Page 110 of The Unlikely Spare
I nod, not entirely appeased. But I’m willing to accept the compromise for now.
“For what it’s worth”—Eoin’s voice drops lower—“your ex was an idiot to accept fifty thousand pounds in exchange for giving you up.”
Despite everything, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch upward. “Oh? What would your price be, Officer O’Connell?”
His eyes meet mine. “There isn’t one,” he says simply.
And God help me, I believe him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Eoin
I hate tourist attractions.
Give me the backstreets of Belfast or London’s worst neighborhoods any day. At least there, you know where the threats are coming from. But places like this Hobbiton movie set, with its perfectly manicured fantasy landscape, are a feckin’ security nightmare wrapped in Technicolor whimsy.
“Do the hobbits have a particular policy on royal visits? I’d hate to violate some ancient Middle-earth protocol about second breakfasts or inadvertently cause a diplomatic incident with the elves,” Nicholas says as we follow the tour guide along a winding path between hobbit holes.
Our guide is a chipper Kiwi woman with an encyclopedic knowledge of Tolkien and an impressive ability to walk backward without tripping over the uneven terrain.
She laughs. “Oh, you’re fine as long as you don’t refuse elevenses. The last noble who did that got pelted with mushrooms behind the Green Dragon.”
I scan the small crowd that’s been cleared for this private tour—mostly staff and a few pre-vetted VIPs who paid obscene amounts to charity for the privilege of watching a prince pretend to be interested in movie sets.
“Is there a homeowner’s association for Hobbiton? I imagine the bylaws about door colors and garden gnome placement must be absolutely draconian,” Nicholas drawls.
Nicholas continues to surprise me. I’ve just told him there’s an active terrorist threat against him. Yet he’s practically glowing with practiced enthusiasm, managing to look delighted by the vegetable garden props while simultaneously maintaining perfect posture.
I now understand how his lifetime of pretending goes even deeper than I realized.
The knowledge of what he shared in the car sits like a stone in my gut. Daniel. The boyfriend who took the money and ran, proving to Nicholas that his trust and his heart could be bought and sold like any other commodity. And his mother, orchestrating the whole betrayal.
I think of his mother when I met her at Rosemere Hall. How easily I’d been taken in by her tears like some green rookie. I’d been manipulated into thinking Nicholas was a callous, inconsiderate son, and I’m sure I’m not the first person she’s convinced of that.
Shame burns through me as I remember that night. How quick I was to judge him based on a performance I didn’t even know was staged. A man who’d lost his mother watching another man dismiss his—it wasn’t my finest moment of objectivity.
I’d been so ready to see the worst in him, so eager to confirm my prejudices about the Monarchy, that I’d fallen for his mother’s manipulation without question.
My mam said you could judge a man by how he treats his mother. But she never warned me about mothers who weaponize their children’s love against them.
Add to that his sister’s betrayal and it’s no wonder Nicholas hides behind those walls of sarcasm. No wonder he treats everyone’s motives with suspicion.
Christ, I’m in so deep I can’t see daylight anymore.
I knew I couldn’t be professional anymore, and that’s why I had to leave. But the threat assessment changed, and suddenly, I couldn’t abandon him to an unknown enemy.
And now, every hour I spend with him, every wall he lets down, everything he shares with me, pulls me deeper into something that’s going to wreck me when it ends.
Because it will end.
Princes like Nicholas don’t end up with lads from the Belfast slums, not even in fairy tales. This theme park might be Middle-earth, but even Tolkien knew better than to write hobbits marrying into royalty.
I take a deep breath. Focus on the task at hand. Identify the sleeper agent, neutralize any risks to Nicholas.
I’ll worry about picking up the pieces of whatever’s left of Eoin O’Connell when this assignment ends and I’m back in some gray London office, pretending I don’t know exactly how his voice sounds when he says my name.
“And this,” the guide announces with theatrical flair, pulling me from my dark thoughts, “is Bag End, Bilbo and Frodo’s home. The most famous hobbit hole in all of Middle-earth.”
