Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Callum
My stomach feels like it’s been invaded by a horde of tiny barbarians, each armed with knives, taking turns stabbing into my stomach lining. I twist the paper containing my speech for the Emphysema Foundation, hoping my sweaty palms aren’t going to leave it with unsightly smudges.
Just another day at the office.
Public speaking has never been my thing, not after the debacle of my fourth-grade speech.
My speech topic then was on butterflies, and I’d dutifully spent the previous few weeks reading all about them.
What I hadn’t realized was that I wasn’t supposed to regurgitate every single fact I’d read.
The class had started fidgeting and squirming around the ten-minute mark, and at twenty minutes, Ms. Kinchaird had stepped in and suggested I should finish up with one last favorite fact.
I’d at least finished strongly because who wouldn’t find the fact that butterflies taste with their feet interesting?
You’d think I’d be getting better at handling my nerves given the frequency I’ve had to go on stage and word vomit in recent weeks.
But if anything, my nerves seem to be amplifying, like my body is some giant nerve production machine.
The venue for tonight’s event is a magnificent medieval building with soaring stone arch ceilings on the bank of the Thames. The arches are illuminated by golden lights that I’m pretty sure weren’t here in medieval times.
The room is filling up now, rich and beautiful people swirling around, chatting. In another few minutes, people will sit at the round tables for the dinner, and I’ll have to take the stage, which already gleams under the spotlight.
Instead of seeing potential donors, all I see are people who could be potential witnesses to my humiliation if I mess up my speech.
The other day I’d confessed to Amelia how I felt, and she admitted she felt similar. Then she’d sent me a meme.
If you’re afraid of public speaking, just imagine everyone in the audience is on their phone and paying no attention to you whatsoever.
Which had at least made me laugh.
Raymond isn’t here tonight, but he’d given me some last-minute advice before I left.
“Try not to stuff this up. We really need some positive headlines right now.”
Thanks, Raymond. No pressure or anything.
The media team has been getting a bit twitchy about my recent coverage.
The pants debacle—or Pantsgate as one of the newspapers handily headlined it—blew up into a story, but rather than take the sexual predator slant, it turned into another debate about my nationality and whether an American can be a good king.
Raymond is on a one-man mission to enhance my Englishness.
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.
Luckily, I already have a good knowledge of Shakespeare and British history, but I’ve been given a crash course on cricket and rugby and the Premier League.
I wonder if I can slot some of my ever-expanding British knowledge into my conversations tonight?
Maybe I could casually mention my newfound love for Marmite?
Although it will be hard to be genuine because I have an evolving theory that that particular yeasty spread was actually designed by the devil.
I’m mindlessly watching the crowd, trying to stop the mental montage of potential ways I can embarrass myself, when I see a face that I recognize, and my heart pounds for a different reason.
It’s Oliver. Oliver’s here.
He’s no longer Oliver Hartwell in my mind. Instead, he’s just Oliver, the guy I spend hours messaging every evening. We’ve moved on from formal titles to emoji-laden banter.
It’s crazy. I haven’t seen Oliver in the flesh since the Commonwealth banquet over a month ago. How can it be that you haven’t seen someone, but your perspective on them has completely changed?
When I last saw Oliver, he was an intimidating figure, the prime minister, an international LGBTQ+ icon, a guy who regarded everything seriously.
Now I know him as the guy who matches me with really bad jokes, who asks insightful questions when I’m raving on about random things, someone who I can message with for hours, our conversation drifting in so many surprising directions.
As I contemplate braving the crowd to see him, he looks directly at me, his dark eyes locking onto mine. He stares at me for a few moments, and just as I’m on the edge of doing something really stupid, like giving a goofy wave or trying to pull off a cool nod, a small grin breaks out on his face.
I can’t help smiling back.
He cuts across the room toward me, and I stand there waiting for him.
Although I now know Oliver well, for some reason, my body tenses up as he draws closer.
“Good evening, Your Royal Highness,” he says.
“Good evening, Prime Minister.” I shuffle my feet, clutching my speech even tighter. It’s as if my hands are competing with each other in a game of Who can Wrinkle the Paper More?
Shit. This shouldn’t be awkward. I’ve spent the last month joking with Oliver, along with learning his opinion on anything and everything. I know him really well now.
But there’s something about having the complete package of a confident, handsome Oliver standing in front of me that causes me to clam up.
Somehow, I’ve forgotten exactly how good-looking he is.
The perfect symmetry of his features, his strong eyebrows, chiseled nose, and olive skin.
The way his dark hair is just long enough to show a hint of curl.
His tuxedo is tailored immaculately to show off his swimmer’s build, with broad shoulders that taper down to his lean waist.
I glance at him, but when he meets my eyes, I can’t hold his gaze, instead studying the floral arrangement on a nearby table. It’s a peculiar mix of wildflowers and ferns jutting at odd angles, looking like a botanical tug-of-war.
“Are you giving a speech tonight?” Oliver’s smooth voice asks me.
I snap my eyes to his. “How did you know?”
He nods at the piece of paper I’m clutching. “My powers of observation are astounding sometimes.”
“Definitely. It’s surprising you went with politics instead of the MI5,” I say.
He grins, a quick flash of a lopsided smile. And I swallow my nerves. No matter how good-looking Oliver is, I know the person underneath his handsome facade now.
“Public speaking and I don’t mix particularly well, I’m finding,” I say. “Do you have any advice?”
“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.”
He gives me another quick grin. “That’s what I aim for,” he says.
“Your aim is surprisingly impressive. You must be a descendant of Robin Hood.”
He laughs softly, and there’s something almost intimate about his chuckle. Like it’s meant just for me.
Then his face turns serious. “There is no magic formula for public speaking. Take it slow and try not to get too nervous.”
I take a deep breath. “That’s easier said than done. Especially knowing the journalists are all salivating for me to mess up so I’ll write their headlines tomorrow.”
His dark eyes fix on mine. “Just be yourself, Callum.” His deep voice is soft, and there’s something about the way he says my name gently, stretching out the syllables. Cal-lum. Like it’s a word to be savored, treasured.
A weird bolt of electricity shoots through me as we gaze at each other. Does Oliver’s gaze contain some special energy that scientists haven’t yet discovered?
“Your Royal Highness.” The president of the Emphysema Foundation, Nastia, is suddenly at my side, looking flustered. “I’m so sorry about having to leave you before.” She glances at Oliver, and her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, hello, Prime Minister.”
“Hi, Nastia. I trust things are going well,” Oliver says.
“There have been a few last-minute hiccups, but nothing we can’t handle.” She gives him a bright smile. “Thank you so much for turning up. Your ongoing support means so much to the foundation.”
“I’m always happy to be here,” Oliver says smoothly. “The work you do is very important.”
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 don’t have time to process this before Nastia turns to me. “People are about to be encouraged to take their seats, Your Royal Highness. And then it’ll be time for the speeches. You are up first.”
Oliver leans forward. “Good luck,” he murmurs to me. The feel of his breath against the shell of my ear has the hairs on the back of my neck sticking up.
The spotlight they’ve set up on the stage is hot, and sweat immediately beads on my forehead. I put Maudie’s carefully written speech on the lectern, trying to stop my hands from shaking.
I glance up and scan the room, finally locating Oliver at one of the back tables.
His dark eyes lock on me, and he gives an encouraging nod.
Oliver believes in me.
The thought gives me a warm feeling as I take a deep breath, then begin my speech.
“Good evening. I’m so happy you could join us today for this important fundraiser for the Emphysema Foundation.”
I read the rest of the speech about the toll emphysema can take on a person’s life and the importance of the work of the Emphysema Foundation before finishing with a flourish.
“Thank you for your support, and let’s all work toward a brighter future for those affected by emphysema.”
Applause breaks out when I finish, and when I seek out Oliver in the crowd, he’s smiling at me.
I smile back.