Page 61 of The Unlikely Spare
Why does the idea that he might want me fill me with such elation?
I’ve had many people, both women and men, be attracted to me. Usually, it’s a fleeting amusement, a predictable reaction to the royal title and whatever charm I’ve bothered to deploy that day. People desiring the idea of me, the prince in their fantasy, is as commonplace as champagne at palace functions.
So why does this particular man’s attraction matter to me quite so much?
Our small group forms a semicircle facing the rock, respecting the boundaries established by Uncle Darren Minyintiri, the A?angu Elder conducting this dawn ceremony. His face carries the lines of a thousand stories. When he speaks about connection to country, his voice resonates with a depth that makes even my royal cynicism pause.
“This land remembers all who have walked upon it,” he says, gesturing toward Ulu?u.
I remember from the lecture I watched on the plane that people have been in Australia for at least sixty thousand years. Which makes the monarchy look rather like weekend tourists who overstayed their welcome.
After my conversation with Callum and Oliver, I’ve done some more research into the history of colonialism, and it’s likereading the world’s most horrifying true crime anthology where your family name appears in every chapter as the villain.
Given what my ancestors did to the First Nations people in Australia, the fact that they’ve invited me here at all strikes me as an act of profound generosity.
I try to focus on the traditional smoking ceremony where Uncle Darren uses smoldering desert tea tree leaves and mulga bark to cleanse our spirits, followed by a sunrise Tjukurpa story recited in both Pitjantjatjara language and English. But I can’t help my gaze slipping to Eoin standing so rigidly at attention, his profile sharper than usual in the dawn light.
I want to poke and prod at that layer of professionalism he’s putting between us. I want to crack that professional veneer, to find the man who reacted so viscerally to me.
The glimmers of his real self he’s given me, the way he’s offered thoughtful replies when I’ve asked for it, make me want more. I’m like a child who’s tasted chocolate for the first time and has suddenly realized there’s an entire world of sweetness they’ve been denied.
When the formal part concludes and our group begins to mingle, I catch O’Connell’s eye. The cool gray reveals nothing, but the muscle in his jaw twitches—that tell I’ve come to watch for.
He’s not as indifferent as he’s pretending to be.
“Your Royal Highness, I hope you found the ceremony meaningful,” says Nala, one of the Land Council representatives, approaching me with a warm smile.
“Extraordinarily so,” I reply. “The connection between people and land here feels…tangible in a way I’ve rarely experienced.”
As Nala explains more about the traditional ownership of the land, I listen with interest while remaining acutely aware of O’Connell shifting his position to maintain his sightlines.
The sun climbs higher in the sky, the temperature rising with it. By the time we begin walking back toward the vehicles, sweat is beading at my temples.
I slow my pace deliberately, falling behind the main group until O’Connell has no choice but to draw alongside me.
“Fascinating ceremony, wasn’t it?” I say.
“Yes, sir,” he replies, gaze fixed firmly ahead.
“Sixty thousand years of continuous culture. Makes our thousand-year monarchy seem positively juvenile by comparison.”
“I couldn’t say, sir.”
Bloody hell. It appears we’ve regressed back to the human equivalent of aNo Trespassingsign.
“Oh, come along, O’Connell. Even you must have opinions on historical perspective. Or are opinions not part of the standard protection officer package?”
His jaw tightens. “My job is to keep you safe. Not to offer commentary on the longevity of cultural institutions.”
My irritation spikes.
“And you perform that job with admirable…intensity.” I let my shoulder brush against his arm as we walk. “Tell me, does the protection officer handbook have a chapter on maintaining professionalism when one’s body has other ideas? Because you might need a refresher course.”
He stops abruptly, turning to face me. His gray eyes meet mine directly for the first time all day.
“You seem fixated on a momentary physical reaction.” His voice is clipped. “I’d suggest not reading too much into it.”
The dismissal hits like a slap.
