Page 49 of The Unlikely Spare

And in my line of work, blurred lines get people killed.

Chapter Thirteen

Nicholas

Of all the things I need on this royal tour, a ridiculous obsession with one of my protection officers is most certainly not on the approved itinerary. And it’s absolutely not something I should be squandering valuable mental energy on when I’m supposed to be winning over Australians who are beginning to regard the monarchy about as relevant as a telegram service.

But for some inexplicable reason, I can’t seem to dislodge Officer Eoin O’Connell from my mind.

I’ve taken to mentally tracking his movements like some sort of deranged royal ornithologist. I can almost hear David Attenborough’s voice over. “And here we observe the protection officer in his natural habitat, scowling magnificently while checking for threats.”

Those gray eyes that watch me so intensely, making me feel stripped bare in a way no tabloid exposé ever has. It’s like he can see through every layer of royal polish to the messy, uncertain person beneath.

I can’t decide if that terrifies or thrills me.

But I do know that it makes me want to know him the same way. His sharing about his brother has only left me craving more.

I find myself having to hold back questions now as we arrive back at the hotel. The lift doors glide open onto the hotel’s penthouse floor, and I stride down the corridor toward my suite, O’Connell my silent shadow. Two other security officers flank the door to my suite, nodding respectfully as we approach.

“All clear, sir,” Officer Singh reports, stepping aside to let me pass.

I flick a glance back at O’Connell, who is taking his position at the door.

Inside, the suite is blessedly cool. I loosen my tie as I cross to the panoramic windows overlooking Alice Springs. The town sprawls beneath us like a collection of toy buildings scattered across the vast red landscape.

My phone buzzes with a message from James.

Please call Prince Callum on the secure line when convenient.

Perfect timing. I need a distraction from whatever madness has overtaken my brain.

I collapse onto a sofa. The secure line is a sad necessity of royal life, but after tabloid journalists demonstrated they could hack everything from the Queen’s private messages to my uncle’s therapy sessions, the palace now treats phone security like a military installation.

I dial, and after a series of clicks and electronic whirs, Callum’s face appears on the screen.

“Nicholas!” My half-brother looks irritatingly alert for someone taking a call at seven-thirty in the morning, London time. “How’s the Land Down Under treating you?”

“Oh, you know. It’s the usual royal tour, cutting ribbons, having things thrown at me by protesters, pretending to understand the intricacies of sugar cane production.” I run ahand through my hair. “And I just returned from a camel-decorating competition, so I can now add ‘dromedary aesthetics expert’ to my royal CV.”

“I saw the footage of you at the Great Barrier Reef. You’re doing great,” Callum says. “Thank you again for stepping in.”

“Well, standing in for you is literally my job description. Besides, I’m getting a fantastic tan.”

“Lucky you. The weather here is atrocious. Grandmother insists it’s ‘bracing’ rather than ‘miserable,’ but I’ve yet to see the distinction.”

I laugh as Callum shifts over to reveal his husband, Prince Consort Oliver Hartwell, beside him, immaculately dressed in a charcoal suit.

“Nicholas,” Oliver greets me with a nod.

“Hello, Oliver.”

“I hear you’re making quite the impression in Australia,” Oliver says.

“Well, if by ‘impression’ you mean ‘smiling and waving without causing an international incident,’ then yes, it’s going swimmingly.” I shift, trying to find a comfortable position. “How are things at your end? How is your surrogate doing?” I ask.

“She’s great,” Callum says. “Ten weeks now. The scans all look perfect.”

“Do you know yet if I’m getting a niece or nephew?” I ask.