Page 118 of The Unlikely Heir
“I think he did a great job.” I try to keep the bristle out of my voice, but Garett knows me too well. He can hear the off-note in my tone.
His eyebrows tilt up and he squints at me. “How well do you know him?”
“I’ve spent a bit of time with him. He was at Balmoral while I was there over the summer.”
“Is he the dimwitted himbo he comes across as?”
“No. He’s actually one of the cleverest people I’ve ever met,” I say coolly.
Defending Callum to Garett will only raise his suspicion, but I can’t help myself. I won’t let anyone disparage Callum in my presence.
My eyes slide back to Callum, where he’s still on the stage. Someone has given him a towel to dry his hair. He’s taken off his bow tie and unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt so he can dry his neck. Even seeing him expose that amount of skin has me aching to touch him.
He leans forward to talk to a child, and the chain around his neck tumbles out. The chain that contains the dog tags I gave him. The fact that Callum is wearing my dog tags instantly makes my heart swell. Until I realize there’s one other person in the world who would recognize my grandad’s dog tags. Dog tags that have holes punched in both the bottom and the top.
And that person is standing right next to me.
I shoot a look at Garett. His mouth has dropped open, his eyes wide as he stares at the dog tags around Callum’s neck.
Fuck.
Garett turns to me, the shock evident on his face.
“What the hell?” he asks.
I need to leave.
I don’t normally back down from confrontations, but this really isn’t a conversation I want to have right now.
I turn on my heel, pushing through the crowd until I reach the corridor leading to the toilets. It’s empty, and I continue to stride down it. But I’m not fast enough. Based on the footfalls behind me, Garett is gaining on me.
“Oliver.”
I whirl to face him. “What?”
Garett stops still, his intense gaze not leaving my face. “Do you want to tell me why the Prince of Wales is wearing your grandfather’s dog tags?”
“I’m sure there are many sets of dog tags in the world,” I say. It’s a classic politician non-answer, something factually correct that doesn’t actually address the question.
And Garett sees right through it.
“Show me your dog tags then.”
I just stare at him.
Disbelief blooms on his face as he shakes his head. “What the fuck, Oliver? Like seriously, what the absolute fuck?”
“I’m not discussing this with you.” My voice is clipped. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”
Garett is still staring at me like I’ve grown several new heads.
“What about your precious career? Your career was worth so much more than me, yet you’re willing to risk it on some fling with the Prince of Wales. Have you lost your mind?”
Garett continues to glare at me. For the first time in our relationship, I’m struggling to know how to answer him.
How can I explain to my ex-husband that no matter what else happens in my life, when I’m on my deathbed, I’m going to be thinking about Callum. That having had the privilege to kiss him, touch him, will be my most treasured memory.
“You never gave me your grandfather’s dog tags to wear.” He’s trying for derision, but I can hear an underlying layer of hurt in his voice.
