deferring, and Alex realizes he’s waiting for permission to open the box and take one. Alex thinks about telling him no, just for the thrill of denying a prince something, but he’s kind of intrigued. He usually can’t sleep either. He nods. He waits for Henry to take a Cornetto and leave, but instead he looks back up at Alex. “Have you practiced what you'll say tomorrow?” “Yes,” Alex says, bristling immediately. This is why nothing about Henry has ever intrigued him before. “You're not the only professional here.” “T didn’t mean—” Henry falters. “I only meant, do you think we should, er, rehearse?” “Do you need to?” “T thought it might help.” Of course, he thinks that. Everything Henry’s ever done publicly has probably been privately rehearsed in stuffy royal quarters like this one. Alex hops down off the counter, swiping his phone unlocked. “Watch this.” He lines up a shot: the box of Cornettos on the counter, Henry’s hand braced on the marble next to it, his heavy signet ring visible along with a swath of pajamas. He opens up Instagram, slaps a filter on it. “Nothing cures jet lag,” Alex narrates in a monotone as he taps out a caption, “like midnight ice cream with @PrinceHenry.’ Geotag Kensington Palace, and posted.” He holds the phone for Henry to see as likes and comments immediately pour in. “There are a lot of things worth overthinking, believe me. But this isn’t one of them.” Henry frowns at him over his ice cream. “T suppose,” he says, looking doubtful. “Are you done?” Alex asks. “I was on a call.” Henry blinks, then folds his arms over his chest, back on the defensive. “Of course. I won’t keep you.” As he leaves the kitchen, he pauses in the doorframe, considering. “T didn’t know you wore glasses,” he says finally. He leaves Alex standing there alone in the kitchen, the box of Cornettos sweating on the counter. The ride to the studio for the interview is bumpy but mercifully quick. Alex should probably blame some of his queasiness on nerves but chooses to blame it all on this morning’s appalling breakfast spread—what kind of garbage country eats bland beans on white toast for breakfast? He can’t decide if his Mexican blood or his Texan blood is more offended. Henry sits beside him, surrounded by a cloud of attendants and stylists. One adjusts his hair with a finetoothed comb. One holds up a notepad of talking points. One tugs his collar straight. From the passenger seat, Shaan shakes a yellow pill out of a bottle and passes it back to Henry, who readily pops it into his mouth and swallows it dry. Alex decides he doesn’t want or need to know. The motorcade pulls up in front of the studio, and when the door slides open, there’s the promised photo line and barricaded royal worshippers. Henry turns and looks at him, a little grimace around his mouth and eyes. “Prince goes first, then you,” Shaan says to Alex, leaning in and touching his earpiece. Alex takes one breath, two, and turns it on—the megawatt smile, the All-American charm. “Go ahead, Your Royal Highness,” Alex says, winking as he puts on his sunglasses. “Your subjects await.” Henry clears his throat and unfolds himself, stepping out into the morning and waving genially at the crowd. Cameras flash, photographers shout. A blue-haired girl in the crowd lifts up a homemade poster that reads in big, glittery letters, GET IN ME, PRINCE HENRY! for about five seconds until a member of the security team shoves it into a nearby trash can. Alex steps out next, swaggering up beside Henry and throwing an arm over his shoulders. “Act like you like me!” Alex says cheerfully. Henry looks at him like he’s trying to choose between a million choice words, before tipping his head to the side and offering up a well-rehearsed laugh, putting his arm around Alex too. “There we go.” The hosts of This Morning are agonizingly British—a middle-aged woman named Dottie in a tea dress and a man called Stu who looks as if he spends weekends yelling at mice in his garden. Alex watches the introductions backstage as a makeup artist conceals a stress pimple on his forehead. So, this is happening. He tries to ignore Henry a few feet to his left, currently getting a final preening from a royal stylist. It’s the last chance he'll get to ignore Henry for the rest of the day. Soon Henry is leading the way out with Alex close behind. Alex shakes Dottie’s hand first, smiling his Politics Smile at her, the one that makes a lot of congresswomen and more than a few congressmen want to tell him things they shouldn’t. She giggles and kisses him on the cheek. The audience claps and claps and claps. Henry sits on the prop couch next to him, perfect posture, and Alex smiles at him, making a show of looking comfortable in Henry’s company. Which is harder than it should be, because the stage lights suddenly make him uncomfortably aware of how fresh and handsome Henry looks for the cameras. He’s wearing a blue sweater over a button-down, and his hair looks soft. Whatever, fine. Henry is annoyingly attractive. That’s always been a thing, objectively. It’s fine. He realizes, almost a second too late, that Dottie is asking him a question. “What do you think of jolly old England, then, Alex?” Dottie says, clearly ribbing him. Alex forces a smile.