Page 20 of The Unlikely Heir
I can’t help staring out the window in fascination. The rolling countryside of England is so different from California. Everything is so green and fresh. It’s like the grass here is on steroids.
One day, I will be the king of this country. I will join an unbroken chain of my ancestors as rulers of this ancient land.
Yeah, I still haven’t quite wrapped my head around that.
Raymond’s voice wrenches me back to the present.
“It’s select media only inside, so no one will ask you awkward questions. You just need to show up, smile, and demonstrate to the British public that the royal family is still serving the country.”
I nod. “I think I can handle that.”
Easy words to say, but as we drive into the parking lot for the wildlife reserve, my stomach is a pit of queasiness.
“Shit,” Raymond says.
I follow his gaze, and my nausea increases. I wholeheartedly agree with his assessment.
It might be select media only inside the reserve, but it appears every outlet without an invite, from the BBC to Bob’s Backyard Blog, has decided to converge in the parking lot.
Raymond’s on his wrist mic, talking to my security team in the car behind ours, and when our car lurches to a halt, several men in crisp suits jump out and barge their way through the media scrum to reach our Range Rover.
It feels like a bad tactical move because it tips the media off as to which car I’m in, and suddenly everyone rushes toward our car, yelling questions.
“Prince Callum, how are you feeling?
“Your Royal Highness, do you really think an American can be king of England?”
“Is there anything you want to say to people calling for the abolishment of the monarchy?”
This is madness. Utter madness. How can this be my life now?
Raymond turns to look at me.
“You ready?” he asks.
The honest answer to that is a definite no. I feel about as ready as a first-time bungee jumper with vertigo.
But I think of my grandmother and the promise I made to her, and I offer a stiff nod.
I don’t know by what magic Raymond communicates my agreement to the security team, but suddenly one of them opens the door, and I’m propelled into the media maelstrom.
The flashes of cameras are blinding and the noise of reporters yelling questions deafens me, but I plaster a polite smile as my security team clears a path for me.
Two members of my security team are pressed against me. Normally I’d expect to know the name of the people I’m so close to, but this doesn’t seem like the right time for extended introductions.
Once we’ve made it safely through the door, my security team peels away from me, leaving me blinking and bewildered.
“Your Royal Highness.” A bespectacled woman with long silver hair comes forward, giving an awkward curtsey. “I’m Jessica Boris, president of the Sooty Bottom Wildlife Reserve. It’s an honor to have you here with us today.”
“The honor is all mine,” I reply as I extend my hand and she shakes it.
There’s the clicking of cameras, and I glance up to see about a dozen photographers snapping away frantically on the far side of the room.
At least these invited media have better manners than the ones outside and keep a respectful distance as Jessica introduces me to her other team members.
I shake everyone’s hands. Thankfully British good manners mean no one comments on my sweaty palms.
“Would you like to go on a tour of our reserve?” Jessica asks once she’s finished the introductions.
