The Unlikely Heir (Unlikely Dilemmas, #1)

by Jax Calder

She obviously mistakenly inferred from my profile that I’m some high-flying academic and is now disappointed with the real me. Disappointment seems to be a common emotion for people after they meet me, at least on dates.

Then, i dunno, maybe you could...update your dating profile?

This is an unfortunate personality trait of mine. I will discover a random thing I find interesting, learn everything I can, and then want to share my newfound knowledge with everyone around me. Apparently, Amy hadn’t appreciated learning that one of the Titanic funnels was only built for aesthetics and that there were only lifeboats for one-third of the people onboard.

To be fair...not sure i would've appreciated that in high school. I love it to death as an adult but high school is just shite and it cannot be a character's frame of reference into their adulthood.

It appears my advisers are stuck in a cock-up conundrum.

Haven't yet decided whether the repetition of cock-up gets funnier and funnier or not.

“The monarchy will struggle to survive this,” he replies

Do any of these authors ever stop to think about how it wouldn't be quite so tragic if the monarchy just...wasn't, anymore? Like, don't even question it anymore. Don't spend 250 pages waffling and just come out swinging.

Scotland Yard has suspected for months that members of the royal family have been involved in illicit dealings with a Middle Eastern business syndicate, taking bribes to orchestrate meetings with key movers and shakers in the UK.

Token Middle East villainy? In my queer novels? It's likelier than you think!

Obviously, this is a fluid and evolving situation. We need to have a statement prepared for when this gets out. I want all of us singing from the same hymn sheet.”

Weirdly enough, all the British political shows i've ever seen (The Thick of It, Yes Minister) have led me to believe no PM could be this good at mobilising the troops. I wonder if the author is even British.

I’d responded to my feelings of inferiority by cultivating anti-establishment, down-with-the-oligarchy opinions that I shared freely on the debate stage and loudly and passionately at the pub after a few pints. I’ve since discovered that it’s hard to completely hold on to your anti-establishment views when you become part of the establishment.

So the PM is spineless and a bootlicker. Got it.

Now, I head past the painting to my study, which is where I spend the majority of my time when I’m in my flat. At some point, I’ll head to the kitchen to make myself a sandwich, but right now, I dive straight for the bottle of scotch in the bottom drawer of my antique oak desk. I lean back in my chair, undoing the top button of my shirt, loosening my tie, and contemplate the bottle and glass before me. I feel every second of my thirty-nine years right now.

Please, no, don't bring out the beat-by-beat narration, i promise i'll behave!

I’m dealing with the potential fall of the monarchy. Who would have thought it would happen during my reign as prime minister? Do you think I should be helping to keep alive an institution that pillaged one-third of the world for its own benefit, or should I do everything in my power to speed the demise along?”

Lol

Should I step aside and let my younger half-brother Nicholas be the heir?

Yes. Next question.

My grandmother’s lips twitch up in a smile.

Everything is always twitching in this book. Mouths, lips, moustaches.

“I will do everything in my power to keep the monarchy alive.”

I see now why people DNF this book. Unfortunately for me, it's not yet bad enough that I'd bail. Just unnecessarily dramatic.

The relief on my grandmother’s face causes a glow of happiness inside me.

Why is this a separate new chapter? what was wrong with the previous chapter?

Prime minister-induced vertigo. Is that a thing? Oliver’s eyebrows pull together. His eyes flick down to where our hands are joined, like there’s something he can’t quite figure out either. My whole body is trembling like I’ve just been electrocuted. Or had one too many espressos.

[sighs deeeeeeeeply]

one side of his top lip twitching upward

STOP ITTTTTT. My god, did no one edit this?

someone should really talk to my childhood friend, Ewan’s, mom to see if

There had to have been a different way to construct this sentence.

twitching

Christ.

“I can do it.” I lean forward to help, but unfortunately, I somehow pull the cup away so he ends up pouring a stream of coffee onto the tray.

Please just stop doing things.

his mustache twitching.

............

Raymond’s mustache gives one final twitch

It's barely been a paragraph since the last twitch.

My ancestors were buried deep in coal mines in Yorkshine or stuck on

Yorkshine????

Arvind stares at me. “You play the part of the oppressed minority well, Mr. Hartwell, for an Englishman.” His words cut me, and I try not to flinch.

it's what you deserve, bootlicker

My expressive hand gestures are proving to be a problem. Last week, in my first speech at a gala fundraiser, I knocked the microphone halfway through and the room echoed with the tortured wail of microphone feedback. The tech people had to come and reset it before I could continue. Yesterday I went to a bake-off raising money for a mental health charity and managed to knock over the winning Victoria Sponge by gesturing far too enthusiastically, which triggered another round of creative headlines.

You'd think you might take etiquette lessons or practice this at home if you knew you were prone to causing disaster. Not Callum, though.

“There is still debate over her complete ancestry, but she was definitely descended from Ptolemy I Soter, one of Alexander the Great’s generals. The Romans tried to portray her as a promiscuous seductress who used her beauty for political gain, but she was actually incredibly brilliant. She was proficient in a dozen languages and was educated in mathematics, philosophy, and astronomy.”

All the random tidbits feel like a way for the author to let loose their own tidbits. They're not even INTERESTING tidbits. This is a tidbit anyone who had an Egypt phase as a child/teen (and there are many of us out there) could trot out.

That decided, I pick up my personal phone, my pulse speeding up in anticipation of communicating with Callum.

The point of first person pov is to make the reader intimately understand a character's inner workings and see the world from their perspective. The effect is severely undercut when everything is described plainly, as if by rote. This particular pulse thing is especially bad. Who is actually monitoring their own pulse? Wouldn't it make more sense to say something about the feel of their heartbeat drumming faster in their chest? This may be a personal quibble but i always think it comes down to language.

I’m suddenly aware that an unfamiliar feeling, almost a strange sense of buoyancy, is growing inside me. I can’t quite identify the exact name for this feeling. But I definitely don’t want it to end.

A grown man who has had crushes and allegedly fallen in love before can't pinpoint what this feeling is. It's unfamiliar. Okay.

His lips twist into a smile.

Ahhhh now they're twisting....

“That’s the whole point. You never know when the magic will reveal itself.” You never know when the magic will reveal itself. His words want to implant themselves in my skull. “Like, over there, see how that girl’s shoes reflect on the tiles, making those miniature mirror balls.” I follow his attention to another diner whose rhinestone-embellished cowboy boots cast shining small rainbows on the tiles, unnoticed by everyone but us. “Is that magic?” I ask. “I think it is,” he says. “There’s beauty and magic in lots of small things we overlook every day. You just need to watch out for it.”

Okay, he's right. He's right.

I explain about Amara and Ernest and all the other patients at the hospital while he listens carefully, asking insightful questions.

Telling, not showing.

The lower half of our bodies lock together, and suddenly I feel a firming in my groin…

A firming.......eh. I suppose I've seen it be called worse, but not by much.

Sometimes I forget he’s only twenty-five. I have fourteen years on him, years where my skin has grown considerably tougher.

So that's an age gap.

This is not just a crush, not just attraction. I have genuine, intense feelings for him.

You've known him for like, all of one month or something equally inane. You're 14 years older AND you're the prime minister. You should know better.

I wish I could talk to Oliver. He would be able to anchor me. Without him, I’m adrift.

Two ways of saying the same thing because just one way isn't enough.

“The only way to stave off that loneliness is to find a partner prepared to support you in every way.” I gulp. A partner. Right.

Gulp.

“I invited Oliver because I know how much he likes his racing,” Gran says.

Horse and dog racing are pretty dreadful. Guess we'll see how i go with this chapter.

I’ve always kept fit, and unlike many of my predecessors, I regularly frequent the gym at Number 10. But there’s no escaping that I’m a man in his late thirties with a demanding desk job and without time to maintain a perfect physique. Callum however… I gulp when he pulls off his T-shirt. He’s naturally blessed with broad shoulders, a lean muscular torso, and golden skin.

I take it back, this is cute.

Raymond doesn’t look the slightest bit embarrassed. “We’ve talked about this, Callum. One of your key duties as heir is to carry on the bloodline.” The bloodline. Like I’m some kind of pedigree dog or horse.

Nothing is more conducive to romance and breeding than a stranger telling you you have to fuck for the monarchy. Lie back and think of England, indeed.

Callum and Calista. They’re a perfect alliteration. Even the alphabet is conspiring in their favor. And I’m so bloody jealous. I’m a seething, frothing mess of jealousy. I can’t drag my eyes away from where they’re dancing together. Where she’s touching him. She’s getting to do what I want to do—put her hands on Callum.

Every breath you take / every move you make

All these feelings I have for Callum now have an outlet in this kiss. Every bottled emotion, every unspoken word. I find both meaning and redemption in Callum’s lips.

YOUVE KNOWN EACH OTHER FOR LIKE TWO MONTHSSSSSSSS

Having another guy’s cock in my hand should feel weird, but somehow, the weight of it, the velvet over steel texture, feels like the most natural thing in the world.

I thought "velvet over steel" was a straight romance thing.

I don’t want to think how if this had happened twenty years ago, I would have been one of the loudest voices calling for the end of the monarchy. Perhaps I wouldn’t have been throwing spit bombs, but I would’ve definitely been on the picket line. But twenty years ago, I had never encountered any members of the royal family. I’d never sat across from the queen in a weekly meeting and seen how deeply and passionately she cares for our country. I’d never witnessed firsthand the personal toll it took to be the Prince of Wales, to have your life dissected while trying to serve.

BOOTLICKER

Callum runs a hand through his hair. “I can’t deny the privilege and wealth of my family was built from colonialism and exploitation.” Hadn’t I made that very argument as a student in the pub back in Oxford? “That can be said of so much of the wealth of the UK, not just your family,” I feel obliged to point out. “The wealth of so many nations was built off exploiting others.”

Including your own, then. Oh god im just going to get so frustrated with all this moral dilemma crap.

My words emerge in a gush. “I need you, Oliver. I don’t care if I have to crawl over broken glass or through blazing fire to get to you. I don’t care. I need to touch you. I need to kiss you.” My chest heaves and tears prickle my eyes.

This is about 30% more melodramatic than im willing to put up with in a relationship this short.

I need him. And then it’s a mess of new sensations: the cold of the lube, his fingers inside me, slowly working me open before hitting the jackpot spot that electrifies my body and has Oliver laughing softly at my reaction. My prostate is previously uncharted territory, but with Oliver, I’m in the hands of a capable explorer. He continues until I’m writhing, squirming, begging for him.

Least sexy sex i've read in a while. Feels like the author isnt that interested in writing this.

This is the one thing that makes these encounters bearable for me. My husband chose this man over me, and I’m sure Garett has cataloged every flaw of mine to Riccardo, yet Riccardo never acts anything but deferential. Perhaps he’s worried about pissing off a man who commands MI5. There’s a chance I threatened him with both deportation and disembowelment when I caught them together. But I truly believe you shouldn’t be held responsible for what you say to the guy you’ve just caught fucking the man who vowed to be faithful to you forever.

It's only a gross abuse of power if OTHER people do it. Got it.

Other people flood into the corridor then, noisy interlopers but a good reminder that this is not the right place for any extended discussions between my ex-husband and my secret lover. “You can’t say anything,” I quickly instruct Garett. There’s another hurt look in Garett’s eyes. “Of course not, Oliver.”

Props to Garett

“Are you excited about it?” I fiddle with my wine glass. “Yeah, I guess. It’s an ancient ceremony where I pledge my allegiance to serve the people of Wales. But I’ve been reading more about it, and I can see why it’s controversial to some Welsh people.” “How is it controversial?” “Well, since 1301, the Prince of Wales has been the heir to the English throne. The title itself

Cardboard cutout characters only there to prompt little tidbits and rants.

So I can totally understand why there is still resentment among the Welsh that the Prince of Wales title is held by the heir to the English throne.”

"But im not gonna do anything about it."

But there’s also information filtering through the intelligence network of a specific threat against the Prince of Wales,” Rosalia says. My blood runs cold. Before I know it, my mouth is open, and I speak. “What the fuck are they doing about it? If Scotland Yard thinks there are credible threats to him, hunt them down and take the bastards out! Treason legislation has been around since the 1300s. Use it!”

So OTT, I just.......ugh.

I can’t help but quiz Edward about the history of the crown jewels as we wander around the exhibits, and I learn a lot of interesting facts. I didn’t realize Oliver Cromwell ordered the destruction of the old set of crown jewels when he came to power, so most of the current jewels were created after the monarchy was restored in the 1660s.

This reads like an essay written on the theme of a tourist guide to England.