Page 82 of The Unlikely Spare

“Suite is secure.”

I cross to the bar and pour myself a measure of whisky. The amber liquid catches the light as I swirl it, gathering courage.

“Would you like one?” I gesture with the crystal decanter.

“I’m on duty, sir.” His voice is controlled, but I catch the tightening of his jaw.

“Sir,” I repeat, setting my glass down harder than necessary. “After what happened yesterday, we’re back to ‘sir?’”

He doesn’t respond, just stands there looking impossibly stoic. Only the muscle jumping in his jaw betrays him.

“So, are we pretending it never happened?” I can’t quite prevent the edge creeping into my voice. “I just want to makesure I get it correct, since my royal training didn’t quite cover the protocol for when one’s protection officer kisses one senseless during an attempted kidnapping.”

His eyes snap to mine.

“I need to focus on my job. Surely you understand that?” His voice is low.

“Oh yes, I’m fully supportive of you focusing on keeping me alive. One might say I even have a vested interest in that part of your job description.”

And there it is. A hint of a smile.

Somehow, that disarms me even more than his kiss did.

“Nicholas,” he says, rolling my name in his mouth so it comes out coated in his Irish accent.

Not Your Royal Highness. Not Prince Nicholas. Not sir.

JustNicholas.

“Eoin.” I return the favor, using his first name as an intimate weapon, watching how it lands between us like a gauntlet thrown in challenge.

Sure enough, his pupils dilate.

He comes forward, slow and deliberate. The space between us shrinks until I can see the faint stubble along his jaw, count the flecks of silver in his eyes.

He reaches to touch the bruise on my forehead. I go completely still underneath his gentle fingers.

“That’s a nasty bruise,” he says.

I struggle to breathe.

“Yes, well, even royal skin has its limits when it comes to headbutting terrorists.” I’m aiming for my usual sardonic tone but fail spectacularly.

“I’m sure you’re going to lecture me again about how incredibly reckless it was to use my forehead as a battering ram, how I should have followed protocol and ducked behind you likea good little prince instead of actually doing something useful,” I say as he drops his hand away.

His expression darkens. “You were reckless.”

I look away from the intensity in his eyes. I can’t put into words how it felt to be more than a passive participant in my own protection.

Despite my fear, there was something exhilarating about that moment. It made me feel alive.

I’m expected to be the porcelain prince, carefully packaged and preserved, never chipped, never broken. Just smiling and waving from inside my protective bubble while others take the risks.

But when that attacker came at me, instinct took over. I wasn’t thinking about protocol or propriety or what the papers would say in the morning edition. For those few seconds, I was simply a man fighting back. Not a symbol or a spare part or a placeholder, but someone who could actually affect the outcome of events rather than simply being affected by them.

But instead of saying that, my brain apparently has another idea of confessing something I’ve never said aloud.

“Well, I’ve had a lifetime of being told I’m exactly like my father, so maybe some of his recklessness was bound to surface eventually. Although his rebellions tended more toward nightclub indiscretions and inappropriate dalliances with fashion models.”