Page 86 of The Unlikely Heir
Shit. I hadn’t realized I would inherit everything when my grandmother passes away.
All the stories of the betrayals and backstabbing among the royal family flash through my mind.
“Anyway, I think it would be a good idea if you are gone before the Ghillies Ball,” Gran says to Edwin.
“So now I’m not allowed to go to the ball either?” Somehow Edwin, as a fifty-year-old man, manages to channel a sulky Cinderella.
“It would not be a good look. Especially as the prime minister will be present,” Gran says.
I almost choke on my mouthful of green beans.
“The prime minister is coming here?” I clarify when I can talk. But it appears I still don’t have full control of my body as my voice manages to rise an octave in that sentence.
“Yes, it’s customary for the current prime minister to visit Balmoral in summer while I’m in residence. It happens every year.”
My stomach churns.
I haven’t spoken to Oliver in three weeks.
But because it appears I have a previously undiscovered masochistic side of my personality, my current extracurricular activity is re-reading the old message chains between Oliver and me. Not caught up in the pressure of having to answer him, I’ve been able to dwell on the content of the messages and how much Oliver revealed about himself over the few months we were communicating.
And I think I like the guy more now than I did before.
His sense of humor. His acute observations and brilliant mind. His kindness.
It’s a slight balm to know the reason we’re not communicating right now is because he feels something for me too.
And I get it. I totally understand. He’s right that nothing good can come from continuing our friendship now that we know mutual attraction exists.
But Oliver is coming here tomorrow, and we’re going to be in close proximity. Balmoral Castle is big, but there’s no way we can avoid each other completely.
How am I going to cope with the next few days?
ChapterTwenty-One
Oliver
My chauffeured car crosses the bridge and sweeps through the ornate wrought-iron gates propped open to allow our entrance.
I’ve been to Balmoral every summer since I became prime minister. But even on my first visit, nerves weren’t clamping down in my stomach like they are now.
I’m about to see Callum.
There have been so many moments in the last month when I’ve picked up my phone to video call him. Just to see his face, hear his voice. I’ve started so many different messages to him, only to stop myself from sending them.
Because the craving I have to communicate with him reinforces how important it is that I don’t.
Cold turkey. Detoxification. Staying on the wagon.
I always judged my mother for her addiction to alcohol and drugs, and there’s been a spiteful tinge to my successful resistance to contacting Callum.
See, Mother, I can do it. I can resist the thing I want the most in this world because I know it’s bad for me. It just takes willpower.
Balmoral Castle comes into view. It is truly the definition of a fairy-tale castle. But as the car stops outside the main door, the turrets and majestic spires of Balmoral don’t inspire anything but trepidation.
My heart thuds. My mouth goes dry.
I step out of the car. A small welcoming party is waiting for me.
