Page 49 of The Unlikely Heir

When I manage to wrench my gaze away from his, I glance through the window back into the function room and see the room is emptying. The evening is winding down.

Panic claws at my stomach. I don’t want this evening to end. I don’t want to stop talking to Oliver.

I turn to him, the words pouring out of my mouth before my brain has a chance to engage. “Do you want to get out of here, go somewhere so we can talk more?”

Oliver hesitates. His gaze flicks from my face to where the lights of London Bridge are reflected messily in the river’s muddy water.

I flush. Shit. Maybe Oliver’s not feeling the same as me. Maybe he hasn’t been reveling in the fact like I have that I’ve found someone I can talk to so easily, who I can switch between discussing serious stuff and joking around in a blink, and everything just feels so…natural.

Because it feels like Oliver actually gets me, and I’ve not had that much in my life.

Never, if I’m being completely honest.

I’m about to stumble through retracting my suggestion when Oliver’s gaze moves back to mine, his dark eyes intense.

“Sure, let’s get out of here,” he says.

ChapterThirteen

Oliver

Callum and I end up at a dodgy twenty-four-hour cafe. The smell of grease mixed with the acrid smell of floor cleaner assaults my nostrils.

We manage to make our way to a plastic, mustard-colored booth in the back without attracting the attention of a few other patrons scattered around the cafe. It’s helped by the fact that one of Callum’s bodyguards produced two hoodies and baseball caps. We shucked off our tux jackets and put the hoodies over our shirts. With baseball cap brims lowered over our eyes, our disguise is complete.

Our protection officers take up another booth, and I deliberately don’t meet the eyes of my guard, Dennis, because I know there will be questions lingering in his gaze.

What are you doing right now?

I don’t have a bloody clue.

That’s the straight-up, honest answer.

The question pounds away in my head as Callum and I examine our laminated menus and then place our order with a bored waitress who doesn’t seem to notice she’s serving two of the most famous men in the country.

“I just need to go to the loo,” I say to Callum after we’ve ordered.

“Okay.”

Once my security team has checked out the threat of the bathroom, I stand at the sink, staring at myself in the mirror. I hardly recognize myself in the navy hoodie and dark baseball cap pulled low on my head.

And the question screams even louder in my mind.

What the hell am I playing at?

The whole evening I’ve been drawn to Callum in a way I can’t explain. Seeing him in the flesh for the first time in a month, dressed in a tuxedo, I was overwhelmed by how incredibly good-looking he is. I’d clocked that before, of course, but somehow, after all the messages we’ve exchanged, after seeing his vulnerabilities, his intelligence, his sense of humor, he’s even more handsome now.

The way one section of his hair seems determined to flop into his eyes. The curve of his full lips when he smiles. The clear translucence of his green eyes. The way he talks, not just with his words but his hands too, as if words aren’t enough to convey the fullness of his thoughts.

As a gay guy, I’m used to finding straight guys attractive. I’ve learned to control that part of me to the extent I could stand next to a naked Mr. Universe and not react.

I take a deep breath.

It’s fine that I find the Prince of Wales attractive. It’s not a concern. I can handle this.

I splash some water on my face, then grimace at myself in the mirror before exiting the bathroom.

Callum looks up from the booth, his face breaking into a wide smile.