Page 21 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

“Crowd’s getting bigger,” Blake observes beside me as we scan the perimeter. “At least three hundred more than expected, according to local police.”

“Makes life more complicated,” I reply, eyes never stopping as I scan each face, each movement.

Nicholas is positioned at the judges’ area, looking fresh as a feckin’ daisy in his crisp shirt, as if forty-degree temperatures are a mere inconvenience.

The first decorated camel lumbers into the arena, led by a beaming teenage girl. It’s adorned with tinsel, fairy lights, and what appears to be a miniature sleigh attached to its hump.

Nicholas circles the camel with a contemplative expression. “Magnificent tinsel work,” he says. “The light-to-bauble ratio shows exceptional restraint. Very tasteful.”

I continue scanning the crowd, marking each exit point, each potential vulnerability. The protesters from outside the hotel don’t seem to be present.

But it only takes one nutter to turn a festive event into something far more sinister.

The parade continues with four more elaborately decorated camels, and Nicholas performs his role perfectly.

When a particularly grumpy camel refuses to stand still for judging, Nicholas quips, “I sympathize entirely. I, too, get rather testy when forced to wear tinsel before noon.”

“Potential concern, two o’clock,” Blake murmurs to me. “Man with the camera bag.”

I follow her gaze, observing the subject. Takes me a second, then I ease up. “Press. I recognize him from yesterday’s briefing.”

She nods, but neither of us drops our vigilance.

After the judging concludes, Nicholas announces the winner is a massive beast named Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, adorned with pink feather boas, silver stars, and a miniature disco ball hanging from its hump.

The animal looks thoroughly unimpressed with its newfound celebrity as a gangly guy leads it forward to receive the oversized ribbon.

“If the prize is dignity, that poor beast has been robbed,” Blake murmurs.

I snort softly, scanning the crowd again.

Nothing out of place, just families having a fun day out.

Following the presentation, Nicholas is escorted to a small hospitality tent they’ve set up for the royal party.

It’s my turn on close security, so I trail him inside, grateful to get out of the feckin’ sun that’s beating down like it’s auditioning for the role of Satan’s personal space heater.

The tent’s nearly empty, aside from a couple of event organizers who leave quick enough when James mentions the prince needs a moment.

I position myself near the entrance, back to the canvas wall, maintaining a line of sight to both Nicholas and the tent’s opening. He pours himself a glass of water, loosening his tie as he scans the room.

“Well, that was certainly one of my more unique royal duties,” he says. “Not every day one gets to critically evaluate festive dromedaries.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” I reply.

Nicholas’s head tilts slightly, his eyes gleaming dangerously as he regards me. “You know, O’Connell, that third camel reminded me of someone.”

My adrenaline spikes. Knowing that I’m about to be on the receiving end of Prince Nicholas’s wit causes my body to tense in a way that could be anticipation or self-preservation.

Possibly both.

“Did it?” I respond neutrally.

“Mmm.” Nicholas takes a casual sip of water, still studying me. “Something in the eyes. That particular way of looking at people as if they’re profound disappointments to camelkind.”

Ah, for fuck’s sake.

If I remember rightly, the camel he’s referring to had been a particularly disgruntled-looking specimen with an expression of utter disdain.

“Can’t say I noticed any resemblance, sir.” I keep my voice even.

Nicholas’s lips twitch. “No? I found it quite striking. The way it glared at everyone…that air of perpetual disapproval…”

I shift my weight, maintaining my surveillance of the tent entrance. “Perhaps the camel and the person you’re thinking of share a similar professional burden.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“Being expected to work with annoying people for shite pay.”

Nicholas’s eyebrows shoot up, and for a brief moment, surprise registers on his face before it transforms into a delighted smile. “Well played, O’Connell. Though I must say, the camel seemed to handle the situation with more grace than the person I’m thinking of typically manages.”

“The camel has the advantage of being allowed to spit at irritants, sir.” I make my voice deliberately droll.

Nicholas throws his head back and laughs. It’s a genuine, unscripted laugh that transforms his face entirely.

Christ, that laugh hits me somewhere I don’t want to think about.

“Touché, O’Connell.”

My training has prepared me for many scenarios, but nothing in the Scotland Yard manual covers how to handle the sudden shortness of breath when Prince Nicholas looks at me like this, the laughter fading but his eyes lingering on mine, blue and bright.

The noise of the crowd outside the tent fades, replaced by the thundering of my own pulse in my ears. There’s a shift in the space between us, subtle as a loaded gun’s safety clicking off, and just as dangerous.

I should look away.

I need to look away.

But my body betrays me, my eyes staying glued to Nicholas’s.

A burst of radio static cuts through the air. The director’s assistant comes into the tent, clipboard clutched against her chest. “Sorry to interrupt—the demonstration’s starting in two minutes, Your Royal Highness.”

Nicholas blinks.

“Right. Mustn’t keep the helicopter waiting.” He glances at me, all business now. “Shall we, Officer O’Connell?”

I nod, swallowing hard to get some moisture back into my mouth.

We move through the crowd, Nicholas acknowledging people with nods and smiles while I try to regain my composure.

Fucking hell.

I take a shaky breath as I scan the crowd. What in the name of God was that about? What the fuck is wrong with me?

The next hour passes without incident. Nicholas mingles with doctors and nurses, laughs at the right moments during speeches, and manages to look genuinely interested in the detailed explanation of how medical equipment is modified for airborne use.

It’s the performance I’ve come to expect from him.

Until I notice him slipping away from the main group.

I signal to Blake and follow, my feet slowing as Nicholas approaches a small boy sitting off to the side by himself, partially obscured by a tent awning. The child looks to be around seven or eight and is in a wheelchair.

Nicholas crouches to the boy’s eye level, extended hand waiting patiently until the child offers his own for a solemn shake. There’s no hint of pity or discomfort in Nicholas’s demeanor, just the same easy charm he offers everyone else.

“I’m Nick,” he says as if he’s just another attendee rather than second in line to the throne. “That helicopter was pretty brilliant, wasn’t it? Have you ever been in one?”

The boy nods shyly. “When I got hurt. I don’t remember much though.”

“Well, that’s probably for the best. They’re awfully noisy.

” Nicholas leans in conspiratorially. “Once I was in one with my grandmother—she’s the Queen, you know—and it was so loud that when she asked me if I wanted a mint, I thought she said ‘hint,’ and I spent the entire flight wondering what secret message she was trying to tell me. ”

The boy giggles. “That’s silly.”

“Extremely silly. I was very concerned. Royal hints are serious business.”

“I’m Archie,” the boy offers. “I’m going to be a flying doctor when I grow up.”

“Dr. Archie,” Nicholas says with perfect seriousness. “It has an excellent ring to it. I expect you’ll be brilliant.”

Their conversation continues, Nicholas asking about Archie’s favorite subjects in school and sharing a story about how he once got stuck in a tree trying to rescue his cousin’s hat.

Just as Nicholas is demonstrating what appears to be a particularly terrible magic trick involving his signet ring, he glances up and catches me watching. His expression shifts immediately, shoulders tensing. He finishes the trick for Archie before straightening.

“Officer O’Connell,” he says, voice casual. “Just ensuring our young doctor here is receiving proper royal attention.”

I nod. “You’re expected for the certificate presentation in five minutes, sir.”

Nicholas turns back to Archie. “It was a genuine pleasure meeting you, Dr. Archie. I shall expect an invitation to your medical school graduation.”

The boy’s face lights up. “Really?”

“Absolutely. Royal promise.” Nicholas makes a crossing motion over his heart that makes Archie giggle again before he reluctantly heads back to the main event.

As we walk back, Nicholas glances at me, a defensive edge to his voice. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You were watching me with an expression marginally less disapproving than usual. It’s unsettling.”

I hesitate, then decide on honesty. “My brother is a wheelchair user.”

Nicholas’s steps falter, though he recovers quickly. “I see,” he says.

“People either talk down to him like he’s a child or avoid eye contact entirely,” I continue. “I just appreciate that you did neither with that boy.”

Surprise flashes across his face. He seems almost flummoxed, like he has no idea what to do with a genuine compliment.

“It’s the least anyone should do,” he says finally. “Though I’m sorry about your brother. Was it an accident?”

The memory surfaces before I can stop it—the dust, the screaming, my inability to reach Malachy. The rage when we discovered the landlord had ignored structural warnings for years to save money.

“Our tenement building collapsed,” I say shortly. “Faulty maintenance.”

Nicholas absorbs this, his eyes searching my face. “That must have been difficult.”

“More for him than me,” I reply, the familiar guilt tightening my chest.

“That’s why you became a security officer? To protect people?” he asks quietly.

Now it’s my turn to stumble. For a second, I forget my cover story, the carefully constructed background of Officer O’Connell.

“Something like that,” I reply.

Nicholas studies me for a moment longer, those blue eyes seeing more than I’m comfortable with. “You know, O’Connell, just when I think I have you figured out, you surprise me.”

It’s like he’s taken my own thoughts out of my head and spoken them aloud. Because isn’t that what I spend so much of my time doing? Trying to unravel the puzzle of this man. His kindness toward Archie provides yet another contradictory piece.

I’m aware I have an almost borderline obsession with trying to figure out what kind of man Prince Nicholas is.

But the idea that Prince Nicholas spends any time trying to figure me out in return is unsettling.

“I could say the same about you,” I reply. “You’re constantly surprising me.”

“Me? I’m devastatingly straightforward. Spoiled prince with a history of tabloid scandals and a talent for irritating his security detail.”

His retreat into his sardonic humor irritates me.

“That’s the act. Not the person.”

Nicholas stops still. “Yes, well, we can’t all be straightforward protection officers who get to say exactly what they mean. Some of us were raised to smile while Rome burns.”

“Maybe those of you raised like that should actually spend less time smiling and more time doing something about the fire.”

“See? This is why you’re my favorite member of the security detail. The others just judge me silently. You do it with verbal flair.”

He starts walking again, and then we’re back among the crowd. Nicholas smoothly transitions to his public persona, going on stage to give a speech about the importance of the service provided by the Flying Doctors with perfect royal graciousness.

I resume my position, watching the perimeter, tracking each person who approaches him.

But part of my mind remains caught on replaying what just happened.

This weird…tension between us. It feels dangerous—both professionally and personally.

The presentation concludes, and Nicholas poses for official photographs. Over the chairman’s shoulder, his eyes find mine in the crowd. He raises an eyebrow slightly, then returns his attention to the ceremony.

Despite the heat, a chill runs through me.

This assignment is becoming complicated in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

Royalty is a ridiculous, archaic institution built on centuries of inequality and exploitation.

As much as I hate royalty, as I watch Nicholas move through the crowd and see the genuine smile he gives to Archie and his mother as he passes them, the careful way he listens to an elderly nurse describe her first emergency flight, I can’t deny that Nicholas means something to these people.

Maybe it’s simply a connection to something larger than themselves.

And Nicholas himself—when he’s not hiding behind the practiced smirk and rehearsed charm—seems to understand the responsibility that comes with his privilege.

It was definitely easier when I could dismiss him as merely a symbol of everything I oppose.

As the event draws to a close and we prepare to escort Nicholas back to the hotel, I force those thoughts aside.

I have a job to do. I have to find the traitor in our midst and keep the prince alive.

Everything else, including whatever this tension between us might be, is irrelevant.

Yet when Nicholas pauses beside me on the way to the car, close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne, and murmurs, “Thank you for sharing about your brother,” it takes every ounce of my professional training not to react.

“Just doing my job,” I say.

His lips curve into a wry smile. “Actually, O’Connell, I think you’ll find personal confessions aren’t in your job description.”

I can’t look away from him. The way his pupils dilate slightly, black edging out the blue, how the sunlight catches the angles of his face, and how his throat moves as he swallows.

Fecking hell. I’ve been in firefights that felt less dangerous than this conversation.

Then he’s sliding into the waiting car with Singh, leaving me to climb into the following car with MacLeod and Davis.

The car rumbles to life. Davis chats animatedly about something I can’t focus on while MacLeod studies her tablet beside me.

My mind replays that moment with Nicholas.

I’m trained to identify threats, to neutralize danger before it materializes.

Yet it appears I have failed to anticipate this particular vulnerability: my own defenses crumbling in the face of a royal who refuses to be the shallow, entitled symbol I thought he was.

It feels like the lines between us are blurring slightly.

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