Page 45 of The Unlikely Heir

Luckily, I already have a good knowledge of Shakespeare and British history, but I’ve been given a crash course on cricket and rugby and the Premier League.

I wonder if I can slot some of my ever-expanding British knowledge into my conversations tonight? Maybe I could casually mention my newfound love for Marmite? Although it will be hard to be genuine because I have an evolving theory that that particular yeasty spread was actually designed by the devil.

I’m mindlessly watching the crowd, trying to stop the mental montage of potential ways I can embarrass myself, when I see a face that I recognize, and my heart pounds for a different reason.

It’s Oliver. Oliver’s here.

He’s no longer Oliver Hartwell in my mind. Instead, he’s just Oliver, the guy I spend hours messaging every evening. We’ve moved on from formal titles to emoji-laden banter.

It’s crazy. I haven’t seen Oliver in the flesh since the Commonwealth banquet over a month ago. How can it be that you haven’t seen someone, but your perspective on them has completely changed?

When I last saw Oliver, he was an intimidating figure, the prime minister, an international LGBTQ+ icon, a guy who regarded everything seriously.

Now I know him as the guy who matches me with really bad jokes, who asks insightful questions when I’m raving on about random things, someone who I can message with for hours, our conversation drifting in so many surprising directions.

As I contemplate braving the crowd to see him, he looks directly at me, his dark eyes locking onto mine. He stares at me for a few moments, and just as I’m on the edge of doing something really stupid, like giving a goofy wave or trying to pull off a cool nod, a small grin breaks out on his face.

I can’t help smiling back.

He cuts across the room toward me, and I stand there waiting for him.

Although I now know Oliver well, for some reason, my body tenses up as he draws closer.

“Good evening, Your Royal Highness,” he says.

“Good evening, Prime Minister.” I shuffle my feet, clutching my speech even tighter. It’s as if my hands are competing with each other in a game ofWho can Wrinkle the Paper More?

Shit. This shouldn’t be awkward. I’ve spent the last month joking with Oliver, along with learning his opinion on anything and everything. I know him really well now.

But there’s something about having the complete package of a confident, handsome Oliver standing in front of me that causes me to clam up.

Somehow, I’ve forgotten exactly how good-looking he is. The perfect symmetry of his features, his strong eyebrows, chiseled nose, and olive skin. The way his dark hair is just long enough to show a hint of curl. His tuxedo is tailored immaculately to show off his swimmer’s build, with broad shoulders that taper down to his lean waist.

I glance at him, but when he meets my eyes, I can’t hold his gaze, instead studying the floral arrangement on a nearby table. It’s a peculiar mix of wildflowers and ferns jutting at odd angles, looking like a botanical tug-of-war.

“Are you giving a speech tonight?” Oliver’s smooth voice asks me.

I snap my eyes to his. “How did you know?”

He nods at the piece of paper I’m clutching. “My powers of observation are astounding sometimes.”

“Definitely. It’s surprising you went with politics instead of the MI5,” I say.

He grins, a quick flash of a lopsided smile. And I swallow my nerves. No matter how good-looking Oliver is, I know the person underneath his handsome façade now.

“Public speaking and I don’t mix particularly well, I’m finding,” I say. “Do you have any advice?”

“Just lead with an elevator joke. Those always go down well,” he says.

It takes me a moment to get it, but when I do, I groan. “An elevator joke on the fly. Color me impressed.”

He gives me another quick grin. “That’s what I aim for,” he says.

“Your aim is surprisingly impressive. You must be a descendant of Robin Hood.”

He laughs softly, and there’s something almost intimate about his chuckle. Like it’s meant just for me.

Then his face turns serious. “There is no magic formula for public speaking. Take it slow and try not to get too nervous.”