Page 70 of The Unlikely Heir

“How did you find out who he was?” I ask.

Oliver smirks at me. “I’m the prime minister. There’s got to be some perks, right?”

I settle back in my seat as the car starts. My limbs still feel slightly shaky. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

Oliver shrugs. “We didn’t do anything wrong. And he might Tweet about it, but who in the world is going to believe him?”

I blow out a breath, ruffling my hair. “No one,” I admit.

Oliver’s watching me closely. “I wanted you to see that the people who abuse you online are just people. Sad people, often, because they need to get their social contact from harassing people they don’t know. Would you pay someone like Trevor much attention if he was heckling you in the street?”

“No. I guess I wouldn’t.”

“I sometimes don’t think the public sees us as real,” Oliver says. “They don’t realize famous people are real people with real emotions. And they say things they would never, ever say to your face.” He’s still staring at me intently like he’s trying to will the words into my brain.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

Oliver did this for me. Oliver Hartwell, the most important man in Britain, took time from his day to try to make me feel better.

“You’re welcome. And I love how you decided to bond with the guy who’s been tormenting you.”

My face heats, but I shrug my shoulders. “He’s still a person, you know?”

Oliver tilts his head, regarding me for a long moment. “You’re one of a kind, Callum,” he says finally.

“I’ve been told that a lot in my life, actually,” I say jokingly. But never with the admiration that’s in Oliver’s voice, if I’m honest.

There’s silence in the car, and it feels like it’s weighted with so much as we stare at each other.

Oliver swallows hard, ripping his gaze away from mine to look out the window.

“This is close to where I grew up,” he says.

“Really?”

“Yes. The council estate where I lived is only a few streets away.”

“Can you show me?” I ask. There’s a tinge of pleading in my voice. I want to know everything about Oliver. I want to see the places that helped shape him into the man he is today.

A frown springs up on his face. “All right.”

Oliver leans forward to give instructions to the driver, and we swing around in the opposite direction.

“That’s the council estate where I grew up,” he says a minute later.

I stare out the window. There’s not much to see in the dim light, just a tall ugly concrete building with rows of uniform windows. The glow from a few scattered streetlamps throws a patchwork of shadows on its tired façade.

Next, we’re turning the corner and driving past what looks like a standard elementary school with high fences around an empty playground.

“And that was my old school,” Oliver says. “I gave a speech there a few years ago, and nothing had really changed. Some of the teachers were even the same.”

“Did your teachers remember you?” I ask.

He snorts. “I was the kid who questioned everything they said and got into more than my fair share of scrapes, so yes, they definitely remembered me.”

The school ground gives way to a park with a small thickening of trees behind the soccer pitch.

“I cut across this park every day to get home,” Oliver tells me. “When I was in primary school, our teacher organized everyone in our class to plant a tree in the woods on an environmental day. Somehow, I ended up getting the worst seedling of the bunch, this tiny oak tree that was wilting with only one leaf left.” He laughs softly. “Most of the class didn’t even go back to check on their tree after they planted it, but I was so bloody determined my tree was going to live. I used to water it every day on the way home.”