Page 106 of The Unlikely Heir

I snort. “You don’t have to look very far to find someone who loves you either,” I reply.

Callum’s grin fades, and we stare at each other through the screen.

“I wish I could kiss you right now,” he says.

“I wish that too,” I say softly.

He’s so close. That’s the thing. As the crow flies, there’s less than a mile between us.

But he might as well be on Mars. Buckingham Palace is currently surrounded by protesters and paparazzi. And if British journalists get even a slight hint of our relationship, the consequences will be dire.

It’s too risky.

“You’ll just have to pretend I’m kissing you,” Callum says.

“Do I get to pretend which part of me you’re kissing?” I ask.

Callum straightens. “This isn’t an attempt to have phone sex with me, is it?”

“I’m up for it if you are.” I adjust myself. “In fact, I’m definitely up for it.”

Callum laughs, and it’s like a balm to my soul.

“You actually think phone sex with me would be sexy? You know how much I ramble when I’m nervous. I’ll probably start talking about the history of lubricant.”

“I’m actually interested to know the history of lubricant. Besides, nothing about you could ever turn me off.” My voice is definitive. Up until now, sex and love have been in two separate categories for me. Garett and I were still having sex until I caught him cheating, even when it was becoming increasingly apparent we could barely tolerate each other’s presence.

But my physical relationship with Callum is so intertwined with how I feel about him, and I get the feeling it’s the same for him. Not getting to touch him is so difficult.

“I miss you,” he whispers. There are tears in his eyes, and I understand. There are moments of this that are unbearable. When my need to be with him defies all logic and flirts with the boundaries of my sanity.

I didn’t know this kind of love could exist.

And I still don’t know how I’m going to keep it now that I’ve found it.

ChapterTwenty-Seven

Callum

Saturday morning, and I’m on my way to a rubber boot-throwing contest, or as they call it here, a welly-wanging contest.

“So, what hazards are we watching out for here?” I ask Raymond as we pull up outside. “Not to fall flat on my face in the muddy field? Try not to land a Wellington boot on someone’s head?”

Raymond has spent the trip buried in his phone. He glances up at me now, frowning.

“It doesn’t matter what you do. Any headlines you generate would be preferable to the ones dominating the press right now. Do you know there’s an editorial inTheCorporate Timestoday questioning the place of the monarchy in twenty-first century Britain?”

“Really?” I ask weakly.

“The Times!” Raymond says, his mustache bristling with indignation. “I can’t believe they have betrayed us like that.”

He shakes his head in disgust. “Hopefully, your investiture will remind the British public what they love about the monarchy,” he continues.

My stomach hollows as it always does when I think about the upcoming investiture ceremony. It will be the most formal thing I’ve ever participated in.

Just me, on a dais in the middle of a castle, bowing before my grandmother, pledging my allegiance as the whole country—the whole world—watches.

What could go wrong?