Page 158 of The Unlikely Heir
“Well, there is one fromThe Daily Chronicleabout you attending the netball game,Prince Callum Demonstrates his Interest in Balls.”
“That’s almost clever,” I say.
Oliver continues to scroll through the news on his phone with a neutral expression when suddenly his eyebrows shoot up.
“Oh shit.” He straightens up on the couch.
“What is it?”
His dark eyes fly to mine. “My mother has just done a surprise interview with Jeremy Atkinson.”
“About what?”
“I’m guessing it’s not going to be about her crochet hobby.”
Oliver’s mother has remained uncharacteristically quiet on the subject of our relationship and engagement. But now she’s obviously sold her story to the most notorious interviewer in the UK, who tries to turn everything into a scandal.
“Hey, don’t forget my own sister conspired to murder me, so I’m always going to win the worst-behaving relative contest.” I manage to say the words lightheartedly, but Amelia’s betrayal still cuts me deep. Her trial and sentencing just emphasized the fact there are now more royal family members inside prison than out.
“I’m not sure if it’s an award either of us wants to win,” Oliver says.
I shuffle over to him, and he immediately reaches out an arm to draw me close, brushing a lock of hair off my forehead.
“Do you want to watch it?” I ask softly.
He takes a deep breath. “Sure, let’s see what wonderful insights my dearly beloved mother is ready to offer the nation.”
He clicks play and the video comes to life.
Jeremy Atkinson’s voice rings out of the phone. “So, with us today is Jenny Hartwell, mother of the former prime minister, who is soon to marry the Prince of Wales.
“Now, Jenny, I know you are estranged from your son, but I’m interested to know what your reaction was when you heard the news of the upcoming royal wedding?”
“I laughed,” she says.
“You laughed?”
“Yep, I laughed. I thought he’d risen above his station by becoming the prime minister, but now he’s found a way to become the bloody king of England!”
“Prince Consort,” Jeremy corrects.
“I don’t care what the label is. He’s going to wear a crown, innit he? And he’s got that position for life now. He doesn’t have to worry about getting elected every five years. You can always trust my Ollie to fall on his feet.”
“I actually fell in love, Mother, which is not quite the same thing,” Oliver says as he switches the clip off.
“You don’t think falling in love with me is falling on your feet?” I ask.
Oliver’s dark eyes find mine. “It’s more like being swept off my feet.”
“Because I’m like the tide, salty and unpredictable?”
“Because you are like a force of nature, unspeakably beautiful and impossible to resist.”
I roll my eyes. “This is what I get for falling in love with a politician—smooth sound bites.”
He laughs at me.
“Swept off my feet or falling on my feet. Either way, I’m yours,” he says.
