Page 141 of The Unlikely Spare
“Honeymoon?”
“Well, why else am I not sleeping tonight? And people won’t expect Prince Nicholas with a man, will they? It’s the perfect cover story.”
“Cover story,” I repeat. “Right.”
Eoin just stares at me.
I clear my throat, stepping back before I do something spectacularly stupid.
“Food.” I’m proud that my voice only cracks slightly. “We should definitely focus on food next.”
The communal cooking area consists of two rust-spotted barbecues and a splintering picnic table. Together, we set up thecharcoal and fire starters underneath the grill. Unfortunately, our dinner prospects from the car’s previous owners are eclectic at best: half a packet of sausages of questionable origin, three bruised apples, and a tin of baked beans.
“Gourmet camping cuisine,” I say.
“I’m sure the Michelin stars are imminent,” Eoin says wryly as I fumble with the fire starter.
After a few seconds, he steps in. “Let me do it. I wouldn’t want you burning yourself on our honeymoon, sweetheart.”
Despite my best intentions, the endearment sends a flush of warmth through me.
And I can’t help myself. I lean into the performance, my hand finding the small of his back. “My hero. However did I land such a capable husband?”
A young couple at the other barbecue smiles at us indulgently. Eoin’s ears pink slightly, but he plays along, his arm sliding around my waist. “Just lucky, I suppose.”
Standing cooking hip-to-hip with him feels right.
But it’s not real. This is just an interlude where I can pretend not to be a prince, pretend to simply be a man in love on my honeymoon. Pretend that this is not another elaborate deception.
Yet I can’t help leaning into Eoin, tucking myself beneath his chin. The other couple has returned to their tent, leaving us alone with the dying barbecue coals and this dangerous pantomime.
“You’re rather good at this,” I murmur against his neck, feeling the slight hitch in his breathing. “Playing husband.”
His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on my hip. “Just following your lead, Your—” He catches himself, my title dying on his lips. “Nicholas.”
His mouth brushes my forehead, just a whisper of lips, and I tilt my face up to meet his eyes.
There’s a question there, and I can’t stop myself from answering it in the most definitive way possible.
I stretch up and close the distance between us.
It’s a gentle kiss, lips soft and searching. It’s the first time we’ve kissed since I discovered Eoin’s real identity.
It’s a kiss full of longing, of impossible tomorrows. And it tells the story of how much I still want him.
You can’t hide anything in a kiss. At least, I can’t.
His hand cradles the back of my head, fingers tangling gently in my chemically abused hair.
Eoin kisses me like he wants to keep me safe, like he’s trying to build a fortress around us with nothing but careful lips and firm hands.
Unfortunately, our sausages have other plans.
The smell of burning meat and the acrid smoke makes us spring apart like guilty teenagers, both breathing unsteadily.
“Shite.” Eoin lunges for the tongs while I grab the plate, both of us suddenly occupied by the mechanics of not burning down the entire campground.
Which is a good thing, as it gives me a chance to reset my pulse to its usual tempo.
