Page 58 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Thirty-Six

Eoin

Something is wrong.

I surface from sleep with that particular jolt reserved for when your subconscious knows something’s catastrophically wrong before your brain catches up.

The tent is empty.

My hand’s already on my weapon before I’m fully awake, adrenaline flooding my system. The T-shirt Nicholas slept in is folded neatly on top of the sleeping bag, but there’s no prince.

The night was uneventful. I spent most of it watching Nicholas sleep and wondering how the hell we’d gone from royal tour to fugitive camping in less than forty-eight hours. Along with wondering if there was anything I could do to turn his “I don’t know” into “yes, I forgive you.”

Playing his husband by the barbecue had been both torture and bliss. The way he’d leaned into me, the casual touches, the kiss that tasted like possibility before it went up in smoke with our sausages.

But what am I thinking? Even if he does forgive me, what then?

We live in different universes. He has palaces and protocols and a life mapped out in gold. I have a bedsit in London and a career that is probably over.

What kind of future could we possibly have?

Christ, I’m being ridiculous. I’ve fallen for someone so far above my station that I might as well be reaching for the moon.

Yet, somehow spending time with Nicholas like this has proved that when you remove all the external bollocks, the crown and the badge, we actually make sense together. We work well together. We seem to instinctively get each other on a level that I’ve never experienced with anyone else.

Being away from our normal reality, our normal roles, just helps me see the underlying base truth. We are two men who weirdly fit together like pieces of the same puzzle, despite coming from different boxes.

And I trust him more than I trust other people.

Like this morning, when Nicholas woke at four a.m. and insisted I get a few hours of sleep.

After he promised to wake me if he heard any sound, I relented and tried for some much-needed shuteye. And surprisingly, I had managed to sleep.

However, I’m so fucking regretting it right now, having woken up to an empty tent.

The tent walls close in as scenarios cascade through my mind, Pierce’s people finding us, dragging him away while I slept like a fucking amateur?—

Luckily, the sound of the zip cuts through my racing thoughts.

Nicholas pushes through the entrance, and the panic in my chest loosens for exactly three seconds before I clock his expression.

“We have somewhat of a situation,” he says.

“What is it?”

He flashes his phone at me.

The screen displays a cascade of digital front pages, each headline more creatively catastrophic than the last.

The Daily Chronicle screams WHERE’S NICHOLAS?

Royal Tour Derailed by Prince’s Wild Disappearance alongside speculation about everything from a secret wedding to a mental breakdown.

The Celestial, never one for subtlety, blares NAUGHTY NICHOLAS DOES A RUNNER !

with helpful arrows pointing to a map of New Zealand marked with question marks, alongside a sidebar titled A History of Royal Rebellions .

My personal favorite is the New Zealand Talker’s British Prince on Unauthorized Hobbit Adventure ? complete with a photoshopped image of Nicholas’s head on Frodo’s body.

“We’re going to have every amateur royal hunter in the country trying to track me down,” Nicholas says grimly.

“Do you think this is Pierce’s doing, or something Callum and Oliver cooked up for the palace to explain canceling your official tour schedule?”

“I think it might be Pierce. After all, it works in his favor to have every amateur royal hunter in New Zealand desperately trying to track me down, doesn’t it?”

He quickly types something into his phone.

“It looks like the palace released an official statement claiming I had to cancel events because I was unwell, but that particular message has been drowned out by an anonymous source that says I’ve gone AWOL.”

“We need to hit the road. Now,” I say.

We’re loading our salvaged camping gear into the car when the German couple appears next to us.

“Such drama!” the woman exclaims, brandishing her phone like a trophy. “The English prince disappeared. Like David Copperfield, but royal!”

Nicholas plasters on a confused expression. “Who’s missing?”

The woman launches into an enthusiastic explanation involving hand gestures and at least three different conspiracy theories she’s gleaned from social media.

“Everyone thinks it’s a sex scandal.” She leans in conspiratorially. “It’s always sex with these royals. But I think it could be aliens.”

Nicholas makes a sound like a stepped-on cat that he tries to turn into a cough. “Fascinating. Though you’d think aliens would have better taste than the British monarchy.”

“Maybe he discovers Tinder?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “Swipe right on sheep farmer, fall in love, now living in mountains making cheese.”

“Maybe,” Nicholas says. “Anyway, it was lovely to meet you, thank you ever so much for your help with our tent last night.”

“You two are so sweet together,” she says. “Like newlyweds should be. I think you have a long and very happy life together.”

Nicholas’s shoulders stiffen.

“Ah… Thank you. We’re very happy together.” His voice cracks on the last word.

“Enjoy the rest of your honeymoon,” the man says with a smile.

We’re both slightly awkward as we drive away. I try to maintain the appropriate pace for honeymooning tourists who are not, in fact, the missing prince and his errant protection officer on the run.

When we get to an intersection, I pause.

“What direction do you think we should head in?”

Nicholas is studying the map on his phone.

“I think we should head back north. South is called the Desert Road, which doesn’t exactly reassure me that there’s a lot there.

Plus, they’ll be expecting us to head south, right?

If we head back to Lake Taupō, we’ll be heading in a direction they don’t suspect. ”

Nicholas’s tactical mind shouldn’t surprise me anymore. But the casual way he dissects our enemies’ thought patterns while absently adjusting those ridiculous glasses makes me want to kiss him.

Apparently, my type is posh princes who can outmaneuver terrorists while looking like they’ve been styled by a blind ferret.

This is the same mind that proposed turning his own kidnapping into a vehicle for colonial reparations, that saw opportunity where I only saw disaster.

I missed it for a long time, too blinded by my own prejudices to see that such an outstanding mind came camouflaged in designer suits and snarky humor.

Nicholas shifts in the passenger seat, and when I glance over, he’s watching the road with careful neutrality. The morning sun catches in his disaster of bleached hair, making it glow like something radioactive.

“Pierce has been cultivating assets for years,” I say, needing to fill the silence with something other than everything we’re not saying. “Building his network, waiting for the right moment.”

“A long game,” Nicholas says.

“He was always good at that. Seeing ten moves ahead while the rest of us were still figuring out the board.”

Nicholas is quiet for a moment, then asks, “Is that what drew you to undercover work? The chess match of it all?”

“Partly,” I admit. “There’s something about becoming someone else entirely. Learning their patterns, their tells. Getting so deep into a cover that you almost forget who you started as.”

“Sounds lonely,” he says.

“It can be. You can’t let anyone get too close.

Can’t form real connections because everything’s built on lies.

” The irony of saying this to him isn’t lost on either of us.

“But there’s also… I don’t know. A purpose to it.

Knowing you’re the only thing standing between civilians and people who’d hurt them. ”

“The protector,” Nicholas murmurs, almost to himself. “Always putting yourself between danger and everyone else.”

“Someone has to.”

He turns to face me properly, tucking one leg under himself. It’s such a casual gesture, like we’re having a normal conversation rather than fleeing for our lives. “But what about you? Who protects the protector?”

I keep my eyes on the road. “That’s not how it works.”

“Maybe it should be,” he says softly, and there’s something in his voice that makes my chest tighten.

But before I can even figure out what to say to that, he’s already turning back to the window.

“Tell me about your most dangerous undercover assignment,” he says, and just like that, we’re back on safer ground. “The one that made you realize you were good at this.”

I glance at him, recognizing the deflection for what it is. It’s a way to keep us talking without venturing into the minefield of whatever we are to each other now.

So I tell him about Belfast, about the Flannery crew and six months of living on the knife’s edge while my real life consisted of microwave dinners in a bedsit and visiting Malachy for his physio appointments every Tuesday at three.

Undercover work was complete immersion for me, a way to retreat from the reality of my own life.

And if my breath catches sometimes when he asks particularly insightful questions, if I notice the way his hands clench when I describe the close calls, well…

We’re both pretending not to notice a lot of things right now.

Nicholas tilts his head against the headrest. “I envy you,” he says quietly.

That catches me off guard. “You envy me?”

“My whole life is scripted.” Nicholas doesn’t look at me, instead watching the road unfold ahead.

“Every word vetted, every appearance choreographed. I’m currently in a stolen car with terrible hair dye, running from terrorists with an Irish detective who kidnapped me, and this feels like the most authentic I’ve been in years. ”

“Glad I could help with your authenticity journey,” I say dryly.