Page 46

Callum

Don’t panic. Don’t panic. This isn’t the worst date in history. I mean, Napoleon probably dated, right? And Mussolini. Even Pol Pot may have attempted wining and dining some unlucky person. Surely, I’m providing better company than self-centered murderous dictators?

Although they probably never spilled a whole glass of red wine over their date’s scallops and onto their blouse like I’ve just done.

“I’m really sorry,” I say again as Emily ineffectively mops at the stain with her napkin. It’s an interesting stain that looks like a mutant sheep if you squint at it. But I’ve learned over the years that sharing these random observations my brain conjures up never ends well, and I have a feeling it applies even more right now.

Instead, I go for something more socially acceptable. “I’ll pay for dry cleaning.”

Emily gives me a withering look to indicate that, yes, there is definitely a future dry-cleaning bill with my name on it.

“I’m sorry.” Is there a statutory limit for how much you’re allowed to apologize? I may have reached it. “I’ve always been very expressive with my hands when I talk,” I add. It’s true. Her glass of red wine isn’t my first casualty.

Her forehead tightens. “I noticed.”

Maybe we could’ve laughed together over my mishap if the date had been going well. Unfortunately, our date had seemed destined to crash and burn in some spectacular way since she’d first sat down and regarded me with an eager expression.

“So, you’re doing a master’s degree in history? I’d love to hear all about it.”

“Oh. That.” I blinked. “Yeah, I haven’t updated my profile for a while. I…uh…quit that last year. It was taking me forever, and I wasn’t even close to finishing my thesis…”

“What are you doing now?”

“Working in a call center. For an insurance company.”

I never knew someone’s lips could disappear so fast. It was almost like she’d swallowed them along with her sip of chardonnay. “Right,” she said.

I’m used to my job being a conversation killer, which is a shame because I actually have some interesting work stories to share.

If anyone can offer good advice for life, it’s people who work in the insurance industry.

Why, only yesterday, I’d dealt with a case of a woman who somehow found herself on a rural road in her Ferrari surrounded by a herd of goats. She’d beeped at them to try to get them to move, which resulted in scaring the goats and two of them jumping onto her car and damaging the hood. There’s a very good lesson: if you ever find yourself stranded on a deserted road surrounded by goats, the horn is not a good option.

And I really like my job most of the time. I love that I’m helping people. People who call me are usually upset because something bad has happened to them, and I always try my best to leave them happier when they hang up. It’s my own small way of sprinkling some sunshine over the world.

But Emily doesn’t seem interested in hearing about insurance-industry insights.

She obviously mistakenly inferred from my profile that I’m some high-flying academic and is now disappointed with the real me.

Disappointment seems to be a common emotion for people after they meet me, at least on dates.

If a person’s outward appearance could ever be accused of false advertising, it would be mine. My mother was a model and actress known for her beauty, and I look a lot like her.

Unfortunately, the genetic gods also gave me a bumbling personality, an intense interest in unusual topics, and an offbeat sense of humor.

“Your problem is you’re too good-looking,” my friend, Scott, once informed me after we’d had a few too many shots of tequila that acted like a truth serum for him. “Women want to date you based on what you look like, but after getting to know you, they decide your looks aren’t enough to compensate for your oddities.”

“I’m glad I’m doing my bit to teach the women of the world that looks aren’t everything,” I’d muttered as I poured my next shot.

“It really is your public service,” Scott had agreed.

I try to laugh it off, and my dating failures are the frequent topic of amusement on the message loop with me, Scott, and our other friend, Cliff.

I can already imagine how the guys will react when I tell them about this date.

I have a brief but intense pang for my mother. She wasn’t a perfect mom, but she always had my back.

At my high-school prom, my date, Amy Malone, had ditched me to spend the whole night with another guy. When I’d walked past Amy near the end of the night, I heard her say in a loud voice, “He’s just so weird. Did you know that all he wanted to talk about was the sinking of the Titanic?”

This is an unfortunate personality trait of mine. I will discover a random thing I find interesting, learn everything I can, and then want to share my newfound knowledge with everyone around me. Apparently, Amy hadn’t appreciated learning that one of the Titanic funnels was only built for aesthetics and that there were only lifeboats for one-third of the people onboard.

When I arrived home from prom, my mother saw the look on my face, pulled me into a hug, and whispered one of her favorite quotes to me.

“You don’t have to change; you just need to find someone who loves you exactly how you are.”

But as my number of first dates that never turn into second dates mounts, it’s hard to stay optimistic that there’s anyone who will love me exactly as I am. There’s a chance they are like the Loch Ness Monster, a completely mythical creature.

And judging by the way Emily is regarding me like I’m a cross between a cockroach and roadkill, I don’t think she’s destined to be that person.

“So anyway…” I force some joviality into my tone. “Tell me more about you.”

Emily opens her mouth. Whether to answer my question or berate me, I’ll never know because, at that moment, we’re interrupted.

“Excuse me, sir.”

I snap my head up. The man standing by our table is not our waiter, who earlier sneered at my unsuccessful attempt to pronounce Coq au vin.

Although this man is dressed in a classy suit and tie, everything about him screams law enforcement. It’s evident in the stiff set to his shoulders and the way his eyes dart around like he’s mentally calculating the route to the nearest exit.

“Callum Prescott?” he asks in a crisp British accent.

“Uh…yes, that’s me,” I say.

You can’t be arrested for spilling red wine all over your date, can you? It doesn’t meet the criteria for grievous bodily harm, right?

Is it possible Emily’s part of some crime family with their own enforcement goons, and she’s secretly sent them an SOS code for I’m on a date with an idiot? Please come and take him out?

“Can you please accompany me outside, sir? I must speak with you about an important matter,” Stiff-Shoulder Guy says.

This is how thriller films start, isn’t it? Should the ominous music be cued right now?

I glance out the window, and holy shit, there’s actually a dark van with tinted windows parked illegally at the curb.

I blink at it. The fantasies I spin in my head don’t usually have corroborating evidence on display. I’m not sure how I feel about this development.

“Uh…who are you?” I ask.

“We can talk about that outside.”

“Sorry, I’m not going with you until I know who you are and what this is about,” I say like any normal person who has watched a decent number of thriller movies featuring kidnapping as a plot device.

He flicks a glance at Emily. “I would really prefer to talk about this in private.”

“Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of my date,” I say. At least having Emily here means I’ve got a potential witness.

He hesitates before answering me in rapid-fire sentences. “My name is Spencer Mattingly. I’m an agent for Scotland Yard based in the US. We’ve been tasked with ensuring you are safe and secure, sir.”

I frown. “Making me safe and secure for what purpose?”

His mouth draws into a thin line before he answers me. “I really think you should step outside with me, sir.”

I summon my stern insurance call center voice, the one I had to learn so I could deal with customers who insist that despite the fact they haven’t paid their premiums for two years, they are still entitled to their claim. “Sorry, I’m not budging until you tell me what purpose you’re making me safe and secure for.”

Spencer’s eyebrows tilt toward each other. He glances over at Emily, then back at me, before he seems to make a decision. “Making you safe and secure from threats against the crown, sir.”

The crown? Shit.

A sinkhole starts in my stomach. I can almost feel the little bits of ravioli I just ate for my starter clinging to the sides, trying not to plummet to their doom.

“The crown?” Emily asks.

“I’m eleventh in line,” I say to Spencer. “Surely my security is not important?”

“Something has happened that has changed things,” he says.

I blink. “What’s happened?”

He purses his lips. “There’s been a police investigation, and as a result of that investigation, some senior royal members are going to be removed from their place in the order of succession.”

My eyebrows fly up. “What senior royals?”

He clears his throat. “Uh…your three uncles and their children. Basically, all the senior royals besides Her Majesty.”

All of them? All of them? The words rattle around my brain, refusing to settle.

If all the senior royals are being removed from their place in succession, and he’s here to make me secure…surely it can’t mean what I think it does…

“But hang on a second, are you telling me…do you mean to say…?”

Spencer seems to take pity on my stumbling. His eyes are kind as he meets my panicked gaze.

“It means you are now heir to the British throne.”