Page 18 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Eleven

Nicholas

The world’s greatest living structure sprawls ahead of me, the bright blue and greens making the Crown Jewels seem dull by comparison.

After my less-than-enthusiastic welcome to Australia, things have been quite sedate for the past week.

After a few days in Sydney, I flew north to Cairns, where I proceeded to cut ribbons at two community centers, unveil a plaque commemorating something I’ve already forgotten, and listen to the Governor of Queensland explain the economic importance of sugar cane for what felt like several centuries.

I now know more about sucrose production than any human should reasonably need to.

Yesterday’s rainforest excursion was the visual highlight but physical lowlight—hiking through oppressive humidity while wearing a shirt that quickly transformed me from “crisp royal” to “participated in a wet T-shirt contest.” A large bird relieved itself perilously close to my shoulder, which the Australian press would have undoubtedly interpreted as some profound republican statement had Officer Blake not pulled me aside just in time.

Now I’ve got a trip to the Great Barrier Reef to round off the Cairns leg of the trip before I head to the desert in the center of Australia tomorrow.

“The captain has advised me that we’ll be mooring in five minutes, sir, if you want to come and get yourself sorted for the snorkeling excursion.” I don’t need to look to recognize O’Connell’s voice.

But I do turn around so I can take him in. He’s in a dark shirt that strains across his shoulders, the wind plastering the fabric against his torso like it’s trying to reveal the topography of every muscle.

His gaze on me is intense like usual.

Because this is the thing about Officer O’Connell. He’s always watching. He doesn’t miss anything.

Which is something that profoundly irritates me.

And yet.

Every time I enter a room, my eyes automatically find him, like I’ve swallowed some bizarre compass that points unerringly toward the most infuriating Irishman in the hemisphere.

And I find myself monitoring his movements, along with the minuscule shifts in his expression, noting how his eyes darken when he’s annoyed, how his jaw tightens when I push too far, how his accent thickens when he’s trying to maintain composure.

I know the cadence of his footsteps, can identify his silhouette in a crowded room before my mind has even registered why my pulse has quickened.

“Thank you, Officer O’Connell,” I say formally now. Then, because for some reason I want to extend the encounter between us, I ask a question. “What do you think of the reef?”

O’Connell meets my gaze.

“It’s beautiful,” he says.

The words are benign, easy words that mean nothing. I want to shake him, to demand he give me something real, a glimpse of whatever thoughts are churning behind those steel-gray eyes.

“It’s hard to believe it’s dying,” I say. “Nearly thirty percent of the coral already gone. Another thirty severely bleached.”

He moves beside me at the railing.

“You’ve done your research.”

I shrug. “Callum put together comprehensive briefing materials. Contrary to popular belief, I occasionally read things that aren’t nightclub VIP lists or the racing form.”

I don’t know why I want this man to see me as more than just a playboy prince. I don’t understand why his particular judgment cuts deeper than any tabloid headline, why I find myself performing for an audience of one who refuses to applaud.

O’Connell doesn’t respond immediately. When I glance sideways, he’s studying the horizon, his profile strong against the bright sky. The wind has slightly mussed his usually impeccable hair, making him look marginally more human.

“Sometimes it’s all so bloody overwhelming,” I say quietly, and these are words I didn’t plan to let escape, but now I’ve started, I have to continue. “The reef, deforestation, rising temperatures, indigenous rights… How can I even begin to address any of it?”

My heart pounds as I wait for his reply. The silence stretches between us, and my fingers find my signet ring, twisting it in circles.

Why am I saying this to O’Connell of all people?

Perhaps it’s because he’s the only person around who isn’t attempting to either impress or photograph me.

Or perhaps because, despite everything, I suspect he might actually give an honest answer.

He’s quiet for so long that I think he might not respond at all.

“You start where you are,” he finally says, voice low enough that I can only just hear it over the wind and engines. “With whatever piece is in front of you. You can’t fix everything, but that doesn’t mean you fix nothing.”

I wanted O’Connell’s opinion of me to improve, but now I’m concerned I’ve revealed too much.

“Very philosophical for a man who tackles people for a living,” I say, but there’s no real bite in it.

One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “I contain multitudes.”

I can’t help the surprised laugh that escapes me. “Did you just quote Walt Whitman, O’Connell?”

He shrugs. “Even schools in the Belfast slums teach literature.”

Something in his tone makes me look at him sharply.

Did he mention Belfast deliberately? A reminder of the vast gulf between our starting points in life?

Is that where part of his judgment and dislike comes from?

I know the Crown’s history with Ireland reads less like diplomacy and more like a masterclass in how to make enemies for eight hundred years.

We managed to bungle everything from language to land rights with spectacular consistency.

But his dislike for me somehow feels more personal than historical. Which makes me think he’s still judging me for that incident with my mother.

The boat’s engines shift from their steady thrum to a lower pitch. The sudden deceleration makes me grip the railing tighter.

“I believe we’re approaching the snorkeling site, sir,” O’Connell says. “You should get ready.”

I nod, our brief moment of connection already dissolving like salt in the tropical sea.

“Lead the way, O’Connell.”

I follow him through the boat’s main cabin, where James is conferring with the reef guide, no doubt ensuring that even the fish have been briefed on proper royal protocol.

I’m already in my bathing suit, so preparing for the snorkeling is an easy task of taking off my shirt and putting on a wetsuit when I reach the back deck.

Unfortunately, it proves challenging to maintain the appropriate royal dignity while struggling into what is essentially a full-body compression sock. It appears whoever designed wetsuits fundamentally misunderstood human anatomy.

“Do you require assistance, sir?” Officer Singh asks as I attempt to pull the suit up over my hips.

“No, thank you,” I manage through gritted teeth. “I’m determined to win this battle of wills with neoprene.”

There’s a muffled snort from the corner where O’Connell is pulling on his own wetsuit with irritating efficiency. He’s already got his halfway on, the top portion folded down to his waist, exposing abs you could grate cheese on.

I determinedly look away.

The reef guide approaches us with a broad smile. “Right then! We’ve anchored at Parrotfish Cove, one of our best snorkeling spots. Clear visibility today, about twenty meters. We should see plenty of coral formations, reef fish, and if we’re lucky, maybe a sea turtle.”

“No sharks?” I ask.

“Oh, we might see a reef shark or two,” he says cheerfully. “Nothing to worry about. They’re like underwater puppies.”

“Underwater puppies with rather more rows of teeth than strictly necessary,” I mutter. “I must have missed that particular breed at Crufts.”

O’Connell appears at my side, handing me a mask and snorkel.

Something about seeing him so perfectly composed, professional, and handsome spikes my irritation.

I take the mask from him and examine it with exaggerated scrutiny. “Checked for assassin jellyfish, have you, O’Connell? Is aquatic predator management in the Royal Protection Handbook?”

“It’s chapter twelve. Right after Dealing with Difficult Royals and before Thirty-Seven Ways Princes Test Their Security Detail’s Patience ,” he deadpans.

I can’t help the surprised laugh that escapes me. Damn it. I turn my attention to adjusting the mask on my face.

“The strap’s twisted.” O’Connell reaches toward my face without warning. His fingers brush against my hair as he adjusts the silicone band, his fingertips surprisingly gentle.

He’s standing close enough that I can see the tiny flecks of silver in his gray eyes. Something warm and unexpected unfurls in my stomach.

Christ. That’s precisely what I don’t need.

Especially when I’m in a neoprene wetsuit with a full press contingent watching from the deck above.

I swallow hard and force a smirk as I take a deliberate step backward.

“If you wanted to touch my hair, O’Connell, you might have simply asked.”

His hands drop to his sides, his expression unreadable. “Just doing my job.”

The reef guide claps his hands, drawing everyone’s attention. “Royal party in the water first, then the rest of you lot. Remember, no touching the coral, keep a safe distance from all marine life, and follow your guides’ instructions at all times.”

I shuffle to the edge of the platform and launch myself off into the warm water.

My face dips below the surface, and the world transforms.

Beneath me, the coral reef forms a living carpet, tiny fish hovering above it like scattered jewels.

It’s like entering another realm entirely. Here, I’m just another creature floating above an underwater city that has existed for millennia before my ancestors thought to stick crowns on their heads and declare themselves divinely appointed.

When I kick downward, purple and yellow fish scatter like confetti. I’m so entranced by a vibrant blue starfish that I almost forget O’Connell until his hand touches my arm, a pressure that says look without words.