Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Oliver
It’s a historic room where many momentous decisions have been made over the years. Ending the British Empire, the partition of India and Pakistan, granting independence to Commonwealth nations, and every important decision relating to British health, education, and the welfare state.
The table is covered in green baize, an interesting choice that I’ve never quite got my head around. The material is usually found cloaking snooker tables, which are a far cry from the political games played out here.
My position as prime minister has me sitting in the middle of the table, in the only one of the brown leather upholstered chairs that has arms, the ornate fireplace behind me.
Today, we’re trying to sort out changes to the Energy Efficiency Act, looking at incentives for UK homes and buildings to become more energy efficient.
Harper Cole, an extremely diligent MP from Newcastle and my Secretary of State for Energy and Climate Change, is outlining the policy failures that have led us to this point.
Unfortunately, my mind is not completely focused on Harper’s words.
I can’t stop thinking about Callum. About that kiss.
Kissing Callum is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
It’s also the worst.
Because now I know what it’s like to kiss Callum Prescott.
I know what it’s like to have his lips pressed against mine, to have his hands in my hair, to breathe the same air as him. I know what it feels like to kiss someone and for it to be so fundamentally…right, like it was meant to happen, an event written in the stars since the beginning of time.
I never knew a kiss could feel like the truth.
And my mind throbs with the implications of it.
After we kissed, I’d stood abruptly, muttering about having to head back before striding off, leaving Callum to follow. Callum had seemed dazed as he stumbled after me.
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?”
“Oliver.” There’d been something about the way he said my name that had made my heart twist painfully.
I’d glanced to where members of the royal protection squad and my security team were watching us.
Callum had followed my gaze, biting his lip and scuffing a foot along the concrete.
“I’ll message you tomorrow, okay?” he’d said finally.
I’d nodded. “Okay.”
Now, regret stabs me at the thought of Callum’s face when I left him on the path.
But I have a major problem.
I am not built to withstand this.
I am not built to withstand him.
The conversation swirls around me, debating whether Harper’s proposed subsidies would be the most efficient use of funds. A few cabinet ministers shoot me glances because I’m uncharacteristically quiet.
Finally, the conversation moves on to other items on the agenda.
Alfred clears his throat in a pompous way. He tries to disguise the way he’s gunning for my job, but he’s not particularly good at it. However, when I did my last cabinet reshuffle, I decided to go with the old adage of keeping your friends close and enemies closer.
“What do you have for us to discuss today, Alfred?” I ask.
“We’ve had a request that Metropolitan Police should be sent to Wales in the lead-up to the investiture of the Prince of Wales. We are also looking at strengthening the security for all the palaces and royal family members when they’re out in public.”
I snap my head up. “What has prompted them to ask for it?”
“After the scandal, and with a new heir to the throne, there has been a spike in threats against the royal family. There have been death threats against the Prince of Wales that Scotland Yard is taking seriously.”
My stomach hollows.
There are death threats against Callum.
Of course, if I’d thought about it logically, I would have known there would be death threats against him.
But it strikes me in the chest. The thought of someone, anyone, hurting Callum causes the hair on the back of my neck to rise.
I want to track them down and rip out their throats.
Fuck.
Where the hell did that come from? It appears Ollie from Essex, who grew up in a dog-eat-dog world and was taught to settle disputes by physical violence, still lives on inside me.
“Of course we’ll approve the funding,” I say.
Alfred’s dark eyebrows pull together. “At some point, we shall need to discuss ongoing security for the disgraced members of the royal family. Taxpayers won’t be happy to continue to shell out for non-working family members.”
“I’ll speak with Her Majesty about it,” I promise.
Luckily, the conversation moves on to the next item on the agenda, and I concentrate on taking deep breaths to regain my equilibrium.
“Are you all right?” Toby comes forward as we finish up the cabinet meeting. He asks the question in an undertone so no one but me hears over the shuffle of papers.
I shift my gaze away from my perceptive best friend. “I’m fine.”
I’m lying. Totally and completely.
My reaction to the idea of Callum getting hurt caused a warning siren to go off in my head. Confirming what I already suspected.
This is not just a crush, not just attraction. I have genuine, intense feelings for him.
There are so many reasons why I can’t start an affair with the Prince of Wales. My head is flooded with them. A Noah’s Ark-level downpour of why Callum and I can’t be together.
How the fuck did I get myself into this position?
After being so distracted at the cabinet meeting, I force myself to read all the briefing papers about energy efficiency so now I am fully informed on the subject and can talk about insulating materials and a building’s thermal envelope with the best of them.
But thoughts of the kiss continue to poke and prod in the back of my mind, and as soon as the distraction of work is gone, it becomes the only thing pounding in my head.
When I get inside my flat, I pick up my private phone like it’s a nuclear bomb that could detonate at any moment.
Sure enough, I have a stream of messages from Callum waiting for me.
So, we didn’t really get a chance to talk last night.
You should know that I think I’m pansexual or bisexual. But I’m guessing you figured that out from the fact I kissed you, right?
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to turn things awkward between us.
Can we talk about it?
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.
It’s not like that with Callum. At all.
With Callum, it’s like his edges and mine were designed to interlock perfectly to make a complete picture.
I stare at his last message. If I reply to Callum, what am I going to say?
Sure, let’s talk about the incredible, mind-blowing kiss we shared last night.
And while we’re at it, I guess we should talk about the fact that you’ve gotten under my skin like no one else ever has, and I can’t begin to put a name to these feelings I’ve got for you, and I don’t want to try because I’m honestly scared about what will fit the most accurately.
My throat clenches.
My whole body, my whole being, wants to continue this thing with Callum. To kiss him again. To take that kiss to its natural progression, to touch him and discover exactly what pleasure looks like on Callum.
For a split second, my mind goes there, and I imagine Callum trembling under my touch, arching his body up towards mine. Imagine myself trailing my lips over his body, lingering over him, him looking at me half-lidded and breathless.
I press my hands to my temples as if I can physically remove those images.
He’s the Prince of Wales. He will one day be king.
And I’m the prime minister.
We can’t be in a relationship without consequences, consequences that could destroy one or both of us.
There is no way I can continue a friendship with Callum and not want him. I instinctively know that continuing to message him, talk to him, spend any time with him will be like adding sunshine and water to that want, making it grow and grow until it’s out of control.
I’m the man who couldn’t hold together a straight-forward marriage to the perfect political spouse while also being prime minister.
My fingers shaking, I tap out a reply.
Sorry, Callum. We can’t keep doing this.
Ten seconds later, my phone starts to buzz with an incoming video call from Callum.
My heart contracting, I press Decline.
Then I toss my phone on the couch and head into my study to pour myself a scotch.