Page 84 of The Unlikely Heir
I see his lips twitching like he wants to smile, but he manages to wrestle it back.
“I really want to know how I can get things back to how they were before,” I continue.
Oliver studies the carpet for a long moment before replying.
“Do you think we can just be friends?” he asks, his voice low.
It’s not a rhetorical question. It sounds like he really wants to know my opinion.
And when he looks up to meet my gaze, I see something flickering in his eyes that I don’t expect.
Something that turns my mouth instantly dry.
Want.
Oliver Hartwell is looking at me like he really, really wants me.
Shit. Oh, holy shit.
My eyes fall to his lips and the memory rushes back to me. Suddenly all I want to do is kiss Oliver again.
For an insane second, I don’t care that we’re surrounded by my family and other dignitaries, that there are probably hundreds of photographers focused on these windows and any sign of affection between us would melt the internet.
I just want to touch Oliver.
I have to exert physical willpower not to raise my hand to his face, not to trail my fingertips along the stubble of his jawline or lean toward him.
I force myself to take a step back. “We can try.”
But my words are weak.
Oliver lets out a small exhale. A muscle in his jaw works.
I hold my breath like I’m waiting for a judge to announce his verdict. Or for the executioner’s axe to fall.
“It’s too dangerous. The stakes are too high if we screw up,” he says finally.
My stomach drops. But I nod because he’s right. Of course he’s right. Oliver is a smart man. An exceptionally intelligent, perceptive person. There’s a reason the Labour MPs chose him to lead their party, and the UK chose him to be their prime minister.
“I think if we go back to what we were, we’ll open ourselves up to a temptation neither of us can afford,” he continues, and part of my heart breaks at his words. He’s correct in this too. I can’t imagine talking to Oliver without wanting him.
But not talking to him isn’t the option I want either.
Unfortunately, it’s not just my decision. And I can see in his eyes that Oliver is resolute.
“Are you saying you don’t trust I won’t jump you at a weak moment?” I try to inject some humor into this, try to cover up all the hurt and devastation I’m feeling right now.
But Oliver doesn’t even attempt to upturn his mouth as he stares at me seriously.
“I trust you,” he says softly. “I just don’t trust myself.”
ChapterTwenty
Callum
The weeks of summer continue to pass by in a blur of royal engagements and missing Oliver.
Then, just as London consistently has temperatures that feel like summer to this Californian, it’s time to decamp to Scotland. Because that makes sense. Who needs the undiluted summer sun when you can have it combined with a sharp breeze coming off the Arctic?
