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A cold finger of unease traces down my spine.
dissect your operational failures with surgical precision.
Because Northern Ireland and the royals are like that couple who had a messy breakup but still share a flat because of the lease.
“Look like a protection officer” is code for six-foot-four with shoulders that block doorways.
In this line of work, reputation is the only currency that matters.
She means I’ll need to be deferential to a man whose greatest achievement in life was being born, whose idea of hardship is probably when the palace runs out of his favorite breakfast tea.
along with the art of smuggling biscuits from state banquets without leaving incriminating crumbs.
“Once upon a time, there was a little GDP who wanted to grow up big and strong…”
I don’t want the throne. I don’t. I swear it on the life of the last Sumatran rhino in captivity—which, incidentally, I once drunkenly tried to “adopt” at a conservation gala.
Time with the Preston-Alexanders is always like this, a masterclass in weaponized politeness. I keep showing up when they invite me because blood is supposedly thicker than water. Although, in our case, it’s probably more like mercury. Elegant, expensive, and slightly toxic after prolonged exposure.
apocalyptic crash, sounding like some sort of medieval percussion section gone rogue.
The man attached to those eyes is built like a medieval battering ram given human form and a gym membership. All broad shoulders cutting down to a lean torso, with the kind of proportions that suggest God was showing off when he made this one. Close-cropped auburn hair catches the light from the chandeliers, revealing hints of copper and gold. His face contains a strong jawline and a nose that must have been broken at least once, adding a hint of danger to a face that otherwise might be called handsome.
“If you could unhand me at your leisure, I would greatly appreciate it.”
The way he says “sir” should come with subtitles: I am calling you “sir” because protocol demands it, not because I believe you deserve the title.
This is like performing stand-up for a particularly judgmental statue.
She’s got street smarts written all over her, and there seems to be an undercurrent of steel in her that reminds me of the best detectives I’ve worked with.
The Prince is even better-looking in person than he is in photos. He’s beautiful in a careless way, his ink-black hair curling against his forehead, framing a face that belongs on currency. And his eyes… Christ, they’re something else. Blue isn’t the right word. They’re the color of the winter ocean, cold and impossibly deep, rimmed with thick dark lashes. Even if I were straight, which I definitely am not, I think I would still notice how incredibly good-looking he is. It’s a pity the personality doesn’t match the packaging.
Not this choreographed slaughter that serves no purpose besides entertainment.
“I tend to judge things by what they contribute, not by how long they’ve been around.”
“We must stop this little trend of finding ourselves in compromising positions,” Nicholas says as he pushes himself up on his elbows. “At this rate, I’ll need to start charging you rent for all the time you spend in my personal space.”
Principles were a luxury when you had a brother who needed specialized physical therapy three times a week and a wheelchair that cost more than most people’s cars.
The gods of family dysfunction
Mother deploys tears with tactical precision, usually when there’s an audience to witness her suffering. Tonight’s chosen spectator is apparently Officer Eoin O’Connell, who’s looking at me now like I’m a wasp that’s landed in his pint.
The calculated break in her voice is a masterclass in emotional manipulation.
O’Connell stands before me like some ancient Celtic statue, all hard edges and unyielding judgment.
This is my life. Judging biscuit-based structures while smartphone cameras document every reaction, ready to declare me either a people’s prince or an out-of-touch aristocrat based on my assessment of frosting techniques.
It’s like living with a human-shaped disapproval machine programmed specifically to find fault with everything I do.
Grandmother has always been a force of nature. The thought of her actually being vulnerable feels like watching Big Ben tilt sideways.
It’s as if I’m performing on stage with a particularly unimpressed theater critic in the front row, noting every stumble and missed line.
Or maybe he has children, a whole brood of miniature O’Connell’s with permanent frowns, who spend Christmas morning unwrapping practical gifts like pocket-sized threat assessment manuals and tactical black turtlenecks.
More likely, he stares intensely at his Christmas tree until it decorates itself out of sheer intimidation.
My general dislike of the British Monarchy has now crystallized into an intense dislike of one specific member.
Nicholas performs exactly what’s expected of him—royal duties, public appearances, the charming prince act—but he maintains his rebellion in small, deliberately chosen battles. Like a man in a cage, rattling the bars just enough to remind himself that he can, but never enough to actually break free.
When Harry Met Toby: An Enemies-to-Lovers Story, Now With 40% More Parliamentary Procedure.
I know the cadence of his footsteps, can identify his silhouette in a crowded room before my mind has even registered why my pulse has quickened.
“See? This is why you’re my favorite member of the security detail. The others just judge me silently. You do it with verbal flair.”
Of all the things I need on this royal tour, a ridiculous obsession with one of my protection officers is most certainly not on the approved itinerary.
Those gray eyes that watch me so intensely, making me feel stripped bare in a way no tabloid exposé ever has.
Seeing Oliver with Callum is rather like witnessing a grizzly bear being conquered by a golden retriever.
Oliver is looking at Callum with such affection, and he leans over and presses a quick kiss to Callum’s temple. They’re so disgustingly in love. It’s like watching a live-action greeting card. One that makes you simultaneously want to say “aww” and throw something at them.
Deep down, at his core, Nicholas is kind. And for some reason, he hides this part of himself under his arrogance and practiced charm and cutting wit like it’s something shameful, only letting it leak out in unguarded moments. Light shining through cracks in armor.
This is not a kiss. This is a brand. It’s raw, unfiltered emotion pouring from him to me. This is a collision of anger and fear and want so powerful it feels like being thrown into a storm after years of careful navigation around the edges.
I’ve been kissed by people who wanted the title, the status, the story they could sell later. But O’Connell kisses like he wants to consume me, like I’m water after a desert crossing, like nothing exists beyond this room.
I feel like I’m standing naked while someone catalogs every imperfection I’ve tried to hide. Except somehow Eoin makes it feel less like exposure and more like recognition.
The wanting terrifies me more than any assassination or kidnapping attempt could. Opening myself up like this, practically begging to be eviscerated again. Because that’s what happens when you let people see the soft parts—they find the exact pressure points that hurt most.
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.
This man is on the verge of shattering. I understand because I am too. I’m vibrating with a need I can’t control, a desperate hunger that burns through my veins like whiskey and gunpowder combined.
“We’re in this together, remember? Or do you think I’ll just sit here looking decorative while you do all the work?”
“It’s a talent. Humor in crisis situations is practically part of the royal training manual. When cornered by terrorists, one must maintain a stiff upper lip and a cutting wit. I’m fairly sure it’s section four, paragraph seven, right after the chapter on which fork to use when dining with dictators.”
“I think we’ve invented a new camping delicacy.” I hold up a sausage that’s achieved the texture of volcanic rock. “Carbonized mystery meat with notes of lighter fluid.”
