Page 14 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

He blinks. “Is there something you need?”

“Just sharing knowledge, O’Connell. Cultural exchange. Although I anticipate it’s going to be remarkably one-sided.” I take another sip of whisky. “Here’s another fascinating tidbit: in 1932, the Australian military fought a war against emus. And lost.”

His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes flick briefly to my glass.

I suppose it’s understandable that he’s checking for sobriety when I’m trotting out facts like this.

“The military lost to birds?”

Have I piqued his interest, or is he simply humoring me? And why do I feel a slight flutter in my pulse when those gray eyes focus on me with something other than their usual disapproval?

“Indeed. The emus employed superior tactical maneuvers, apparently. Terribly nimble.” I swirl the whisky in my glass. “I’ve been wondering if I should incorporate this historical footnote when addressing the Australian Defense Force at the naval base in Darwin. What are your thoughts?”

O’Connell’s gaze shifts just past my shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll make the appropriate judgment when the time comes.”

Irritation flashes inside me.

“You’re no fun at all, are you? Do they train that out of you in protection officer school, or is it a natural deficiency?”

“Is there anything else you require?” His voice could freeze the whisky in my glass.

“Tell me, O’Connell, what do you do when you’re not shadowing royals? Hobbies? Interests? Is there a significant other pining for your return?”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “I’m on duty, sir.”

“Surely even you must take your superhero cape off occasionally. What then? Cricket? Stamp collecting? Interpretive dance?”

Emma chooses that moment to reappear beside us, her smile brightening when she turns to O’Connell. She’s practically batting her eyelashes in Morse code. SOS: save me from my boring shift with your brooding Irish charm.

For some reason, it causes my irritation to spike even higher.

“Can I get you anything, Officer?” she asks.

“No, thank?—”

“He’ll have water,” I interrupt. “Maintaining optimal hydration is crucial for security personnel. Isn’t that right, O’Connell?”

“Water would be fine, thank you,” he says to Emma, his tone neutral.

When she leaves, I lean forward. “I believe our flight attendant finds you rather appealing, O’Connell. Perhaps you should pursue that. Might help you unwind a bit.”

His posture becomes, if possible, even more rigid. “Is there something specific you need from me?”

“Just making conversation. Twenty-four hours is a long time to maintain that stoic silence you’re so fond of.”

“I’m here to ensure your safety. Not to entertain you.”

I smile, all teeth. “At least sit down. Your looming is becoming oppressive, and frankly, it’s giving me a crick in my neck.”

O’Connell glances toward Officer Singh, then back at me. With visible reluctance, he lowers himself into the seat opposite mine.

“So,” I continue, “you’ve never been to Australia, I take it?”

“No, sir.” His words come out clipped.

“Use more than two syllables, O’Connell. I dare you.”

His eyes meet mine, gray and cold. “No, I have not previously visited the continent of Australia, Your Royal Highness. Is that sufficient?”

I laugh despite myself. “Much better. Was that so difficult?”

Emma returns with a glass of water for O’Connell, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary as she places it before him. “Anything else I can get for you, Officer?”

“No, thank you,” he replies, barely glancing at her.

When she walks away, I raise an eyebrow. “Heartless, O’Connell. Absolutely heartless.”

“Is this conversation serving a purpose?” The ice in his tone could sink the Titanic all over again.

“Must everything serve a purpose? Can’t we simply chat like civilized people crossing an ocean together?”

“We’re not crossing an ocean together. You’re crossing an ocean. I’m working.”

I drain my whisky glass. “God, you’re exhausting. Do you practice being this tedious, or does it come naturally?”

The flicker in his eyes is brief but unmistakable—a flash of anger quickly suppressed. “If there’s nothing else, I should resume my duties.”

Why do I keep doing this? This needling, trying to provoke him? I’ve never treated any other security officer this way. Blake, Singh, and even the overeager Davis all receive basic courtesy from me, sometimes even genuine warmth.

But with O’Connell, I can’t seem to stop myself from trying to crack his infuriating composure.

Is it because I lost my cool with him and he saw it? Is it because of my frustration over the fact that my request to remove him from my team wasn’t listened to?

He’s a living, breathing reminder that I have no control over my own life.

Or is it something more basic? He obviously doesn’t like me, and this is my attempt to get petty revenge on him for that fact.

“Fine. Dismissed, or whatever the proper term is.” I wave him away. “Go stand against a wall and look menacing. You excel at that, at least.”

He rises without another word, moving back to his previous position.

I turn back to the window to avoid watching him. The sun is setting now, painting the clouds below us in shades of pink and gold. When we land in Sydney, this strange, suspended animation will end. There will be dignitaries to charm, hands to shake, ribbons to cut.

I pull up Callum’s briefing notes again, forcing myself to focus on the details of our first day’s engagements—visiting a nature reserve before a formal welcome at Government House.

I need to be prepared, to remember names and faces and key talking points.

I don’t want to disappoint Grandmother, don’t want to let Callum down when he’s entrusted me with shoring up support for the monarchy in a nation that’s apparently growing increasingly enthusiastic about throwing off the shackles of my family’s symbolic rule.

I can’t help my gaze drifting over to O’Connell, who’s talking to Singh now. His broad back faces me, his posture alert even after hours of travel.

Bloody hell.

Why the devil can’t I stop looking at him?

It must be because there’s not much else to look at on this plane besides him.

And despite his prickly personality, I can’t deny he’s not the most unpleasant thing to look at.

Those broad shoulders that taper to a lean waist. His body is functional in a way that speaks of someone who actually uses his physical power, not just displays it at exclusive gym clubs or for Instagram followers.

Even his perpetual frown somehow enhances rather than diminishes his appeal. It’s like he’s wandered out of some moody Irish literature and into my security detail.

Eoin O’Connell continues to talk to Officer Singh, and something stirs in my stomach as I watch him.

Is it envy? Envy for the simplicity of his purpose in life.

Identify threats. Neutralize risks. Protect the principal.

How refreshingly straightforward that must be.

Rather different from my existence, the complexities of being the spare heir, forever caught between prominence and irrelevance.

I drain my whisky and close my eyes. We have ten hours until we land in Sydney. Ten more hours of limbo before I step into the spotlight, ready or not.

I’ve never been afraid of flying. But as I drift toward uneasy sleep, I can’t shake the sensation that I’m falling, endlessly, with nothing solid to break my descent.