Page 26 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

I force myself to look away from the man on stage, to scan the perimeter, to do my actual job.

But my attention keeps getting pulled back to the stage like I’m following my own feckin’ star of Bethlehem, except it’s leading me straight to career suicide instead of salvation.

And I think the impure thoughts I’m having definitely won’t make it into any holy text.

The carol ends, and enthusiastic applause erupts. Nicholas gives a small bow.

As he moves toward the stage steps, I position myself at the bottom, on high alert. His eyes meet mine as he descends, a slight flush coloring his cheeks.

“I didn’t know you could sing,” I say quietly, an odd flutter in my chest.

“My father taught me.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He loved music. Used to say that singing was the closest thing to magic humans could create.”

His confession catches me off guard.

“My da thought singing was what you did after twelve pints and a win at the horses. Different kinds of magic, I suppose,” I say.

Nicholas’s lips twitch. “I imagine the results were equally enchanting.”

“Depends on your definition of enchanting. The cats certainly fled the neighborhood.”

“And here I thought Ireland was known for its musical traditions.”

“Oh, it is. Da just wasn’t invited to participate in them.”

Nicholas’s grin is fully fledged now. “Well, now I know what to threaten you with if you misbehave. Mandatory duets.”

His smile leaves me feeling slightly lightheaded.

Before I can work out how to respond, the radio at my hip crackles with Singh’s urgent voice.

“Suspicious movement northeast corner, black jacket, baseball cap, approaching stage area with package.”

My body reacts before my mind fully processes the warning. I grab Nicholas by the arm and pull him toward the nearest covered position, a row of portable toilets set up by the side of the stage.

“What—” he begins, but I cut him off.

“Potential threat. Need to get you under cover.”

He doesn’t resist as I hustle him to the nearest unit, yanking open the door and shoving him inside before following.

The door latches behind us with a plastic click that sounds absurdly inadequate.

The enclosed space is minuscule, barely big enough for one person, let alone a royal and his protection officer. Nicholas’s chest is inches from mine in the dim blue-tinged light.

“Well, this is certainly a new low in royal accommodations,” he whispers. His breath is warm against my ear.

I ignore him, pressing my wrist mic so I can report. “The Thistle is secure at position Juliet. Status report.”

“Subject intercepted,” Cavendish replies. “Package contained an unknown substance. Bomb squad en route. Maintain position until all-clear.”

“Copy that,” I respond, my heart still pounding.

Nicholas shifts slightly, causing our bodies to press even closer together. The plastic unit creaks ominously.

“When I said I wanted to get to know Australia intimately,” he murmurs, “I didn’t quite have a port-a-loo in mind.”

Ah, Jaysus fecking Christ.

Somehow, instead of being scared, Prince Nicholas appears almost exhilarated by what’s happening. There’s a wild brightness in his eyes that I’ve seen before in adrenaline junkies and thrill-seekers. It reminds me of what he was like after the stingray incident.

And the confined space makes it impossible to ignore how perfect his face is. His mouth, always quick with a sarcastic comment, looks softer up close. I’ve never noticed the tiny freckle just below his right eye, almost invisible unless you’re this close.

And I have to stand here, holding Prince Nicholas in my arms, pressed against him in a space so confined that I can feel every breath he takes.

My dream slams back into my head in vivid detail. His lips against my neck, the scrape of teeth, the challenge in his voice when he whispered my name. His body arching beneath mine. The taste of him on my tongue, expensive and addictive.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

My body’s betraying me, my cock starting to firm up. His thigh brushes mine as he shifts, and Christ, this can’t be happening.

Nicholas seems oblivious. Thank God for small mercies.

Instead, the eejit’s trying to peer through the gaps where light bleeds through the doorframe.

He twists about like a contortionist, planting one hand against the wall beside my head as he angles toward the light.

“Do you think they’ve caught the suspect? ” he murmurs.

“I don’t know,” I manage to grunt.

Nicholas shifts again, trying for a better look. His hips grind back against me. The friction hits like a punch to the gut. The plastic walls groan with our shuffling, but it doesn’t cover the catch in my breathing.

And I witness the moment he feels my cock.

He freezes, then suddenly, he’s twisting around again to face me, his eyes wide, lips parted.

For a few heartbeats, we just stand there, staring at each other.

But then he tilts his chin up slowly. The playboy prince vanishes, replaced by someone entirely different—someone who looks at me with a predatory focus that makes my mouth go dry.

Oh fuck, there’s heat in his gaze.

Not disgust.

Not amusement.

Heat.

My heart pounds so loudly it could blow our cover if anyone passed by.

We continue to stare at each other. Those cool blue eyes are no longer cold or mocking. Instead, that calculating intelligence appears to be assessing me now with a different kind of interest entirely.

“Eoin,” he whispers, my name sounding like a secret he’s been keeping locked inside him.

I muster all the professional detachment I can. “Your Royal Highness…”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Because I see the instant his expression shutters, his default sarcastic mask coming back over his face.

I continue, “I apologize?—”

“No need to get so stiff about it,” he interrupts, then immediately grins. “Poor choice of words, perhaps.”

“Can we please focus on the security situation?” My voice is rough.

“I’m finding it rather difficult to focus on anything else at the moment,” he replies, glancing down.

“I’m flattered by your…attention to duty.

I wouldn’t consider this the most romantic location for having amorous thoughts, but who am I to question the strange proclivities of the Queen’s protection squad?

Perhaps portable loos are considered aphrodisiacs in security circles. ”

Fecking hell. Nothing I’ve ever had to suffer through in previous missions compares to the agony of this.

Every tiny movement brings another point of contact between us.

“I never knew protection could be so…thorough,” Nicholas continues.

My earpiece crackles, saving me from having to respond.

“All clear,” comes Cavendish’s voice. “False alarm. Package contained promotional materials. Subject was event staff with incorrect credentials. You are clear to return to program.”

The relief I feel is matched only by my mortification.

“We’re clear to exit, sir,” I say stiffly.

Nicholas holds my gaze for a long moment, something unreadable passing across his face.

“Pity,” he says softly. “Just when things were getting interesting.”

I reach behind him to unlatch the door, trying desperately to create some space between us. I fail miserably, my arm brushing against his chest, sending another jolt through my already overloaded nervous system.

As the door swings open, Nicholas leans in close, his lips nearly brushing my ear.

“Don’t worry, O’Connell. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Then he steps out into the evening air, immediately resuming his royal composure as if nothing unusual has happened. As if we haven’t just spent five minutes pressed against each other in a plastic box. As if he didn’t feel exactly what he does to me.

Grand. The second in line to the throne is now my confidant about inappropriate erections. This’ll make a grand addition to my performance review: Officer O’Connell maintains excellent threat assessment, minor issue with maintaining professional boundaries in portable toilets .

I follow him out, my professional mask firmly in place despite the chaos raging inside me.

One thought hammers through my mind, drowning out everything else.

I am absolutely, monumentally fucked.