Page 63 of The Unlikely Heir
Callum’s been thrown into the limelight with little preparation, into a situation not his making.
Seeing his beautiful face downcast is more than I can bear. I know telling him to harden his outer shell encourages him to be something he’s not. And I would hate for him to become more jaded and cynical, to lose his special Callum-ness.
I feel helpless.
I can’t protect him from the legions of people waiting to tear him down.
All I can do is support him.
“You can’t control the narrative, Callum, and attempting to do so will drive you mad. Trust me, I know. You wouldn’t believe all the things that were said about me when Garett and I separated. It’s not fun being blamed for a divorce in the tabloids and on social media when you caught your husband fucking someone else.”
Callum’s eyes widen. “Garett cheated on you?”
It’s not something I’ve shared with anyone besides Toby, but I find myself okay with telling Callum.
“Yes. He cheated on me.”
“I’m so sorry, Oliver.”
I let out a large breath. “I guess, in a way, it was my fault. I wasn’t a particularly good husband. I was more focused on my job than on him.”
“You’re the prime minister running the country! I think that’s a decent excuse.”
“According to Garett, I’m incapable of love,” I say the words softly, but it doesn’t reduce their harshness. They still slice at me.
Callum makes a noise in his throat.
“Incapable of love? Oliver, you should hear the way you talk about your grandparents. You’re not incapable of love.”
“I did love him,” I say, and even I can hear the emptiness in my voice. “But maybe not quite enough.”
There’s silence between us.
Callum licks his bottom lip as he stares back at me. I can see the moisture lingering there, and focusing on it causes my heart to stutter in an erratic rhythm.
“Anyway, did you find some of your hidden magic anywhere today?” I ask, in a desperate attempt to change our conversation topic.
Callum’s taken to sending me photos of whimsical things to prove his theory that small things of beauty and magic are scattered across the world, waiting to be discovered.
It’s surprising how much a random photo of a potato shaped like a duck can make me smile.
“I was given a hot chocolate today after I dried off, and it had a white and pink marshmallow melted together in this gooey, perfect mess,” he says, and my shoulders relax. “I didn’t take a photo, though, because reporters were right there, and the press seems to be zeroing in on Callum the Klutz as my nickname. I didn’t want to confuse them by adding Callum the Weird to the contenders’ list.”
“It’s nice of you to be so considerate. You wouldn’t want to blow their tiny little brains. Besides, Callum the Klutz isn’t too bad. At least it has a nice alliteration.”
“Ivaylo, the Tsar of Bulgaria, was known as the Cabbage,” Callum says. “I’m just counting my blessings that I’m not being nicknamed a brassica vegetable.”
I snort. “You’re right. Brussels sprouts is still up for grabs.”
“I’m sure some people find me as unpalatable as Brussels sprouts. But if I was going to choose vegetables, I’d go with turnip.”
“Why turnip?”
“Because it’s just such a fun word to say. Feel the way your mouth moves as you say it.”
I can’t help following his instructions, and he’s right. The nip at the end is particularly satisfying.
And this is the reason I’m so addicted to talking to Callum. In a world where I can usually script what someone will say, Callum constantly surprises me.
