Page 50 of The Unlikely Heir
His West Ham cap is perched slightly lopsided on his head, and his eyes sparkle at me like emeralds catching the sun, and bloody hell, it appears I’m turning into an amateur poet.
His smile morphs into an impish grin as I slide back into the booth. “Your pie arrived, and I may have taken a bite.”
My stomach lurches.
Holy shit.
I’ve dealt with countless crises in my three years as prime minister. Economic, social, national security.
But it appears spending an evening with the future king is what will defeat me.
Because I suddenly realize my problem isn’t that I’m attracted to Callum. My problem is I’mcharmedby him. And that feels like a much more dangerous proposition.
I glance down at the plate of pie in front of me, noting the missing spoonful.
“I’m not certain if nicking a person’s pie is in the royal etiquette book,” I say.
He gives me an innocent look. “I was just checking to make sure it wasn’t poisonous.”
“Right, because that’s historically been the role of royalty, to check for poison on other people’s plates.”
Callum laughs.
And I try not to notice how his whole face lights up.
“To my knowledge, no British monarchs have ever died by poisoning, despite what Shakespeare might have you believe,” Callum says. “Sixty died of natural causes, fifteen were killed in battle, nineteen were assumed to have been murdered, assassinated, or executed, and three died accidentally.”
“That feels like a morbid set of facts for you to know,” I comment.
“Well, when I learned it, I didn’t think being king was in my future, did I? Besides, the odds are still in my favor for natural causes.”
“I’m not entirely convinced a monarch’s odds for death by natural causes is quite as good as the general population,” I say.
“Uneasy is the head that wears the crown,” Callum offers. He leans forward and takes a spoonful of his own apple crumble. He has long fingers that delicately wrap around his spoon. How can the way someone holds their cutlery captivate me?
I wrench my gaze away.
“I’m impressed that you quoted it correctly. Most people go with ‘heavy is the head that wears the crown’ rather than the original version,” I say.
“I’ve studied a bit of Shakespeare,” Callum says. “But I’m not sure if that’s a good thing right now.”
I frown. “Why not?”
“Well, Shakespeare didn’t exactly portray any royalty as having a long and happy life.”
I can’t help a small chuckle at that.
“Do you know how historically accurate Shakespeare’s plays actually are?” I ask.
“Well, he did portray King John as dying by poison, whereas historians believe he actually died of dysentery. Which I guess wouldn’t be an attractive scene played out on stage.”
“Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.”
Callum grins. “I think you’ve just stumbled across the motto for the British press.”
The sound of our laughter blending together causes my heart to hiccup.
A movement catches the corner of my eye. It’s Dennis’s head jerking up at the sound of my laughter. He turns to stare at me, his eyebrows rising. I guess I don’t laugh that much.
