Page 60 of The Unlikely Heir

I’d had a crush on him.

Just like I have a crush on Oliver Hartwell now.

It makes so much sense.

My obsession with Oliver Hartwell’s mouth. My obsession with nearly everything Oliver, actually. The irrational urge I had the other night to touch him. The way seeing him tonight caused my body to react.

My subconscious is not exactly subtle. It’s been hitting me over the head with this. How had I not figured it out earlier?

I need to move.

I get up, pacing around my room, taking in the elegance of the four-poster bed and the gold-and-cream Louis XIV chairs that match the curtains. None of it helps calm the chaos in my brain.

Neither does leaving my room and walking down the hallways lined with portraits of my ancestors. Because I’m willing to bet none of them ever had an erotic dream and then jerked off to thoughts about the British prime minister.

It’s not until I make it outside into the Buckingham Palace Garden that the heaving in my chest settles down to something manageable. This is the largest private garden in London, with immaculately tended lawns and neatly maintained gravel pathways winding between herbaceous borders, sculptural topiaries, and a beautiful lake.

It’s impossible for the tranquil setting not to calm my racing heart.

“Your Royal Highness?”

I start at the voice in the dark, but it’s just Mateo, one of my security team.

“Just going for a nighttime stroll,” I say the words airily, like it’s perfectly normal to decide to visit the gardens at three a.m.

Luckily, it’s not his job to comment on the idiosyncrasies of royalty. Besides, there’s been a whole lot before me. King Henry VIII established the Church of England so he could divorce his wife, then beheaded two others. Queen Victoria wore black for over forty years and laid out her husband’s clothes every day after his death. King Charles II loved spaniel dogs so much that he enacted laws specifically to protect them. Surely my nighttime wanderings aren’t in quite the same league of weirdness as some of my relatives?

Even though it’s nearly summer, the dew on the grass soaks the bottom of my pajamas as I step onto the lawn.

I skirt around the lake, heading for the northwest corner of the garden, seeking out a treasure I remember from the few times I visited Buckingham Palace as a child.

And there it is, embedded in the scented rose gardens.

A large sculpture, more than twice my height, the white marble almost glowing in the pale moonlight.

The Waterloo Vase.

It was initially presented to Napoleon I, who planned to have it carved with scenes of his triumph. But after Napoleon’s defeat in Waterloo, George IV received it and carved it with scenes of the British victory instead.

It was placed in the gardens because it was found to be too heavy for the place it was originally intended to be displayed—the Waterloo Chamber of Windsor Castle.

The same chamber where Oliver gave me his phone number to message him. That was the first step in a series of events leading to this point, where I’ve just worked out I’m attracted to the prime minister.

I stare at the vase—this large monument to vanity, triumph, and bad engineering—as I sift through the contents of my mind, trying to make sense of it all.

Am I freaking out that I’m attracted to men?

No. Absolutely not. I’ve never actually spent time dwelling on my sexuality because I’ve been attracted to women, so, by default, I’d just assumed I was straight. But the more I think about it, the more my past makes sense. My male friendships when I was a teenager, where I had more intense feelings and spent more time thinking about them than the depth of our friendship had warranted.

My freakout is not because I’m attracted to men. Instead, it’s about the specific man I’m currently attracted to.

If I want to experiment with my sexuality, Oliver Hartwell is the last person I should be doing it with.

Because although I’m not completely up with the intricacies of English constitutional law, I know the separation between the crown and the government is a fundamental part.

If I’m a headline-generating machine now, it is nothing compared to the frenzy that would ensue if Oliver and I ever hook up.

I reach out to touch the vase, and the cool marble underneath my hand anchors me to the spot, reminding me that my musing is probably redundant anyway. I’m like Napoleon, getting way ahead of myself.