Page 157 of The Unlikely Heir

The logistics of a gay wedding for the future king have definitely sent the palace courtiers into a tailspin.

“I was actually thinking maybe I should arrive by parachute,” Oliver says, his face deadpan.

“Um…I don’t think parachutes are one of the options,” Clive says with a trace of alarm. He’s not quite used to Oliver’s sense of humor yet.

The palace staff has never had to deal with someone like Oliver as the partner of a royal family member. Not that he isn’t cooperative. He just has strong opinions on some things, and his natural charisma means people defer to him without realizing they’re doing it.

There’s also the fact he has sky-high approval ratings. Oliver’s involvement in the royal family is credited by commentators as a big part of why the British public voted overwhelmingly in favor of keeping the monarchy in last year’s referendum.

“I’m joking about the parachute. I actually don’t care how I get to the altar as long as I make it here to marry Callum,” Oliver says definitively.

I flick a glance at him, his handsome face all stern and serious. He meets my eyes and gives me a tiny smile, just a small quirk of his upper lip and a deepening of his laughter lines, and I feel such a pulse of love for him that I have to look away.

“Now, for the flowers. There’s a tradition of myrtle in royal bouquets dating back to Queen Victoria. The flower symbolizes good luck and marriage,” Janet says.

Oliver’s shaking his head. “Unfortunately, I’m allergic to myrtle.”

“I guess we don’t want you sneezing your way through your vows,” I say.

“Definitely not,” Clive says.

Raymond, Clive, and Janet start a conversation about seating and wander off to inspect the pillars while I turn to face Oliver.

“So, you’re allergic to good luck? I don’t know if that bodes well for our marriage.”

He pulls me to him. “Our marriage doesn’t need luck.”

He kisses me, and I get lost in the amazingness that is kissing Oliver until we hear the clearing of a throat behind us.

I reluctantly pull myself away from Oliver to find Raymond standing there.

“Uh, you’re not actually supposed to kiss in Westminster Abbey,” he says.

“You’re not allowed to kiss in here?”

“No. The church is considered too sacred to kiss in. So you’ll have to wait until you’re outside on the front steps before you have your first official kiss after the ceremony.”

Oliver sneaks a look at me. “I think I’ll manage to restrain myself from kissing him until then. But it’ll be difficult.”

“Well, you are the most romantic man in the United Kingdom,” I remind him.

The fact that Oliver risked his life and then gave up politics to be with me has spawned a thousand headlines declaring him to be the most romantic man in Britain, which have all caused him to laugh loudly, then roll his eyes.

“I’m the man most in love in the kingdom. I’m not sure if that means I can claim to be the most romantic,” Oliver says matter-of-factly as if he hasn’t just said the most romantic thing ever, proving the journalists’ point.

* * *

“So, apparently, my frown during the Vice Chancellor’s address at London University provides evidence of my opposition to the government’s education policy,” Oliver says that evening as he slouches on the couch in Clarence House, scrolling through his phone. He’s wearing his glasses, and he absentmindedly rubs the stubble of his jaw with one hand. He’s so sexy that I have to exercise all my self-control not to slide down the couch to touch him.

When Oliver resigned as prime minister, he was left homeless, so it made sense for us to move into Clarence House, the traditional residence of the Prince of Wales.

Waking up every day with Oliver is my favorite thing ever.

Oliver has seamlessly slotted into doing official engagements on behalf of the royal family. But it’s spawned a whole new game in the British media:How to tell what Oliver Hartwell is really thinking about a political issue even though he’s not allowed to say anything. It involves analyzing every micro-expression that crosses his face.

“What’s my best headline for today?” I ask lazily.

Oliver and I still play the game of checking out who has generated the most outrageous headline.