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few papers for you to sign. Your lawyers have already approved them.” He passes back an expensive-looking black fountain pen.
    NONDISCLOSURE AGREEMENT , the top of the first page reads. Alex flips through to the last page—there are at least fifteen pages of text—and a low whistle escapes his lips.
    “This is…” Alex says, “a thing you do often?”
    “Standard protocol,” Shaan says. “The reputation of the royal family is too valuable to risk.”
The words “Confidential Information,” as used in this Agreement, shall include the following:
1. Such information as HRH Prince Henry or any member of the Royal Family may designate to the Guest as “Confidential Information”;
2. All proprietary and financial information regarding HRH Prince Henry’s personal wealth and estate;
3. Any interior architectural details of Royal Residences including Buckingham Palace, Kensington Palace, etc., and personal effects found therein;
4. Any information regarding or involving HRH Prince Henry’s personal or private life not previously released by official Royal documents, speeches, or approved biographers, including any personal or private relationship the Guest may have with HRH Prince Henry;
5. Any information found on HRH Prince Henry’s personal electronic devices …
    This seems … excessive, like the kind of paperwork you get from some perverted millionaire who wants to hunt you for sport. He wonders what the most mind-numbingly wholesome public figure on earth could possibly have to hide. He hopes it’s not people-hunting.
    Alex is no stranger to NDAs, though, so he signs and initials. It’s not like he would have divulged all the boring details of this trip to anyone anyway, except maybe June and Nora.
    They pull up to the stables after another fifteen minutes, his security close behind them. The royal stables are, of course, elaborate and well-kept and about a million miles from the old ranches he’s seen out in the Texas panhandle. Shaan leads him out to the edge of the paddock, and Amy and her team regroup ten paces behind.
    Alex rests his elbows on the lacquered white fence boards, fighting back the sudden, absurd feeling he’s underdressed for this. On any other day, his chinos and button-down would be fine for a casual photo op, but for the first time in a long time, he’s feeling distinctly out of his element. Does his hair look awful from the plane?
    It’s not like Henry is going to look much better after polo practice. He’ll probably be sweaty and disgusting.
    As if on cue, Henry comes galloping around the bend on the back of a pristine white horse.
    He is definitely not sweaty or disgusting. He is, instead, bathed dramatically in a sweeping and resplendent sunset, wearing a crisp black jacket and riding pants tucked into tall leather boots, looking every inch an actual fairy-tale prince. He unhooks his helmet and takes it off with one gloved hand, and his hair underneath is just attractively tousled enough to look like it’s supposed to be that way.
    “I’m going to throw up on you,” Alex says as soon as Henry is close enough to hear him.
    “Hello, Alex,” Henry says. Alex really resents the extra few inches of height Henry has on him right now. “You look … sober.”
    “Only for you, Your Royal Highness,” he says with an elaborate mock-bow. He’s pleased to hear a little bit of ice in Henry’s voice, finally done pretending.
    “You’re too kind,” Henry says. He swings one long leg over and dismounts from his horse gracefully, removing his glove and extending a hand to Alex. A well-dressed stable hand basically springs up out of the ground to whisk the horse away by the reins. Alex has probably never hated anything more.
    “This is idiotic,” Alex says, grasping Henry’s hand. The skin is soft, probably exfoliated and moisturized daily by some royal manicurist. There’s a royal photographer right on the other side of the fence, so he smiles winningly and says through