Page 46 of The Unlikely Spare
Nicholas’s lips twitch. “No? I found it quite striking. The way it glared at everyone…that air of perpetual disapproval…”
I shift my weight, maintaining my surveillance of the tent entrance. “Perhaps the camel and the person you’re thinking of share a similar professional burden.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“Being expected to work with annoying people for shite pay.”
Nicholas’s eyebrows shoot up, and for a brief moment, surprise registers on his face before it transforms into a delighted smile. “Well played, O’Connell. Though I must say, the camel seemed to handle the situation with more grace than the person I’m thinking of typically manages.”
“The camel has the advantage of being allowed to spit at irritants, sir.” I make my voice deliberately droll.
Nicholas throws his head back and laughs. It’s a genuine, unscripted laugh that transforms his face entirely.
Christ, that laugh hits me somewhere I don’t want to think about.
“Touché, O’Connell.”
My training has prepared me for many scenarios, but nothing in the Scotland Yard manual covers how to handle the sudden shortness of breath when Prince Nicholas looks at me like this, the laughter fading but his eyes lingering on mine, blue and bright.
The noise of the crowd outside the tent fades, replaced by the thundering of my own pulse in my ears. There’s a shift in the space between us, subtle as a loaded gun’s safety clicking off, and just as dangerous.
I should look away.
I need to look away.
But my body betrays me, my eyes staying glued to Nicholas’s.
A burst of radio static cuts through the air. The director’s assistant comes into the tent, clipboard clutched against her chest. “Sorry to interrupt—the demonstration’s starting in two minutes, Your Royal Highness.”
Nicholas blinks.
“Right. Mustn’t keep the helicopter waiting.” He glances at me, all business now. “Shall we, Officer O’Connell?”
I nod, swallowing hard to get some moisture back into my mouth.
We move through the crowd, Nicholas acknowledging people with nods and smiles while I try to regain my composure.
Fucking hell.
I take a shaky breath as I scan the crowd. What in the name of God was that about? What the fuck is wrong with me?
The next hour passes without incident. Nicholas mingles with doctors and nurses, laughs at the right moments during speeches, and manages to look genuinely interested in the detailed explanation of how medical equipment is modified for airborne use. It’s the performance I’ve come to expect from him.
Until I notice him slipping away from the main group.
I signal to Blake and follow, my feet slowing as Nicholas approaches a small boy sitting off to the side by himself, partially obscured by a tent awning. The child looks to be around seven or eight and is in a wheelchair.
Nicholas crouches to the boy’s eye level, extended hand waiting patiently until the child offers his own for a solemn shake. There’s no hint of pity or discomfort in Nicholas’s demeanor, just the same easy charm he offers everyone else.
“I’m Nick,” he says as if he’s just another attendee rather than second in line to the throne. “That helicopter was pretty brilliant, wasn’t it? Have you ever been in one?”
The boy nods shyly. “When I got hurt. I don’t remember much though.”
“Well, that’s probably for the best. They’re awfully noisy.” Nicholas leans in conspiratorially. “Once I was in one with my grandmother—she’s the Queen, you know—and it was so loud that when she asked me if I wanted a mint, I thought she said ‘hint,’ and I spent the entire flight wondering what secret message she was trying to tell me.”
The boy giggles. “That’s silly.”
“Extremely silly. I was very concerned. Royal hints are serious business.”
