Page 88 of The Unlikely Spare
The perfect cover for what we both know has nothing to do with discussing threats and everything to do with the threat we pose to each other.
My jaw aches from clenching it too tight.
It’s been so long since I’ve taken anything for myself. My whole fucking life has been triage—Da drinks himself to death, so I become the responsible son. The building collapses, injuring Malachy, so I become a responsible brother. I become a cop so I can pay Malachy’s bills and fight the system that let it happen.
I’ve measured my life in other people’s outcomes. Cases closed, criminals caught, Malachy’s medical bills paid.
I’ve got so good at swallowing my own desires that I forgot what hunger felt like.
Until him.
And maybe that’s why Nicholas terrifies me. Because he makes me want things that have nothing to do with anyone else’s needs. Makes me want to be reckless and selfish and human in ways I’ve trained myself to forget.
Because I’m beginning to realize that whatever flash fire was ignited in that maintenance shed, it won’t be extinguished by good intentions and professional distance.
This constant war between what I want and what I should do is bleeding me dry. Every time he gets close, my control fractures a little more.
“Understood,” I answer.
Nicholas gives a short nod before returning to the reception.
I’m left alone in the garden, my heart pounding and my body humming with tension.
What the fuck did I just do?
The remaining twenty minutes of the reception pass in a blur. I maintain my position, going through the motions of surveillance while hyperaware of Nicholas’s every movement. He doesn’t approach the commissioner’s daughter again, instead engaging with various dignitaries with perfect royal courtesy. Occasionally, his eyes find mine across the room.
Each glance from him is like a physical touch.
By the time we reach the car, I’m wound so tight I feel like I might snap. Nicholas sits silently in the back seat, staring out the window as Auckland’s lights blur past.
At the hotel, Nicholas acknowledges the night staff with his usual charm, but I can see the strain around his eyes, the too-rigid set of his shoulders beneath that perfect dinner jacket.
In the lift, it’s just the two of us. The small space feels impossibly confined, his cologne filling my lungs with each breath. Neither of us speaks.
When the doors open on his floor, Nicholas steps out first, walking toward his suite with measured strides.
I follow, automatically scanning the corridor for threats even though I know MacLeod’s already on duty. She’s standing at her post outside the presidential suite, alert despite the late hour.
“MacLeod,” I acknowledge with a nod.
“O’Connell.” She straightens slightly. “All quiet. No issues to report.”
Nicholas pauses with his key card, then turns to me. “O’Connell, I’m slightly concerned about those protesters we saw when we were leaving Government House. Can I have a quick chat about how I should respond if the protesters get too close at tomorrow’s events?”
It’s a reasonable request. MacLeod won’t question why Nicholas wants an additional perspective on security concerns.
“Of course, sir.”
MacLeod steps aside as Nicholas opens the door. I follow him in, the door closing behind us with a soft click.
The presidential suite offers spectacular views of Auckland Harbor. The city lights reflect off the dark water, but I barely register any of it.
I make a show of checking the main living area, a habit I can’t break. Nicholas watches me, setting his phone on the side table with deliberate calm.
When I complete my brief circuit, Nicholas has removed his dinner jacket and stands by the windows, his back to me. Christ, he’s beautiful like this—those shoulders I’ve felt beneath my hands, the graceful curve of his spine, the way his trousers cling to his perfect arse.
“So, you wanted to talk about how to respond to protesters.” I keep my voice at a normal conversation level. Playing the part.
