Page 61 of The Unlikely Heir
Who says Oliver would ever be interested in me in return? Just because he’s gay doesn’t mean he’s attracted to me. And just because I’ve realized I’m attracted to him doesn’t mean anything needs to change.
I can’t let my attraction get in the way of our friendship.
He’s too important to me.
ChapterFifteen
Oliver
“Bloody hell, what a day,” Toby says as the streets of Brussels rush past outside the car.
I rub my forehead. “I’ve definitely had better ones.”
Britain’s relationship with the EU has been tense since Brexit. No EU leader wants to be accused of signing any deal advantageous to the UK. I understand that. But it makes for a tough negotiation atmosphere. We’re supposed to hammer out a new agriculture trade deal this week, but instead, we’re stuck in a standoff with neither side willing to relent.
“Do you think we’ll get them to budge?” he asks.
“I think the environmental considerations are our best angle now,” I say. “The proximity of our markets and the lower carbon footprint have to be major considerations.”
Toby sends me a smirk. “Knowing you, you’ll be up all night reading reports on agricultural greenhouse emissions of every country so you can have all the facts and figures to reel off tomorrow,” he says.
I blink at him. Actually, I only have one plan once I reach my hotel room: track down the minibar, pour myself a large scotch, and call Callum.
Because that’s what Callum and I have been doing for the past few weeks. Video calling nearly every night.
I didn’t get to talk to him last night because I was at a function until midnight, and the night before that, Callum was attending a performance of the London Symphony Orchestra, so after two days of not speaking to him, I have an irrational urge to hear his voice, see his face.
I know it isn’t healthy to spend so much time talking to Callum. Especially when I’ve identified some nonplatonic feelings towards him.
But it’s like an addiction. Something you know will cause you pain in the long-term, but you can’t summon the willpower to quit.
The car pulls up at our hotel, and Toby, me, and our security detail disembark.
Toby scowls at his phone as we walk through the lobby. “Bloody Harry Matheson.”
“What’s he done now?”
“Just more of his usual nonsense about how we’re out of touch with what the public wants. I love how the man born with a silver spoon up his arse pretends to be so in tune with the average voter.”
“Pretty sure you’re mixing up your metaphors there,” I say.
“I think it works for Harry Matheson.”
We reach the lifts, stepping in. “You don’t want to meet up for a drink later?” Toby asks as he punches the button to our floor.
“No thanks. I’m just going to unwind in my room.” I’ve got an itchy feeling under my skin as the lift ascends. Classic addiction symptoms. My private phone is so close, and I might already have a message waiting for me from Callum.
I’m trying not to think about what it means that my day doesn’t feel complete if I haven’t talked to the Prince of Wales.
The lift dings and the door opens.
“Goodnight,” I say, trying not to look like I’m fleeing to the privacy of my room.
I get inside, pull off my tie and undo the top button of my shirt. Just then, my phone on the desk starts to vibrate.
I can’t help my smile when I see Callum’s incoming video call.
I press Accept.
