Page 1 of The Unlikely Heir
ChapterOne
Callum
Don’t panic.Don’t panic. This isn’t the worst date in history. I mean, Napoleon probably dated, right? And Mussolini. Even Pol Pot may have attempted wining and dining some unlucky person. Surely, I’m providing better company than self-centered murderous dictators?
Although they probably never spilled a whole glass of red wine over their date’s scallops and onto their blouse like I’ve just done.
“I’m really sorry,” I say again as Emily ineffectively mops at the stain with her napkin. It’s an interesting stain that looks like a mutant sheep if you squint at it. But I’ve learned over the years that sharing these random observations my brain conjures up never ends well, and I have a feeling it applies even more right now.
Instead, I go for something more socially acceptable. “I’ll pay for dry cleaning.”
Emily gives me a withering look to indicate that, yes, there is definitely a future dry-cleaning bill with my name on it.
“I’m sorry.” Is there a statutory limit for how much you’re allowed to apologize? I may have reached it. “I’ve always been very expressive with my hands when I talk,” I add. It’s true. Her glass of red wine isn’t my first casualty.
Her forehead tightens. “I noticed.”
Maybe we could’ve laughed together over my mishap if the date had been going well. Unfortunately, our date had seemed destined to crash and burn in some spectacular way since she’d first sat down and regarded me with an eager expression.
“So, you’re doing a master’s degree in history? I’d love to hear all about it.”
“Oh. That.” I blinked. “Yeah, I haven’t updated my profile for a while. I…uh…quit that last year. It was taking me forever, and I wasn’t even close to finishing my thesis…”
“What are you doing now?”
“Working in a call center. For an insurance company.”
I never knew someone’s lips could disappear so fast. It was almost like she’d swallowed them along with her sip of chardonnay. “Right,” she said.
I’m used to my job being a conversation killer, which is a shame because I actually have some interesting work stories to share.
If anyone can offer good advice for life, it’s people who work in the insurance industry.
Why, only yesterday, I’d dealt with a case of a woman who somehow found herself on a rural road in her Ferrari surrounded by a herd of goats. She’d beeped at them to try to get them to move, which resulted in scaring the goats and two of them jumping onto her car and damaging the hood. There’s a very good lesson: if you ever find yourself stranded on a deserted road surrounded by goats, the horn is not a good option.
And I really like my job most of the time. I love that I’m helping people. People who call me are usually upset because something bad has happened to them, and I always try my best to leave them happier when they hang up. It’s my own small way of sprinkling some sunshine over the world.
But Emily doesn’t seem interested in hearing about insurance-industry insights.
She obviously mistakenly inferred from my profile that I’m some high-flying academic and is now disappointed with the real me.
Disappointment seems to be a common emotion for people after they meet me, at least on dates.
If a person’s outward appearance could ever be accused of false advertising, it would be mine. My mother was a model and actress known for her beauty, and I look a lot like her.
Unfortunately, the genetic gods also gave me a bumbling personality, an intense interest in unusual topics, and an offbeat sense of humor.
“Your problem is you’re too good-looking,” my friend, Scott, once informed me after we’d had a few too many shots of tequila that acted like a truth serum for him. “Women want to date you based on what you look like, but after getting to know you, they decide your looks aren’t enough to compensate for your oddities.”
“I’m glad I’m doing my bit to teach the women of the world that looks aren’t everything,” I’d muttered as I poured my next shot.
“It really is your public service,” Scott had agreed.
I try to laugh it off, and my dating failures are the frequent topic of amusement on the message loop with me, Scott, and our other friend, Cliff.
I can already imagine how the guys will react when I tell them about this date.
I have a brief but intense pang for my mother. She wasn’t a perfect mom, but she always had my back.
