Page 10 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Six

Nicholas

Of all the duties required in royal life, judging a gingerbread house competition at St. Margaret’s Community Center is one that falls into the category of enjoyable.

“The architectural vision is quite…avant-garde,” I say diplomatically, circling what can only be described as the Leaning Tower of Gingerbread.

The creator is a fierce-looking grandmother with biceps that suggest she could bench-press me should my critique displease her.

However, she beams with pride at my words.

This is my life. Judging biscuit-based structures while smartphone cameras document every reaction, ready to declare me either a people’s prince or an out-of-touch aristocrat based on my assessment of frosting techniques.

Unfortunately, it’s not just the public that judges my every move.

After I carefully sample a fragment of gingerbread wall that’s been offered to me on a Christmas-themed napkin and make an exaggerated “mmm” that causes a ripple of delighted giggles from the children gathered around, I can’t help but glance at my newest protection officer.

He’s standing at the edge of the room with his arms crossed, his granite face unchanged as though he’s witnessing a tax audit rather than a festive community event.

He meets my eyes, and his expression darkens.

It’s fair to say that things haven’t been going swimmingly with my newest protection officer over the past few weeks.

Last week, after I’d charmed my way through an excruciating poetry reading at the cultural festival, making the amateur poet believe I’d found his seventeen-stanza ode to daffodils thoroughly moving, the best Officer O’Connell offered me was a flat stare.

Yesterday, I managed to turn a potential PR disaster with the children’s choir, who’d forgotten half the words to the national anthem, into an endearing moment by joining in with exaggerated patriotic fervor.

Officer Singh had been on duty as well, and he’d also gotten into the spirit, singing “God Save the Queen” in a surprisingly robust baritone.

But Officer O’Connell had just stood there with a scowl.

It’s like living with a human-shaped disapproval machine programmed specifically to find fault with everything I do.

I’d unburdened myself to Callum while visiting him at Clarence House last week. He’d sympathized, but had offered his typical American optimism.

“Maybe things will improve as you get to know each other.”

“And maybe Grandmother will announce she’s taking up competitive skateboarding in her spare time,” I’d replied.

I hated that O’Connell had been fooled by my mother’s manipulation, had seen me at a moment of vulnerability with my shields down. I hated how he now seems to watch everything I do with a sneer.

He is such a judgmental prick.

In desperation, I’d even approached Rick Cavendish, quietly asking if Officer O’Connell could be reassigned due to a personality clash. Only to discover that O’Connell had been specifically assigned to me following a security review.

“Unfortunately, security personnel assignments are not a buffet, Your Royal Highness,” Rick said. “Unless you have specific concerns about Officer O’Connell’s job performance, he’s here to stay until RaSP decides otherwise.”

It was delightful to discover that my security team is just another aspect of my life that I don’t control.

I soon discover that another uncontrollable situation is arising because I made the innocent mistake of accepting one bite of gingerbread.

I’m suddenly at the center of what can only be described as the Great British Cake Offensive.

A small girl with pigtails thrusts a frosting-covered roof tile toward my mouth while a teenage boy extends a gingerbread chimney with such enthusiasm I fear it might go up my nose.

My royal training never covered graceful exits from death-by-dessert scenarios.

My eyes slide to Officer O’Connell, who is still standing there with his arms folded across his chest, radiating the festive cheer of Scrooge’s pre-ghost phase, but with better shoulders.

It may be time for a spot of fun.

“Officer O’Connell, I believe your professional assessment is required,” I call across the room.

His eyes narrow. “Sir?”

“These young bakers want me to sample their gingerbread.” I gesture to the children surrounding me. “As my dedicated protection officer, surely you should verify everything is safe for my consumption.”

His eyes narrow further as he moves toward me with the kind of controlled power that makes my pulse do something irritating.

I ignore it.

“I don’t believe food testing falls under my job description,” he says when he reaches me.

“Nonsense. Think of it as a thorough threat assessment.”

His expression remains impassive.

“And who knows, it might even sweeten your disposition,” I say with a smile.

“My disposition is perfectly adequate,” he replies, but the children are staring at him now with expectant faces.

“Do you want to taste my gingerbread palace?” A little girl with glasses thrusts a plate toward him. “I made the drawbridge myself.”

O’Connell looks from the child to me, then back again.

“Well, I suppose a thorough security inspection is warranted,” O’Connell says through gritted teeth.

Despite his gruffness, he’s gentle when he takes the plate off her. He takes a small bite.

“And?” I prompt, enjoying his discomfort far more than is quite appropriate.

“It’s secure,” he says flatly, but then his expression softens as he addresses the girl, “and quite delicious.”

She beams at him, and I catch a flash of something almost human in his expression.

“Are you really a royal bodyguard?” a small boy asks.

“I am,” O’Connell confirms stiffly.

“So, you would die for Prince Nicholas?”

O’Connell looks momentarily blindsided. The innocent question hits me like a sucker punch to the stomach.

How have I not thought about this reality? Officer O’Connell, like all of my protection officers, is literally paid to value my life above his own.

“Billy!” the boy’s mother exclaims.

“It’s quite all right,” I intervene smoothly. “Officer O’Connell would absolutely die for me. Though, at present, he’s merely been required to try some cake, which seems the less extreme option, wouldn’t you agree?”

A little girl with red curls thrusts her creation toward O’Connell. “I made this part look like a prince,” she announces proudly, pointing to what appears to be a vaguely humanoid lump of icing.

O’Connell crouches down to her level. “That’s very impressive craftsmanship.”

“The resemblance is uncanny,” I add. “She’s captured my royal bearing quite perfectly.”

“I think the icing prince looks more dignified,” O’Connell says as he straightens.

I blink at him. Heavens above. Alert the media. Breaking news: stone-faced protection officer reveals hint of personality.

“Was that a joke?” I ask.

“Not at all,” he replies, deadpan. “Simply a security assessment. The icing figure appears less likely to find itself in compromising situations.”

“Careful, Officer O’Connell,” I say. “I do believe I detected the faintest hint of humor there. We shouldn’t want word to get back to the Scowling Protection Officer Association. They might revoke your membership.”

“I believe my membership is secure, sir,” he says dryly.

But I’m sure there was a slight hitch on one side of his mouth before he wrestled it back into submission.

A weird feeling swells inside me, one I can’t quite name. What would it take to make Officer O’Connell smile properly?

Why do I even care?

I turn my attention back to the children, accepting another piece of gingerbread with appropriate gratitude.

But my good mood brought on by excess sugar fades quickly when Mrs. Pemberton, the community center director, materializes at my elbow.

“How’s the Queen feeling, Prince Nicholas? Is she on the mend?”

My grandmother has been plagued with a bad winter cold that went to her chest, forcing her to cancel a series of public engagements for the first time in years.

It’s something that would be a mere inconvenience for most ninety-year-olds, but becomes front-page news when you happen to be the monarch.

“Her Majesty is recovering splendidly, thank you for asking,” I reply.

“Though I’m told she’s driving her doctors to distraction by insisting on reviewing state papers between naps.

” Mrs. Pemberton smiles, and I continue, “She asked me to personally apologize to the gingerbread architects of St. Margaret’s for her absence today.

I’m afraid my judging skills are a poor substitute for her expertise in structural icing techniques. ”

Mrs. Pemberton makes the right noises about how wonderful it is that I could step in, but my mind is now dwelling on Grandmother’s fragile health and the fact that she won’t be around forever.

Grandmother has always been a force of nature. The thought of her actually being vulnerable feels like watching Big Ben tilt sideways.

I’ve just awarded the Most Creative Use of Candy Canes prize to a gingerbread recreation of the London Eye that almost certainly had more parental involvement than child input when my phone vibrates in my pocket.

It’s from my private secretary, James.

Your Royal Highness, your presence is requested at Buckingham Palace immediately. The Lord Chamberlain wishes to speak with you personally.

My stomach clenches.

The Lord Chamberlain requesting an unscheduled meeting is the royal equivalent of being called to the headmaster’s office. It’s never for good news or casual conversation.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, but I’m afraid duty calls,” I announce to Mrs. Pemberton, summoning a regretful smile. “Please convey my sincere apologies to anyone I haven’t had a chance to speak with yet.”

As I make my way toward the exit, I catch O’Connell already speaking into his wrist mic, no doubt arranging for the car to be brought around.

Whatever this meeting might be about, I doubt it involves gingerbread.