Page 82 of The Unlikely Heir
“I can imagine the Walthamstow racecourse had a slightly different clientele than here,” Nicholas says. From his tone, it’s impossible to know if he’s trying to empathize with Oliver or pass judgment on his background.
Oliver’s lip curls in amusement. “Just slightly.” He takes a sip of his glass of champagne.
“Isn’t your government introducing legislation to curtail dog racing?” Nicholas asks.
“We’re looking to regulate the industry so animal welfare is the primary consideration, yes,” Oliver says.
“And you’ve done that despite your own history with dog races?” Nicholas asks.
“My job is to do what’s right for the country, personal feelings aside,” Oliver says.
“That’s the job of the monarchy as well,” Nicholas says. “To put the country first.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Oliver replies. His gaze snaps to mine for a second before he glances away.
A lump grows in my throat.
Is there a double meaning in his words? Is he trying to explain why he abruptly cut off our friendship after we kissed?
I guess it is a valid point that it’s better for the UK if the Prince of Wales and the prime minister aren’t being distracted from their jobs by kissing each other.
I grab my own glass of champagne from one of the servers circulating because I’m fairly sure I’m going to need alcohol to get through the experience of having Oliver so close yet so far away.
Sure enough, the next few hours are agonizing.
I watch Oliver as he observes the races, cheering for the horses he’s placed bets on and talking with everyone who approaches him.
He’s charming and witty within the confines of his stern persona, but he’s not the real Oliver.
He’s not telling extremely bad jokes.
He’s not smiling my favorite smile, where one side of his mouth quirks up.
He’s the public Oliver, the charming yet serious prime minister.
More than anything, I want to see the real Oliver. Just to check that he wasn’t a figment of my imagination.
So, as everyone is fluttering around putting bets on the last race, I sidle closer to Oliver, who is finally, finally, standing by himself.
“Do you want to hear a horse racing joke?” I ask quietly.
Oliver snaps his head up from where he’s been studying his ticket. My heart beats faster just from having his dark eyes focused on me.
“What joke?” he asks. I’m not sure if he’s looking hesitant because we’re alone for the first time today or because he knows from experience he should always have this kind of hesitancy when it comes to my jokes.
“I bet on a horse to come in at ten to one, and it did!”
Two small creases form in the center of his forehead, and he tilts his head. “Why is that a joke?”
“Unfortunately, all the others came in at twelve-thirty.”
Oliver just looks at me for a few moments, his face expressionless. Surely he understood the joke and I don’t need to explain it?
“I think we have a new contender for the worst joke ever told,” he says finally.
Yep, he definitely got it.
“Quite possibly,” I agree. Happiness flushes through me. I feel lightheaded and breathless just from being close to Oliver.
