Page 33 of The Unlikely Heir
My stomach clenches at the expression on his face. The hollowed-out look, with something else lurking there as well. It looks a lot like loneliness.
A loneliness no amount of funny quips can mask.
Fuck. How have I not realized how alone Callum Prescott is right now? Both of his parents are dead. His friends back in America are racing to sell him out to the highest bidder. He’s got two half-siblings he hardly knows, and from what I know of Prince Nicholas, he’s probably not hiding his enthusiasm for Callum to stumble so he can swoop in as heir.
Callum might have his grandmother’s support, but she’s busy with all her duties as the sovereign and trying to hold the monarchy together. And as much as I like and admire the queen, she’s not exactly the embodiment of a warm and cuddly grandmother.
Sympathy for the guy swells inside me.
“Hey, I get it,” I say, my voice soft. “When I first got into politics, you wouldn’t believe all the maggots that crawled out of the closet to claim their five minutes of fame.”
Including my own mother. But I don’t want to think about that now.
Callum raises his gaze to mine. His eyelashes have clumped together in stars.
“There is definitely some creepy-crawly behavior going on,” he says. “And it’s…hard when the whole world suddenly decides to have an opinion on you.”
I take a small step towards him. “Listen, Callum, I can’t pretend to understand completely, but I do have some idea of what you’re going through. I came from a very different background too.”
He draws a shaky breath. “I’m guessing the distance from a council estate in Essex to Westminster is metaphorically similar to the distance from California to Buckingham Palace.”
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
“Hey, don’t underestimate my Google-stalking skills,” he says, offering me a glimmer of a smile.
I feel my own smile tugging at my lips.
“Do you want my private number?” The words are out of me before I can think. Fuck. What the hell am I doing?
He blinks at me.
“I’m just thinking you might need someone to talk to, someone who’s been through something similar, who you can trust isn’t going to blurt things out to the press,” I continue.
My offer hangs in the air between us. Callum blinks again.
“Thanks. I would actually really appreciate that,” he says finally.
He gets out his phone, and I rapidly reel off my private number, not pausing to second-guess myself. I mean, I promised Queen Katharine I would support the monarchy through this crisis, and isn’t that what I’m doing right now? Callum obviously needs someone to talk to, and I definitely understand the fish-out-of-water feeling he’s struggling with right now.
What I don’t understand is why my pulse races as I watch Callum carefully input my number into his phone. He’s an attractive man, but he’s also a member of the royal family. This is not the same as me giving a good-looking guy my number.
My heart doesn’t seem to know that though.
“Thanks,” he says when he finishes.
“No problem.”
We just stand there for a few heartbeats, staring at each other.
“Now, Prime Minister, you must tell us your predictions for the Rugby World Cup.”
It’s Semesa Ratu, Fiji’s prime minister, accompanied by the prime ministers of Tonga and Kiribati.
I turn away from Callum to face them, not sure if I’m grateful for the interruption or not.
* * *
It’s after eleven o’clock by the time I make it home.
