Page 19 of The Unlikely Spare
I collapse against the wall, the cold stone seeping through my shirt. The rush of anger fades, leaving behind the clammy aftermath of adrenaline and shame.
Bloody hell.
What does O’Connell know about family loyalty anyway? In his world, perhaps mothers actually deserve the devotion their children give them. Perhaps in his world, mothers don’t betray their children.
Did my mother rehearse that performance while dressing for dinner? Practice that trembling lip in her vanity mirror? Did she cry like that when she handed Daniel an envelope stuffed with cash, trying to pretend it upset her to discover that her son’s happiness was a negotiable commodity with a specific price tag?
I pull myself to my feet, the room spinning slightly as the champagne reminds me of its presence. I need to get to bed.
Tomorrow’s royal engagements await, with O’Connell shadowing my every move. The thought of spending another day under his judgmental gaze makes my skin itch.
But I have no other choice.
Chapter Six
Nicholas
Of all the duties required in royal life, judging a gingerbread house competition at St. Margaret’s Community Center is one that falls into the category of enjoyable.
“The architectural vision is quite…avant-garde,” I say diplomatically, circling what can only be described as the Leaning Tower of Gingerbread. The creator is a fierce-looking grandmother with biceps that suggest she could bench-press me should my critique displease her. However, she beams with pride at my words.
This is my life. Judging biscuit-based structures while smartphone cameras document every reaction, ready to declare me either a people’s prince or an out-of-touch aristocrat based on my assessment of frosting techniques.
Unfortunately, it’s not just the public that judges my every move.
After I carefully sample a fragment of gingerbread wall that’s been offered to me on a Christmas-themed napkin and make an exaggerated “mmm” that causes a ripple of delighted giggles from the children gathered around, I can’t help but glance at my newest protection officer. He’s standing at the edge of the roomwith his arms crossed, his granite face unchanged as though he’s witnessing a tax audit rather than a festive community event.
He meets my eyes, and his expression darkens.
It’s fair to say that things haven’t been going swimmingly with my newest protection officer over the past few weeks.
Last week, after I’d charmed my way through an excruciating poetry reading at the cultural festival, making the amateur poet believe I’d found his seventeen-stanza ode to daffodils thoroughly moving, the best Officer O’Connell offered me was a flat stare.
Yesterday, I managed to turn a potential PR disaster with the children’s choir, who’d forgotten half the words to the national anthem, into an endearing moment by joining in with exaggerated patriotic fervor. Officer Singh had been on duty as well, and he’d also gotten into the spirit, singing “God Save the Queen” in a surprisingly robust baritone. But Officer O’Connell had just stood there with a scowl.
It’s like living with a human-shaped disapproval machine programmed specifically to find fault with everything I do.
I’d unburdened myself to Callum while visiting him at Clarence House last week. He’d sympathized, but had offered his typical American optimism.
“Maybe things will improve as you get to know each other.”
“And maybe Grandmother will announce she’s taking up competitive skateboarding in her spare time,” I’d replied.
I hated that O’Connell had been fooled by my mother’s manipulation, had seen me at a moment of vulnerability with my shields down. I hated how he now seems to watch everything I do with a sneer.
He is such a judgmental prick.
In desperation, I’d even approached Rick Cavendish, quietly asking if Officer O’Connell could be reassigned due to apersonality clash. Only to discover that O’Connell had been specifically assigned to me following a security review.
“Unfortunately, security personnel assignments are not a buffet, Your Royal Highness,” Rick said. “Unless you have specific concerns about Officer O’Connell’s job performance, he’s here to stay until RaSP decides otherwise.”
It was delightful to discover that my security team is just another aspect of my life that I don’t control.
I soon discover that another uncontrollable situation is arising because I made the innocent mistake of accepting one bite of gingerbread. I’m suddenly at the center of what can only be described as the Great British Cake Offensive. A small girl with pigtails thrusts a frosting-covered roof tile toward my mouth while a teenage boy extends a gingerbread chimney with such enthusiasm I fear it might go up my nose.
My royal training never covered graceful exits from death-by-dessert scenarios.
My eyes slide to Officer O’Connell, who is still standing there with his arms folded across his chest, radiating the festive cheer of Scrooge’s pre-ghost phase, but with better shoulders.
