Page 45 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Eoin

I hate tourist attractions.

Give me the backstreets of Belfast or London’s worst neighborhoods any day. At least there, you know where the threats are coming from. But places like this Hobbiton movie set, with its perfectly manicured fantasy landscape, are a feckin’ security nightmare wrapped in Technicolor whimsy.

“Do the hobbits have a particular policy on royal visits? I’d hate to violate some ancient Middle-earth protocol about second breakfasts or inadvertently cause a diplomatic incident with the elves,” Nicholas says as we follow the tour guide along a winding path between hobbit holes.

Our guide is a chipper Kiwi woman with an encyclopedic knowledge of Tolkien and an impressive ability to walk backward without tripping over the uneven terrain.

She laughs. “Oh, you’re fine as long as you don’t refuse elevenses. The last noble who did that got pelted with mushrooms behind the Green Dragon.”

I scan the small crowd that’s been cleared for this private tour—mostly staff and a few pre-vetted VIPs who paid obscene amounts to charity for the privilege of watching a prince pretend to be interested in movie sets.

“Is there a homeowner’s association for Hobbiton? I imagine the bylaws about door colors and garden gnome placement must be absolutely draconian,” Nicholas drawls.

Nicholas continues to surprise me. I’ve just told him there’s an active terrorist threat against him. Yet he’s practically glowing with practiced enthusiasm, managing to look delighted by the vegetable garden props while simultaneously maintaining perfect posture.

I now understand how his lifetime of pretending goes even deeper than I realized.

The knowledge of what he shared in the car sits like a stone in my gut. Daniel. The boyfriend who took the money and ran, proving to Nicholas that his trust and his heart could be bought and sold like any other commodity. And his mother, orchestrating the whole betrayal.

I think of his mother when I met her at Rosemere Hall. How easily I’d been taken in by her tears like some green rookie. I’d been manipulated into thinking Nicholas was a callous, inconsiderate son, and I’m sure I’m not the first person she’s convinced of that.

Shame burns through me as I remember that night. How quick I was to judge him based on a performance I didn’t even know was staged. A man who’d lost his mother watching another man dismiss his—it wasn’t my finest moment of objectivity.

I’d been so ready to see the worst in him, so eager to confirm my prejudices about the Monarchy, that I’d fallen for his mother’s manipulation without question.

My mam said you could judge a man by how he treats his mother. But she never warned me about mothers who weaponize their children’s love against them.

Add to that his sister’s betrayal and it’s no wonder Nicholas hides behind those walls of sarcasm. No wonder he treats everyone’s motives with suspicion.

Christ, I’m in so deep I can’t see daylight anymore.

I knew I couldn’t be professional anymore, and that’s why I had to leave. But the threat assessment changed, and suddenly, I couldn’t abandon him to an unknown enemy.

And now, every hour I spend with him, every wall he lets down, everything he shares with me, pulls me deeper into something that’s going to wreck me when it ends.

Because it will end.

Princes like Nicholas don’t end up with lads from the Belfast slums, not even in fairy tales. This theme park might be Middle-earth, but even Tolkien knew better than to write hobbits marrying into royalty.

I take a deep breath. Focus on the task at hand. Identify the sleeper agent, neutralize any risks to Nicholas.

I’ll worry about picking up the pieces of whatever’s left of Eoin O’Connell when this assignment ends and I’m back in some gray London office, pretending I don’t know exactly how his voice sounds when he says my name.

“And this,” the guide announces with theatrical flair, pulling me from my dark thoughts, “is Bag End, Bilbo and Frodo’s home. The most famous hobbit hole in all of Middle-earth.”

The green door is instantly recognizable even to me, who’s only seen the films once.

“Would you like to take a peek inside, Your Royal Highness?” the guide asks.

Nicholas steps forward. “Absolutely. Though I may need to mind my head.”

I move closer as he approaches the round door, my protective instincts on high alert. The green door swings open, revealing a shallow set piece—just enough of an entrance to allow for photos, not a full interior.

“Not quite as spacious as Kensington Palace,” Nicholas says as he peers inside, “but I appreciate the cozy aesthetic.”

“Would you like a photo, sir?” the guide offers.

“Why not?” Nicholas agrees easily. “Though I fear I make a rather unconvincing hobbit. Wrong height category entirely.”

As he positions himself by the iconic green door, I scan the crowd again.

Singh stands near the path’s bend, eyes moving continuously across the gathering.

Blake is positioned farther back, maintaining our perimeter.

Everything seems secure, yet that prickling sensation at the back of my neck won’t subside.

“I’ll try not to fall into the hole because I don’t want to gift the British tabloids exciting headlines: Nicholas Goes There and Back Again…

Via Ambulance , Royal Pain in the Shire , Nicholas’s Mordor-fying Tumble .

They practically write themselves,” Nicholas says, prompting an outbreak of chuckles.

The tour continues around Hobbiton’s picture-perfect landscape of rolling hills and impossibly quaint gardens. Nicholas continues to charm everyone, making self-deprecating jokes about his height compared to hobbit scale, asking intelligent questions about the filmmaking process.

No one would know he’s shared one of his deepest wounds with me only an hour ago.

And I’m currently keeping secrets from him.

Guilt sits heavy in my stomach. I told Nicholas about the increased threat, but he doesn’t know that one of his own security detail is involved in the conspiracy against him. He doesn’t know that I’m not actually a protection officer, but an undercover detective.

He doesn’t know who I really am.

And after what he shared about Daniel—about having his trust so spectacularly betrayed by someone he cared for—the weight of my deception feels almost unbearable.

“The Green Dragon Inn is our next stop,” the guide announces, gesturing toward a thatched-roof building. “It’s fully functional. We even brew our own special ales inspired by the films.”

Nicholas falls in step beside me as we move toward the inn. “Your face is doing that thing again.”

“What thing?” I ask, not taking my eyes off our surroundings.

“That thing where you look like you’re mentally calculating the exact trajectory of every potential bullet, knife, and poisoned dart within a five-kilometer radius.” His tone is light, but his eyes are sharp when I glance at him. “It’s rather disconcerting.”

“Just doing my job,” I reply.

“You’re terrible at reassurance, you know that?”

Despite everything, a corner of my mouth twitches upward. “Not part of the job description.”

“Pity. You’d think keeping the principal from experiencing security-induced cardiac anxiety would be somewhere in the handbook.”

We reach the Green Dragon Inn, and while the tour group files inside, I hang back to confer with Singh, who’s been monitoring the perimeter.

“Anything?” I ask quietly.

Singh shakes his head. “All clear. Though there’s a maintenance crew near the parking area that wasn’t on the schedule. Cavendish is checking it out.”

Something about Singh’s posture sets off warning bells in my head. He’s too rigid, too formal, his eyes not quite meeting mine. Or am I just paranoid now, seeing threats in every shadow?

“Stay alert,” I tell him, then follow Nicholas into the inn.

The interior is all rough-hewn wooden beams and cozy nooks, a perfect recreation from the film. Nicholas is shown behind the bar so he can learn to pull a pint of “Hobbit ale” while the small crowd watches with delight.

He catches my eye as he raises the glass in a mock toast, and that unwelcome warmth spreads in my chest.

No matter how many times I remind myself that this—whatever this is—can only end badly, I can’t seem to stop my body’s reaction to him.

My earpiece crackles to life with Cavendish’s voice. “Potential situation at the main entrance. Three individuals without proper credentials attempting to access the site. Moving to intercept.”

I touch my comms unit, acknowledging, then shift position to get a better view of the inn’s entrances. Blake is already at the main door, her body language casual but her eyes alert. Singh has disappeared—presumably to assist Cavendish.

Something’s not right. That instinct that’s kept me alive through years of undercover work is sending alarm signals down my spine.

I catch Blake’s eye and make a subtle hand gesture. She nods and moves to secure the rear exit.

“Sir.” I approach Nicholas at the bar. “I think it’s time we continue to the next part of the tour.”

He reads my expression instantly, setting down his glass without question. “Of course. Though I was just getting the hang of being a proper barkeep. Perhaps in my next life.”

I guide him toward Blake, keeping my body between him and the windows. The tour guide follows, looking confused by the sudden change of plans.

“Is everything—” she begins.

The explosion cuts her off mid-sentence.

The sound reverberates through the wooden structure, followed immediately by shouts from outside.

“Down!” I bark, pushing Nicholas behind the solid wooden bar. Blake drops into a defensive position at the door, weapon already drawn.

“What the hell was that?” Nicholas demands.

My earpiece crackles to life. “Explosion confirmed—vehicles compromised?—”

The words hit harder than the blast. My mind races through scenarios, each worse than the last. If they’ve taken out our transportation, we’re trapped. And for them to know exactly where to hit us…