundly. The air of their bedroom felt warm with it, heavy with the tension of the moment, which meant the time was ripe for Brayden to open his mouth and say, with a deadpan that would’ve impressed even Flip’s actor father, “I’m with you till the end of the line.”

For half a second Flip just stared, and Brayden wondered if he didn’t get it. Then he sputtered, tackling Brayden back against the bed, laughing in outrage. “Was that from Captain America?” he howled, his chest heaving against Brayden’s as they wrestled. “You absolute troll. I thought we were having a moment—”

“In fairness, I started with Little Rascals,” Brayden protested, breathless, squirming hopelessly for position.

“You are ridiculous,” Flip said, throwing his leg over Brayden’s hips in a very promising manner. His cheeks glowed with exertion now, but with something else too, and all the tension had gone from his posture. God, he looked good. He looked happy. “You drive me crazy. I can’t believe I’m so lucky that I get to wake up and show you how much I love you every day for the rest of my life.”

Brayden let the sweetness of the moment wash over him, meeting Flip’s gaze. He raised his hand to Flip’s face again, tracing his smile from the corner of his eye to the curve of his mouth. “See?” he said, only half innocent. “Told you I was good at prompting.”

Flip lowered his head until their foreheads touched, an obvious capitulation to Brayden’s awful nature. Then he raised it again, now wearing an expression of wry lust. “So you are,” he admitted, his mouth brushing Brayden’s.

Finally. Brayden slid his hands down Flip’s back. “Know what else I’m good at? Multitasking.”

Though really, he got pretty single-minded after that.

Check out Fake Dating the Prince today!

 

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ASHLYN KANE is a Canadian former expat and current hockey fan. She is a writer, editor, handyperson, dog mom, and friend—sometimes all at once.

authorphotoOn any given day she can usually be found walking her ninety-pound baby chocolate lapdog, Indy, or holed up in her office avoiding housework. She has a deep and abiding love of romance novel tropes, a habit of dropping too many f-bombs, and—fortunately—a very forgiving family.

Twitter: @ashlynkane

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ashlyn.kane.94

Website: www.ashlynkane.ca

 

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