Page 67 of The Unlikely Heir

Pick you up at 8.30 in the quadrangle?

See you then.

As the clock ticks down to eight-thirty, I’m faced with the challenge of what to wear. Herbert’s my usual go-to person for dress etiquette, but I’m not sure if even he would know how to dress when you’re meeting the prime minister for a suspiciously vague mission.

In the end, I decide on casual chinos and a pullover sweater.

I’m watching out the window when a black BMW pulls into the quadrangle. I run down the stairs.

Oliver’s handsome head pokes out of the back door of the BMW.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey, yourself.”

Shit. Did that sound slightly flirty? It felt flirty.

I try to keep from blushing as I climb into the backseat next to Oliver. But one glance at Oliver, and it seems like the heat is determined to stay. Oliver’s still in a suit, his stubble giving his dark, brooding looks an almost dangerous edge.

I feel slightly breathless as I drink him in, and I’m fairly sure it’s not from the effort of climbing into the car.

“So, are you going to tell me what this mission is?” I ask.

“Not yet,” he says.

“I never knew you were such a man of mystery.”

He just looks at me, his dark eyes intense on mine. “We’re going to have an evening where the normal rules don’t apply, okay?”

My heart pitter-patters. “The rules don’t apply?”

Oliver shakes his head. “Not tonight.”

We head out the Palace gates. Cameras flash because there’s a wall of paparazzi there as usual, but the tinted windows hide the Prince of Wales and the prime minister sitting in the back seat on a secret mission. Which, you know, could potentially intrigue members of the media.

“You’re not taking me to murder anyone, are you?” I ask as we sweep past St James’s Park. “Because it’s only the sovereign who has criminal immunity, remember.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.”

“Good.” I settle back in the seat. “You’d think it would be an incentive for people not to annoy me, so they don’t end up on my hitlist, but that message doesn’t seem to have filtered through to the British press yet.”

Oliver laughs, and I try to ignore the way his laugh flutters through me, animating every organ.

“Maybe you should use your next speech to inform the people of the UK that you’re keeping a naughty and nice list like Santa Claus.”

“I think it’s a good thing you’re not my speechwriter.”

We grin at each other, and a bolt of lust shoots through me from being on the receiving end of his smile.

Holy shit. Now that I’ve figured out I’m attracted to Oliver, it’s becoming harder and harder to rein in that attraction.

We’ve reached the motorway now and are heading east on the M25.

I stare at Oliver’s profile, taking in the small details of him: his straight back, the way his arm curves to where his hands sit loosely in his lap. His hands are just normal hands, but I find myself staring at them like I’m an aspiring palm reader and his hands contain the answers to the fate of the universe.

Why do just the small details of Oliver’s hand—the light dusting of hair on the back, his slightly knobby knuckles, his neatly clipped fingernails—make my pulse race even faster?

Do I have a newly developed hand fetish? Or maybe it’s just part of my admiration for anything Oliver.