Page 35 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Twenty

Nicholas

I’m greeted in New Zealand by a Māori war dance.

Luckily, from watching international rugby matches, I know all about the haka, the Indigenous people of New Zealand’s challenge to outsiders that simultaneously welcomes and warns.

On television, it’s impressive. In person, it’s bloody terrifying.

The warriors face us in formation, their movements perfectly synchronized, a physical language of slaps against muscled thighs, stomping feet, and voices that rise in guttural chants that vibrate through my chest. Every gesture radiates controlled aggression and power.

And, apparently, I’m a masochist because I glance over at O’Connell to see what he makes of it.

His eyes meet mine for a second before darting away. The memory of the maintenance shed comes rushing back with such force that it knocks the breath from my lungs. His hands gripping my shirt, the desperate press of his mouth against mine.

God, I fancy I can still feel the burn of his stubble against my skin.

The plane journey this morning was excruciating, hours of pretending my body wasn’t humming with the awareness of him standing mere feet away.

I wanted to grab him by his perfectly pressed lapels and recreate that desperate collision of mouths and hands, but this time without the excuse of near-death to hide behind.

To see if it would burn just as hot without terror as an accelerant.

Instead, we’ve circled each other like wary predators, the air between us so charged it’s a miracle the plane didn’t short-circuit.

His proximity is both torture and oxygen.

I completely understand why he’s doing the professional distance thing. I would love to find some of that professional distance myself, but despite a lifetime of learning to suppress my emotions, I’m struggling right now.

The official welcome procession feels interminable. Handshakes with dignitaries, polite smiles for cameras that will beam my image across the Commonwealth. Through it all, O’Connell maintains his position, close enough to intervene if needed.

A knot of protesters has gathered by the entrance, maybe thirty people holding handmade signs.

YOUR CROWN, OUR LAND catches my eye first, the letters painted in what looks like house paint on recycled cardboard.

DECOLONIZE AOTEAROA reads one banner stretched between two women who look like they could be barristers on their lunch break.

A young Māori woman holds another that simply reads TIKA in bold letters.

These protesters don’t seem to be angry.

There’s something else in their faces that’s harder to dismiss than rage would be.

Disappointment, perhaps. Or worse, hope that I might actually listen.

As if I, the spare prince on his goodwill tour, have any real power to address centuries of systematic oppression beyond offering platitudes and photo opportunities.

By the time we reach the hotel, my face aches from smiling and my patience is tissue-thin.

The presidential suite is predictably opulent—all native wood furnishings and panoramic views of Auckland Harbor that I barely glance at.

“Schedule for tomorrow, sir.” James hands me a folder. “The Māori cultural center visit has been moved to earlier in the day, and we’ve added additional security for the harbor tour.”

“Thank you, James. That will be all for tonight.”

James hesitates at the door. “Security rotation has Officer O’Connell on first shift.”

My heart performs an undignified leap. “Fine.”

James leaves, and moments later, O’Connell enters, closing the door behind him with a soft click that echoes in the quiet.

He stalks through the suite like a predator marking territory—the flex of his forearms as he tests the balcony doors, the way he drops to one knee to check beneath furniture with a grace that defies his size.

Bloody hell, even his paranoia is attractive.

“Suite is secure.”

I cross to the bar and pour myself a measure of whisky. The amber liquid catches the light as I swirl it, gathering courage.

“Would you like one?” I gesture with the crystal decanter.

“I’m on duty, sir.” His voice is controlled, but I catch the tightening of his jaw.

“Sir,” I repeat, setting my glass down harder than necessary. “After what happened yesterday, we’re back to ‘sir?’”

He doesn’t respond, just stands there looking impossibly stoic. Only the muscle jumping in his jaw betrays him.

“So, are we pretending it never happened?” I can’t quite prevent the edge creeping into my voice. “I just want to make sure I get it correct, since my royal training didn’t quite cover the protocol for when one’s protection officer kisses one senseless during an attempted kidnapping.”

His eyes snap to mine.

“I need to focus on my job. Surely you understand that?” His voice is low.

“Oh yes, I’m fully supportive of you focusing on keeping me alive. One might say I even have a vested interest in that part of your job description.”

And there it is. A hint of a smile.

Somehow, that disarms me even more than his kiss did.

“Nicholas,” he says, rolling my name in his mouth so it comes out coated in his Irish accent.

Not Your Royal Highness. Not Prince Nicholas. Not sir.

Just Nicholas .

“Eoin.” I return the favor, using his first name as an intimate weapon, watching how it lands between us like a gauntlet thrown in challenge.

Sure enough, his pupils dilate.

He comes forward, slow and deliberate. The space between us shrinks until I can see the faint stubble along his jaw, count the flecks of silver in his eyes.

He reaches to touch the bruise on my forehead. I go completely still underneath his gentle fingers.

“That’s a nasty bruise,” he says.

I struggle to breathe.

“Yes, well, even royal skin has its limits when it comes to headbutting terrorists.” I’m aiming for my usual sardonic tone but fail spectacularly.

“I’m sure you’re going to lecture me again about how incredibly reckless it was to use my forehead as a battering ram, how I should have followed protocol and ducked behind you like a good little prince instead of actually doing something useful,” I say as he drops his hand away.

His expression darkens. “You were reckless.”

I look away from the intensity in his eyes. I can’t put into words how it felt to be more than a passive participant in my own protection.

Despite my fear, there was something exhilarating about that moment. It made me feel alive.

I’m expected to be the porcelain prince, carefully packaged and preserved, never chipped, never broken. Just smiling and waving from inside my protective bubble while others take the risks.

But when that attacker came at me, instinct took over.

I wasn’t thinking about protocol or propriety or what the papers would say in the morning edition.

For those few seconds, I was simply a man fighting back.

Not a symbol or a spare part or a placeholder, but someone who could actually affect the outcome of events rather than simply being affected by them.

But instead of saying that, my brain apparently has another idea of confessing something I’ve never said aloud.

“Well, I’ve had a lifetime of being told I’m exactly like my father, so maybe some of his recklessness was bound to surface eventually. Although his rebellions tended more toward nightclub indiscretions and inappropriate dalliances with fashion models.”

Eoin’s eyes don’t waver from mine. “I doubt your father ever headbutted a terrorist. That particular brand of royal rebellion appears to be uniquely yours.”

“I’ll be sure to include it on my royal resume. Special skills: waving, smiling, and combat headbutts .”

And there it is again, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. The cool gray of his eyes warming to molten silver.

It transforms him from stern protector to something far more dangerous to my composure.

His gaze remains fixed on mine. “You’re missing a few important things on that resume. Professional deflection. Using humor like armor. Convincing everyone you’re shallow when you’re actually anything but.”

My stomach drops like I’ve missed the last step on a staircase.

I feel like I’m standing naked while someone catalogs every imperfection I’ve tried to hide.

Except somehow Eoin makes it feel less like exposure and more like recognition.

I swallow hard, looking away. “You’ve been analyzing me, I see.”

“It’s my job to notice things,” he says simply.

“About potential threats, yes. Not about my psychological makeup.”

“Understanding the principal is part of protection.”

Irritation spikes inside me. I’m back to being reduced to a job requirement. Another box to tick on his protection checklist—know the principal’s weaknesses, fears, and self-destructive tendencies.

I meet his eyes. “Is that all this is? Professional curiosity?”

Something flashes in his eyes, hot and dangerous. “You know it’s not.”

The air grows thick between us.

“Then what is it?” I ask, my voice dropping.

“A mistake,” he says, but his body shifts closer to mine, contradicting his words. “A complication I didn’t anticipate.”

“I’m quite good at being both. A mistake and a complication.”

His forehead creases. “This isn’t a joke, Nicholas.”

“I’m aware of that. Believe me, I’m very aware of that.”

We’re standing close enough now that I would only need to take one step forward for our bodies to touch. One small movement, and I could find out if he tastes the same as he did during that desperate kiss.

“We can’t do this,” he says roughly, but he doesn’t move away.

“Because of the job? Or because of who I am?”

Something complicated passes across his face. “Both.” He steps back, clawing a hand through his hair. “You’re the principal I’m meant to protect. There are professional boundaries, ethical considerations…”

“Rules.” I’m unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. Always rules, always protocols, always expectations of what I can and cannot do. Who I can and cannot want.

“Yes. Rules. And for good reason.”

“I’ve never been particularly good at following rules.” I take that small step forward that brings us closer again, close enough that I have to tilt my head back slightly to maintain eye contact. “In case you haven’t noticed.”

His breath catches audibly. “Oh, trust me, I’ve noticed.”

We stand there, our eyes locked, neither of us moving. The tension between us is a living thing, crackling and dangerous.

A sharp knock shatters the moment.

“Your Royal Highness?” It’s James. “My apologies, but I’ve just received additional information about tomorrow’s schedule changes.”

Eoin steps back so quickly he nearly collides with the coffee table, his professional mask slamming back into place.

By the time James enters, folder in hand, I’m standing by the window and Eoin’s near the door.

James seems to pick up on the lingering tension. He stops a few steps into the room. “Should I come back?”

“No,” Eoin says before I can respond. “I was just completing the security check. I’ll be outside if you need anything, sir.”

The door shuts behind Eoin, taking all the oxygen in the room with him.

James launches into his briefing immediately. “The weather forecast for tomorrow shows potential storms, so we may need to consider moving the outdoor ceremony indoors. The advance team is scouting alternative venues…”

I nod at what seems like appropriate intervals, but my mind is elsewhere. James could be telling me that Parliament has decided to abolish the monarchy, and I’d still be thinking about the precise shade of gray in Eoin’s eyes.

I want him to touch me, to kiss me, to fuck me. I want to be the sole focus of his attention, see what he looks like when he unleashes, when all that control shatters.

I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I’ve never before had this craving to consume someone, and to be consumed in return.

I get the feeling he could take me apart, and I would not be the same when he put me back together.

The wanting terrifies me more than any assassination or kidnapping attempt could. Opening myself up like this, practically begging to be eviscerated again. Because that’s what happens when you let people see the soft parts—they find the exact pressure points that hurt most.

Daniel taught me that lesson with brutal efficiency. Beautiful Daniel with his poet’s mouth and accountant’s soul.

And now I’m faced with another man who sees too much, yet I want him to see even more. Apparently, I’m incapable of learning from spectacular failure.

“Will there be anything else tonight, sir?” James asks, closing his folder.

“No, thank you, James.”

He leaves, and I’m alone with the echo of everything I cannot have. Outside my door, Eoin maintains his watch—close enough to save my life, too far away to touch.

I pour another whisky and raise it in a mock toast to my own stupidity. Here’s to wanting what will destroy you.

After all, I am my father’s son.