Page 27 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Fifteen

Nicholas

Dawn at Ulu?u feels rather like watching the world wake up for the first time.

The silence wraps around us. Even from the platform a kilometer away, we can watch the sandstone monolith absorb the first rays of sunlight, glowing in progressively more intense shades of crimson and ochre as the minutes pass.

I’ve seen countless sunrises around the world. Champagne in hand on Monaco yachts, through hazy eyes in Ibiza beach clubs, from palatial balconies. But this feels different.

Older.

I can’t resist glancing at O’Connell to see his reaction.

But his face looks like it’s been carved from the same ancient rock we’re observing.

Jaw set, eyes constantly scanning the horizon rather than appreciating the experience.

The rising sun catches in his auburn hair, giving it a burnished copper quality that makes my fingers itch with a sudden, inexplicable urge to touch it.

When our eyes meet, he looks away so quickly it’s almost comical.

And that’s been the theme since yesterday.

He hasn’t looked me in the eye since the incident in the portable toilet. Not properly, anyway. Every time our gazes meet, his slides away like water off waxed paper.

It’s been only half a day since I felt the unmistakable evidence of his attraction pressed against me in that confined space.

Half a day of him pretending nothing happened while I’ve become increasingly, irritatingly fixated on the memory.

Half a day with my mind replaying everything that happened like some sort of royal porn film titled: Tight Spaces: The Prince and The Protector .

Why does the idea that he might want me fill me with such elation?

I’ve had many people, both women and men, be attracted to me.

Usually, it’s a fleeting amusement, a predictable reaction to the royal title and whatever charm I’ve bothered to deploy that day.

People desiring the idea of me, the prince in their fantasy, is as commonplace as champagne at palace functions.

So why does this particular man’s attraction matter to me quite so much?

Our small group forms a semicircle facing the rock, respecting the boundaries established by Uncle Darren Minyintiri, the A?angu Elder conducting this dawn ceremony.

His face carries the lines of a thousand stories.

When he speaks about connection to country, his voice resonates with a depth that makes even my royal cynicism pause.

“This land remembers all who have walked upon it,” he says, gesturing toward Ulu?u.

I remember from the lecture I watched on the plane that people have been in Australia for at least sixty thousand years. Which makes the monarchy look rather like weekend tourists who overstayed their welcome.

After my conversation with Callum and Oliver, I’ve done some more research into the history of colonialism, and it’s like reading the world’s most horrifying true crime anthology where your family name appears in every chapter as the villain.

Given what my ancestors did to the First Nations people in Australia, the fact that they’ve invited me here at all strikes me as an act of profound generosity.

I try to focus on the traditional smoking ceremony where Uncle Darren uses smoldering desert tea tree leaves and mulga bark to cleanse our spirits, followed by a sunrise Tjukurpa story recited in both Pitjantjatjara language and English.

But I can’t help my gaze slipping to Eoin standing so rigidly at attention, his profile sharper than usual in the dawn light.

I want to poke and prod at that layer of professionalism he’s putting between us. I want to crack that professional veneer, to find the man who reacted so viscerally to me.

The glimmers of his real self he’s given me, the way he’s offered thoughtful replies when I’ve asked for it, make me want more. I’m like a child who’s tasted chocolate for the first time and has suddenly realized there’s an entire world of sweetness they’ve been denied.

When the formal part concludes and our group begins to mingle, I catch O’Connell’s eye. The cool gray reveals nothing, but the muscle in his jaw twitches—that tell I’ve come to watch for.

He’s not as indifferent as he’s pretending to be.

“Your Royal Highness, I hope you found the ceremony meaningful,” says Nala, one of the Land Council representatives, approaching me with a warm smile.

“Extraordinarily so,” I reply. “The connection between people and land here feels…tangible in a way I’ve rarely experienced.”

As Nala explains more about the traditional ownership of the land, I listen with interest while remaining acutely aware of O’Connell shifting his position to maintain his sightlines.

The sun climbs higher in the sky, the temperature rising with it. By the time we begin walking back toward the vehicles, sweat is beading at my temples.

I slow my pace deliberately, falling behind the main group until O’Connell has no choice but to draw alongside me.

“Fascinating ceremony, wasn’t it?” I say.

“Yes, sir,” he replies, gaze fixed firmly ahead.

“Sixty thousand years of continuous culture. Makes our thousand-year monarchy seem positively juvenile by comparison.”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

Bloody hell. It appears we’ve regressed back to the human equivalent of a No Trespassing sign.

“Oh, come along, O’Connell. Even you must have opinions on historical perspective. Or are opinions not part of the standard protection officer package?”

His jaw tightens. “My job is to keep you safe. Not to offer commentary on the longevity of cultural institutions.”

My irritation spikes.

“And you perform that job with admirable…intensity.” I let my shoulder brush against his arm as we walk. “Tell me, does the protection officer handbook have a chapter on maintaining professionalism when one’s body has other ideas? Because you might need a refresher course.”

He stops abruptly, turning to face me. His gray eyes meet mine directly for the first time all day.

“You seem fixated on a momentary physical reaction.” His voice is clipped. “I’d suggest not reading too much into it.”

The dismissal hits like a slap.

My smile freezes in place.

Of course. What did I expect? That the stoic Officer O’Connell would admit to anything beyond a biological reaction? That he’d confess to lying awake thinking about me the way I’ve been thinking about him?

“A momentary physical reaction,” I repeat, my voice silky with contempt.

“How reassuring to know your body’s betrayal was merely a biological glitch rather than anything meaningful.

I’ll make a note in your performance review.

Officer O’Connell: excellent at tackling royalty, less adept at controlling basic physiological responses . ”

He gives me one last scathing look that causes me to swallow hard against the sudden tightness in my throat before increasing his pace to walk ahead of me.

Fuck. That did not go as I planned.

Right. Officer O’Connell claims it was merely a physical reaction?

I’m prepared to rise to the challenge. I’m going to make it so the irritating Irishman cannot deny what his body already knows.

Let’s see how well his precious control holds up under sustained attention.

This calls for some old-fashioned flirting.

Luckily, I’m very adept at flirting.

Officer O’Connell is off duty in the afternoon when I visit a bush tucker cookup with Mutijula women, where I get to show off my skill at grinding wattleseed and roasting kangaroo tail. But he’s back on duty in the evening for the gala at the Field of Lights exhibition.

The desert air cools rapidly after sunset, but the gala dinner pavilion is pleasant, filled with the gentle hum of conversation and the occasional clink of crystal.

Through the open sides of the structure, I can see the Field of Light installation spread out like a luminous ocean.

It’s an incredible sight with thousands of glowing orbs shifting from deep violet to crimson to azure against the backdrop of a star-strewn sky.

I’ve dressed with strategic precision for tonight’s festivities. The midnight-blue dinner jacket is tailored perfectly, and the silk of my bow tie matches the exact shade of my eyes. My hair is styled with just enough carelessness to suggest I might be persuaded to abandon other protocols as well.

The Australian minister for tourism drones on about visitor demographic shifts in post-pandemic travel patterns to the Northern Territory while I nod at appropriate intervals, my gaze continuing to drift to O’Connell.

He stands apart from the other security personnel, somehow managing to look both completely alert and utterly bored.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Your Royal Highness?” The minister’s question pulls me back to our conversation.

“Absolutely,” I reply without missing a beat. “Couldn’t agree more.”

When the minister eventually moves on to talk to some other dignitary, I snag a glass of champagne from a passing server. As I raise it to my lips, I catch O’Connell watching me.

I hold his gaze deliberately as I take a sip, then slowly run my tongue across my lower lip as if catching a stray drop. His eyes widen slightly before his expression hardens, and he turns away abruptly, touching his earpiece as if receiving an urgent communication.

I can’t help but smile to myself.

The chef has clearly been instructed to showcase native Australian cuisine with diplomatic fervor.

Wallaby loin arrives perfectly tender, paired with roasted bunya nuts that crunch between my teeth.

My attention is split between savoring my dinner and tracking O’Connell’s movements in my peripheral vision.

The minister leans toward me. “I hope you’ll take the opportunity to walk through the Field of Light installation, Your Royal Highness. It’s quite spectacular when viewed from within.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” I reply, setting down my dessert fork. “In fact, I believe I’ll do so now, while the evening is still young.”