Page 137 of The Unlikely Spare

Chapter Thirty-Five

Nicholas

“So, what destination are we aiming for now?” I ask Eoin.

We’ve finished our phone call with Callum and Oliver. My hands shake slightly as I pocket the burner phone. But it’s not from fear.

It’s anticipation.

The look on Callum’s face during that call. Along with how Oliver was practically vibrating with revolutionary fervor once he understood what we were proposing. Taking fortunes built on slavery, systematic starvation, and exploitation and actually doing something useful with them.

It’s mad. Absolutely barking mad.

I should be paralyzed with fear.

My whole life has been about minimizing risk. Calculated moves where one wrong step means tabloid headlines and diplomatic incidents.

But here I am, adrenaline singing through my veins like expensive champagne, and I’ve never felt more alive. It appears the restlessness that has always swirled inside me has finally found an outlet.

And Eoin… God. He’s a danger of an entirely different sort.

I can’t stop myself from constantly wanting to touch him. I’m trying to keep my sardonic humor flowing, trying to insert that barrier between us that has protected me so well in the past.

Unfortunately, Eoin has proven repeatedly that he can see through it.

Eoin frowns as he looks at his watch. “We’ve got only a few hours until dark. I don’t want to continue driving just in case MI5 is working with the New Zealand police to set up roadblocks. And we can’t risk a motel.”

I examine the map app on my phone.

“That national park with all the volcanoes is only thirty minutes away. Tongariro. I’m sure this time of year it’ll be absolutely heaving with tourists.”

Eoin’s eyes cut to the rearview mirror, and I follow his gaze to the jumble of camping equipment. “Pitch a tent among other tourists, cook on a camp stove like every other budget traveler…”

“Blending in with the common folk,” I drawl, but my mind’s already racing ahead. “When everyone’s got a terrible accent and questionable hygiene, we’ll fit right in.”

Eoin’s gaze lingers on me. “If we’re going to hide in plain sight, we need to get you slightly more camouflaged.”

I agreed with Eoin’s idea in the pharmacy, but I hadn’t thought the whole thing through, as it becomes apparent when we’ve barricaded ourselves in a dingy public lavatory block. Because it turns out that it’s very hard to dye your own hair.

I try to apply the peroxide myself because I don’t know if I can handle Eoin’s hands in my hair right now.

But unsurprisingly, I make an absolute hash of it, missing entire sections at the back, leaving me looking like a partially bleached zebra.

And that’s not a look that is optimized for blending in.

“Let me fix it,” Eoin says quietly.

“All right.”

And now I have no choice but to submit to the torture of his fingers working through my hair, of his thumbs brushing the nape of my neck in ways that make my pulse stutter.

His touch is reverent, and I close my eyes, trying to keep the emotions at bay.

I imagine myself as a knight, sword cutting through sentiments, slaying emotions like they are dragons. Take that, longing. Take that, foolish tenderness.

The best way to vanquish emotion is with humor.

“I’m going to look like the love child of someone’s gap year mistake and a failed boy band member,” I say.