Page 165 of The Unlikely Spare

“The media alone will be a nightmare,” I warn.

“We just survived terrorists, Pierce’s betrayal, my truly terrible camping skills, and a high-speed boat chase. Ithink we can handle a few disapproving courtiers and some photographers.”

My chest almost aches with my love for this man as I think about how he can make me laugh in any situation, how he’s simultaneously the most frustrating and fascinating person I’ve ever met.

“Your camping skills were genuinely appalling,” I say finally.

“I was just going for a creative interpretation of the instructions.” But he’s smiling against my mouth. “Luckily, you love me anyway.”

“God help me, I do.”

We kiss again, slow and deep, the kind of kiss that makes you forget your own name and rewrites your DNA.

“Your brother will come around,” Nicholas says quietly when he withdraws. “Once he sees what the reparations fund accomplishes, once he understands?—”

“Maybe.” I don’t believe it, but I appreciate him trying.

He settles into the space under my arm with a sigh. We lie there in comfortable silence. Then Nicholas shifts against me, that particular restlessness that means his mind is working.

“You know…” Nicholas’s voice is innocent as he traces a finger down my chest. “Now that you’ve critiqued my camping skills, I feel that I need to prove myself. Specifically in the area of pole management.” His hand continues to drift farther south. “I believe I’ve developed some new theories about optimal insertion techniques that require immediate testing.”

“Your commitment to camping education is admirable,” I manage to reply.

“I’m nothing if not thorough in my research,” he agrees.

Then he shows me just how thorough his research can get.

Epilogue

Nicholas

One Year Later

The Natural History Museum’s Hintze Hall soars above us like a cathedral, the whale skeleton presiding over London’s elite with extreme indifference.

It’s not quite the most glamorous museum venue available in London, but I’m not high on the British Museum’s Christmas card list right now. Especially after recently suggesting that perhaps “we’re keeping it safe for you” stops being convincing after two hundred years, and they could pioneer a new trend called reverse archaeology, where things mysteriously appear back in the countries they came from.

The Royal Foundation’s gala is in full swing, and I’m watching ambassadors and CEOs orbit each other like expensively dressed planets when Callum appears at my elbow looking distinctly frazzled.

“Are you all right?” I ask. “You look rather post-apocalyptic.”

“Georgia’s teething,” he replies as if this explains everything. Which, after six months of watching my brother transform from a normal, mostly competent heir into someone who discusses infant bowel movements at state dinners, it probably does.

“Again?” I ask. “Didn’t she just finish teething last month?”

“Apparently, they keep getting new teeth,” Oliver says, joining us with the glazed expression of a man who’s been averaging three hours of sleep per night. “Nobody warns you about that. The books all make it sound like teething happens once and then you’re done. Lies. All lies.”

Callum pulls out his phone, immediately swiping to photos. “Look at her this morning though. She grabbed Oliver’s tie during breakfast and?—”

“Refused to let go through an entire video conference with the Canadian prime minister,” Oliver finishes. “He was very understanding.”

They’re both exhausted, both complaining, and both utterly besotted. It’s sickeningly adorable.

Speaking of things that reduce grown men to cooing idiots, I spot Eoin across the museum hall in a perfectly tailored tuxedo. He’s moving through the crowd with that particular purposefulness that comes from being hyperaware of every exit, every potential threat, every person who might be more than they seem. The formal tuxedo highlights his broad shoulders, his auburn hair gleaming under the museum lights like burnished copper.

He catches my eye and changes direction, cutting through a cluster of diplomats like they’re not even there.

“Your Royal Highnesses,” he greets formally when he reaches us, then ruins it with a grin. “Christ, Callum, you look like death warmed over.”