Page 57 of The Unlikely Heir

“You’re not up your own arse, so I guess that’s a good thing.” Latisha sucks in a breath and sends me an apologetic glance, but I answer Ernest benignly.

“I would find life quite difficult if my body could contort enough to be up my own ass.”

* * *

That evening, I compose a message to tell Oliver about my day, but it’s impossible to reduce Amara, Ernest, and the other patients to simple words on a screen.

Before I can second-guess myself, I press the video call button.

It’s only after the robotic calling noise has started that I panic.

He’s the prime minister. Messaging me is one thing, but expecting him to waste his time on a video call with me is completely different.

He doesn’t answer.

Shit. My chest feels tight.

I’m just starting to beat myself up when my phone flashes with a message.

I’ll call you back. Give me five minutes.

The pressure in my chest eases slightly.

I don’t think clocks have ever been scrutinized as closely as my watch in the next five minutes. And twenty seconds over the five-minute mark, my phone buzzes with an incoming call.

My fingers fumble as I press Accept. Oliver’s handsome face fills my screen.

“Please tell me you weren’t discussing important issues with the Chinese president, and I’ve just derailed world peace,” I say.

He smiles. “No. I’d actually just got out of the shower. I thought I should throw some clothes on before I accepted a video call.”

For some reason, my pulse hammers at the idea of a naked Oliver.

This is Oliver as I’ve never seen him. Hair damp and messy, wearing a light-gray T-shirt. I glimpse a neatly made bed behind him, and the idea that I’m seeing Oliver’s bedroom means my pulse refuses to settle.

“Bear with me. I’ll just head down to the living room,” he says.

There’s a tilt of his phone, and I get a view of his feet. Oliver’s feet are long and thin, and seeing them makes my mouth go dry.

“You need to cut your toenails,” I say because, you know, that’s an appropriate thing to say to the prime minister.

“I’ve been wondering why my socks are suddenly getting holes in them,” he says.

“I’m glad to help you solve that mystery.”

The phone tilts up, and I can see Oliver’s smile. It lights up something inside me. Like I’ve got a stack of kindling there, just waiting to be set on fire by the curve of Oliver’s lips.

He pads down the hall, and I get a glimpse through an open door into a fancy dining room before he comes to the living room and settles on a leather couch.

“So, this is Downing Street, is it?” I say. “Very nice.”

“I think if we’re having a contest on the grandest residence, I’m going to lose,” Oliver comments.

“I think we’re both living in quite different houses to the ones we grew up in,” I say.

He gives a half-chuckle. “Very true.”

For a moment, I’m caught up again in the magic of Oliver’s smile.