The Unlikely Heir (Unlikely Dilemmas, #1)

by Jax Calder

“Prince Callum, we’ve got your former Little League coach saying you once ate the whole bag of cookies meant for the team. What do you have to say to that accusation?” It was a misunderstanding, I want to say in reply to the second thing. I honestly thought he’d given them to me to eat. I was six!

I rub a hand over the stubble on my chin. If I’m so convinced I’m not doing anything wrong, why don’t I just tell Toby why I’ve been up so late?

I’ve always been so focused on achieving, never thinking about pursuing knowledge simply for knowledge’s sake.

Pants means underwear here.

I send him a link to when Jimmy Carter gave a speech in Poland and expressed that he wanted to learn the Poles’ “desires for the future,” but his interpreter somehow translated it to be “I desire the Poles carnally.”

A debate about the vernacular differences between British and American English was not how I expected my evening to go, but that’s the great thing about chatting with Callum.

Here goes: Why do they call them lifts in the UK and elevators in the US? Why? Because we’re raised differently.

I’ve been forcing myself to drink English Breakfast and Earl Grey tea and dunk cookies into my cups of tea—although I’m on strict instructions that cookies are to be called biscuits at all times, though Jaffa cakes are apparently a hybrid between biscuits and cakes, the correct definition of which caused a brief but furious debate between Maudie and Raymond and ended inconclusively.

“Just lead with an elevator joke. Those always go down well,” he says. It takes me a moment to get it, but when I do, I groan. “An elevator joke on the fly. Color me impressed.”

It almost gives me whiplash seeing Oliver switch into smooth politician mode. It’s like seeing Clark Kent morph into Superman. Or maybe, it’s actually more like seeing Superman turn back into Clark Kent.

I stare at him, transfixed by the passion on his face, before I snap back to the issue we’re discussing.

I was running on defiance. I was the gay kid who grew up in poverty. I had a major chip on my shoulder and a point to prove.

We shucked off our tux jackets and put the hoodies over our shirts. With baseball cap brims lowered over our eyes, our disguise is complete.

As a gay guy, I’m used to finding straight guys attractive. I’ve learned to control that part of me to the extent I could stand next to a naked Mr. Universe and not react.

His West Ham cap is perched slightly lopsided on his head, and his eyes sparkle at me like emeralds catching the sun, and bloody hell, it appears I’m turning into an amateur poet.

“Uneasy is the head that wears the crown,” Callum offers.

“I’m impressed that you quoted it correctly. Most people go with ‘heavy is the head that wears the crown’ rather than the original version,”

Callum tries to shove my spoon out of the way, and it turns into a short but heated spoon battle that makes me laugh again.

His eyes pierced me. “Look me in the eye when you’re telling me. Not looking me in the eye makes me think you’re ashamed. And you should never be ashamed of who you are.” My grandad’s words formed the bedrock of my attitude towards my sexuality after that. I wasn’t ashamed. I wasn’t going to hide. I would look people in the eye and tell them this is who I am, like it or shove it.

“It’s weird how my life is now so defined by who my father was while you’ve managed to get to your position without even knowing your father.”

“My mom had this saying on her wall, ‘To catch a glimpse of the beauty and magic of this world, you simply need to look at everything through the lens of wonder.’” I love the way Callum’s brain works.

“Do you wear glasses?” “Only for reading.” “I’ve never seen you in glasses before.” “That’s because I don’t wear them in public because I’m vain.”

“Never had someone I could talk to for so many hours and not run out of things to say.”

Combining sick, fragile people and expensive medical equipment with my clumsiness. What could possibly go wrong?

“Eirene is my favorite.” “Goddess of spring, good choice,” I say. Her eyebrows shoot up. “Most people don’t know who Eirene is.”

But I also realize I don’t have to be an expert on things. It’s about asking people questions and genuinely engaging in the answers.

“You look knackered,” he says. “Go to sleep.” I raise an eyebrow. “Is this you telling me what to do?” “Let’s not try to unravel the complexities about which of us has authority over whom,” Oliver says, and I can’t help a soft laugh.

I’m the Prince of Wales. I’m in Buckingham Palace. I’ve just been dreaming about kissing Oliver Hartwell, the British prime minister. And I have a raging hard-on. Holy, holy shit.

How had I not figured this out before? The desire I always had to impress Cliff, my nervousness around him, my devastation when he’d done that interview about me. I’d had a crush on him. Just like I have a crush on Oliver Hartwell now. It makes so much sense.

Neither does leaving my room and walking down the hallways lined with portraits of my ancestors. Because I’m willing to bet none of them ever had an erotic dream and then jerked off to thoughts about the British prime minister.

The Waterloo Vase. It was initially presented to Napoleon I, who planned to have it carved with scenes of his triumph. But after Napoleon’s defeat in Waterloo, George IV received it and carved it with scenes of the British victory instead.

If I want to experiment with my sexuality, Oliver Hartwell is the last person I should be doing it with. Because although I’m not completely up with the intricacies of English constitutional law, I know the separation between the crown and the government is a fundamental part. If I’m a headline-generating machine now, it is nothing compared to the frenzy that would ensue if Oliver and I ever hook up.

I’m trying not to think about what it means that my day doesn’t feel complete if I haven’t talked to the Prince of Wales.

Callum’s taken to sending me photos of whimsical things to prove his theory that small things of beauty and magic are scattered across the world, waiting to be discovered. It’s surprising how much a random photo of a potato shaped like a duck can make me smile.

Here, among the concrete jungle of the EU headquarters, a dandelion has somehow managed to grow in a tiny crack in the footpath. It’s such a contrast to the panoramic of gray around it. I crouch to take a quick snapshot of it.

Do I have a newly developed hand fetish? Or maybe it’s just part of my admiration for anything Oliver.

“This flat belongs to someone you know as BritishPatriot.” My mouth drops open. “What? Why are we at the house of someone who loathes me?” “I just wanted you to see exactly who these people are.”

Gee, if Oliver ever decides to pursue another career, school principal would be a good choice. Maybe that’s what the prime minister actually is. School principal to the entire nation.

Inexplicably, I feel a rush of pity for him. He’s living in a rundown apartment, and if he’s got time to harass me so thoroughly, he’s probably not working. He definitely doesn’t give the impression of leading an emotionally satisfying life. “I like your shirt,” I say. “Are you a Black Sabbath fan?” Oliver and Trevor both look at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“I wanted you to see that the people who abuse you online are just people. Sad people, often, because they need to get their social contact from harassing people they don’t know. Would you pay someone like Trevor much attention if he was heckling you in the street?”

“I sometimes don’t think the public sees us as real,” Oliver says. “They don’t realize famous people are real people with real emotions. And they say things they would never, ever say to your face.” He’s still staring at me intently like he’s trying to will the words into my brain.

Oliver swallows hard, ripping his gaze away from mine to look out the window. “This is close to where I grew up,” he says.

“I mean, you’re definitely the person I’m the most real with,” I add quickly, flicking a glance at him. The light of the streetlamp reflects in Oliver’s eyes as he stares at me. “You’re the person I’m the most real with too,” he says quietly.

It was only when we’d approached the cars that I turned to him, not quite meeting his eyes. “Makes sense for you to go straight back to the palace, right? Are you all right to ride with your protection officers?”

Callum has no pretenses. It’s one of the things I like about him. He’s never going to play games with me. Sometimes my whole relationship with Garett felt like a giant game of Risk, where we battled it out on the different continents of intellect, humor, and sex, one of us always vying for dominance.

Oliver won’t respond to my messages. He won’t answer my calls. I didn’t think I was that bad of a kisser, but the evidence might suggest otherwise. I’m trying to joke it off in my head, but I keep butting up against my hurt and regret.

Normally this would be my happy place, learning new things about British wildlife. But collecting random facts isn’t nearly as much fun, knowing I can’t share them with Oliver.

“I really admire how you dedicate so much of your time to protecting native wildlife.” “Thank you, Your Royal Highness. And thank you so much for coming here today.” He sends a glance toward the journalists and photographers gathered at the edge of the lawn. “You being here means we’ll get so much more attention to our cause.”

“When I worked in insurance, I dealt with claims from aerosol cans exploding. They can start house fires. People don’t realize the cans are pressurized, so they can explode when heated.”

Dating? He wants me to go on a date? The problem is, I don’t want to date any of the random men or women out there. I want Oliver Hartwell.