Page 58 of The Unlikely Heir

I clear my throat, making myself focus. “So, anyway, I had this amazing revelation today, and it’s all thanks to you.”

“That sounds slightly ominous,” he says.

“No, I mean it in a good way. The best way, actually. I decided to take your advice and just be myself. And instead of worrying about how the press or people will interpret things, I decided to just concentrate on other people and what I can do to help them.”

Oliver’s dark eyes study me through the screen. “What do you mean, help them?”

“I mean, whatever I can do to lift their spirits. To leave them feeling happier after seeing me than they were before.”

I explain about Amara and Ernest and all the other patients at the hospital while he listens carefully, asking insightful questions. It’s one of the things I like best about Oliver. And this is so much better than messaging because now I get to see his facial expressions.

We move on to talking about his day, but I’m not as conscientious as him because as we talk, my attention keeps drifting to his mouth. And it’s not just because I’m trying to classify his smiles.

His lower lip is fuller than his upper, giving his mouth a slightly pouty look even in neutral mode.

I try to get my attention back to what Oliver is saying, but instead, I move on from his lips to cataloging the rest of his face: strong brows, straight nose, chiseled cheekbones, and firm jaw that always has a dusting of stubble.

I realize suddenly that his handsome face has stopped talking, and he has two quizzical lines between his eyebrows.

Oops. It must be my turn to talk. It appears I’ve forgotten that replying is a fundamental part of being an active participant in a conversation.

“Sorry,” I say. “I zoned out there for a moment.”

“Nice to know I’m so riveting. Although, to be fair, I’d zone out of tax reform conversations if I had the chance.”

“Ha, you’re only saying that. I know you love it,” I say.

“Like I love root canals,” he retorts.

I smile at that, although it morphs into a yawn.

“You look knackered,” he says. “Go to sleep.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is this you telling me what to do?”

“Let’s not try to unravel the complexities about which of us has authority over whom,” Oliver says, and I can’t help a soft laugh.

My laugh makes him smile. Then his smile fades as he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up.

“Goodnight, Callum,” he says.

I don’t want to end this conversation with Oliver, even though he’s right that I’m tired.

“Talk to you tomorrow?” I ask.

“Yes. Definitely. Tomorrow,” he says.

Despite my epic level of tiredness, I don’t fall asleep easily. My brain is whirring with so many things—memories of the people I met today, my conversation with Oliver.

When I finally do go to sleep, my brain doesn’t give me any peace.

Instead, I’m thrown into a vivid dream.

I’m at a club in California, standing by myself on the dancefloor when, suddenly, someone taps me on the shoulder.

I turn around, and it’s Cliff.

Cliff, with his perfect hair, his handsome face contorted into his normal sardonic smirk he reserves for me, the smirk that I now know masks the disdain he feels.