Page 115 of The Unlikely Heir

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It’s a week before I get to see Callum again in person. This time, we’re at a comedy gala raising money for children with heart issues. Even though I knew he would be here tonight, my mouth still goes dry when I see him in the lineup of dignitaries, dressed in his tuxedo.

I plaster on my politician game face as I approach him.

“Your Royal Highness.” I greet him with the usual bob of my head.

“Prime Minister.” Our handshake lasts slightly longer than normal, and I’m fairly sure there’s an extra squeeze in there just for me.

“Nice to see you again,” he says, giving me a small Callum grin.

“Nice to see you too,” I reply.

He gives me a meaningful look. “I hope you have as enjoyable an evening tonight as you did the last time we were together.” His voice is low.

My voice is hoarse when I reply, “I sincerely doubt that.”

Callum gives me a sweet smile underlaid with just a hint of spice, and I feel my body react to him like every cell remembers what happened last time we were alone.

But my allocated time is up, and I can’t linger. I have to force myself to move and shake the hands of other dignitaries.

I glance back at Callum, who is doing his usual Callum thing. Is it my imagination, or does everyone who interacts with Callum walk away with a smile, their step lighter? He just has that effect on people.

I’ve never been a possessive person, but I have this crazy urge to claim Callum now. To howl it to the heavens that he’s mine. Make sure the whole world knows he belongs to me, that if they mess with him, they become my mortal enemy. If they hurt a single hair on his beautiful head, I shall hunt them to the corners of the earth and through the afterlife to get my vengeance.

Fuck.

This feeling scares me. That this primitive side of me lurks under the veneer of civilized behavior.

“Hello, Oliver.”

It’s the voice of another person who makes me want to ditch my veneer of civilized behavior but in a very different way.

I whirl around to face my ex-husband.

“Garett,” I say coolly. I nod at the man standing next to him. “Hello, Riccardo.”

Riccardo is a doe-eyed man in his mid-twenties who always looks nervous when we interact.

But I guess if I’d been caught red-handed fucking the prime minister’s husband in their marital bed at Downing Street, I’d be slightly anxious too.

“Prime Minister,” he says, a blush trekking up his cheeks.

This is the one thing that makes these encounters bearable for me. My husband chose this man over me, and I’m sure Garett has cataloged every flaw of mine to Riccardo, yet Riccardo never acts anything but deferential. Perhaps he’s worried about pissing off a man who commands MI5. There’s a chance I threatened him with both deportation and disembowelment when I caught them together.

But I truly believe you shouldn’t be held responsible for what you say to the guy you’ve just caught fucking the man who vowed to be faithful to you forever.

“How have you been?” Garett asks.

“Busy,” I reply. “The country doesn’t just run itself.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Garett replies, his words jagged and pointy.

How, after being separated for over two years, can we immediately fall into our old pattern of arguments like we’ve never ceased?

I summon every ounce of my self-control, knowing half the eyes in the room must be upon us.

“Anyway, how are you two? How’s the acting going, Riccardo?”