Page 8 of The Unlikely Heir

I can almost hear the anticipatory throb in his question.

I let out a sigh as I reply.

It was interrupted, which was probably a blessing as it was crashing and burning more spectacularly than the Hindenburg.

I’ve thrown that little metaphor in there for Cliff’s sake because a few weeks ago, I gushed to him about a documentary on hydrogen airships I’d just watched and he’d appeared mildly interested.

My phone vibrates with Scott’s reply.

What did you do?

I resent the assumption that it was my fault.

I know you, Callum.

Okay, so it was kind of my fault. I did spill a glass of red wine on her.

So, no chance of seeing her again then?

It ended abruptly, so there wasn’t time to make plans.

Why did it end abruptly?

Because a Scotland Yard agent turned up to tell me I’m now the heir to the British throne, and I needed to be escorted to Buckingham Palace to see the queen.

Very funny. She snuck out the restroom window, didn’t she?

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised no one believes me on this one.

A woman climbing through the window to escape a date with me only happened once. I really appreciate how you continuously bring it up though.

Before a reply comes back from Scott, I’m distracted from my phone by Spencer having a tense conversation.

He finishes his phone call and glances at me, the creases in his forehead so deep they should be classified as crevasses.

“The news of the arrests just broke. The media circus has already begun.” His mouth straightens into a line. “We need to get you to the queen as soon as possible.”

The expression on his face has me taking a large gulp. “Okay.”

* * *

It’s raining when we land in London. I try not to take it as a premonition because it always rains in London. My memories of my childhood visits here before my father died are full of that steady, persistent rain and dull, leaden skies.

I’m ushered from the plane straight into a black Rolls Royce parked on the tarmac. I’d thought this kind of thing only happens in movies, but nevertheless, I allow myself and my tattered bag to be smuggled into the back seat along with Spencer and another protection agent.

I stare out the tinted windows as we whiz along the rain-soaked streets.

I’m now the Prince of Wales, heir to the British throne.

I try to get that thought to stick in my head, but it’s like one of those Post-it Notes that has lost its stickiness and is now just floating around on the jet stream of my mind, refusing to take root.

I try another angle.

When my grandmother passes away, I will become king. The few people on the streets right now—the woman wrestling with an umbrella, the man sprinting for the bus stop—will one day be my subjects. When they sing “God save the King,” they will be referring to me.

Okay, that thought is so ludicrous that I laugh. I abruptly abort my laugh when Spencer and the other agent turn to stare at me.

But in the place of my borderline hysteria, a question surfaces.