Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Callum
It’s been a week.
A week without talking to Oliver.
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.
I miss him.
I miss him so much.
There have been so many things in the last week that I’ve wanted to talk to him about. His absence feels almost physical, like a missing limb.
The most fabulous kiss in my life wasn’t worth losing Oliver over.
But I have no idea how to get him back.
Today I’m at an engagement for the Hedgehog Appreciation Society, trying desperately not to think about him.
There are no hedgehogs around, unfortunately, although maybe that should be considered fortunate after the swan incident.
Luckily, it’s one of the more laidback events I’ve attended, so hopefully my distraction isn’t too noticeable.
There are two barbecues cooking away at the edge of the lawn, filling the air with the aroma of burned meat and fried onions.
People are milling around, chatting amicably.
Most of the conversation centers on hedgehogs.
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.
Nevertheless, I discover that a hedgehog has five thousand to seven thousand spines on their back that can be raised in defense.
I also discover that the population of Britain’s rural hedgehogs has declined by seventy-five percent recently due to the loss of hedgerows and changes in farming practices.
Seeing the pained face of Quinton, the chairperson of the Hedgehog Appreciation Society, as he describes the plight of the hedgehog, it suddenly strikes me how many good people there are in this world.
The news is often filled with stories of terrible people doing terrible things, but it ignores the silent heroes that walk among us, who make the world better in small ways.
But those small ways all add up to making it a world worth living in.
“So, how long have you been involved in hedgehog conservation?” I ask Quinton after I finish off my delicious sausage.
“About twenty years,” he replies. “It started when I found a litter of hoglets in my back garden. It’s turned into a family affair now. My wife, Nora, is the association’s secretary, and my son, Gabe, is over there manning the barbecue.”
“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.”
It’s still bizarre to think I can help people just by showing up. But this is one of the most important aspects about my job as Prince of Wales, using my voice to speak for those who do not always get heard.
Another committee member approaches us. She’s wearing a T-shirt that reads, “Hedgehogs, eh? Why can’t they just share the hedge?”
“I like your T-shirt,” I say. “It’s very funny.”
She smiles at me.
“Would you like to hear a hedgehog joke?” she asks in a low, raspy voice.
“Absolutely.”
“How do hedgehogs kiss?”
“How?”
“Very carefully.”
I laugh, but about halfway through, my laugh turns slightly rueful. Because kissing is a delicate topic for me at the moment.
It turns out prime ministers are like hedgehogs. You should be careful about kissing them too. But I don’t think adding that tidbit of advice to the conversation is a good idea.
She regales me with a few other hedgehog jokes, which definitely expands my repertoire of prickly humor.
I’m laughing at one joke—What do you call a famous hedgehog? Hedgendary—when I glance at the barbecue and my laughter abruptly stops.
Because an aerosol can of cooking spray sits right next to the hot plate.
Aerosol can. Hot grill.
Suddenly my pulse ratchets up like a caffeinated squirrel on a treadmill.
“Uh…excuse me for a moment.” I start walking toward the barbecue.
“Hey,” I call out to the teenager flipping burger patties.
Quinton’s son. What had he said his name was? Gabe.
He doesn’t respond.
I speed up.
“Gabe!” I yell again,
He still doesn’t react.
Shit.
Now I’m running, my heart in my throat. I vaguely register that members of the press have snapped their heads up and other barbecue attendees are retrieving phones from their pockets to record this. I can almost write the headlines myself.
Prince Callum Behaves Like a Maniac
When Princes Go Rogue
But I don’t care about that right now.
Gabe’s standing with his back to me, completely oblivious to the fact I’m now screaming his name.
This is not the time for a polite conversation.
I grab his arm and unceremoniously yank him away from the barbecue.
He pulls out his earbuds, swinging around to face me. “What the fuck?”
I see the moment he realizes who he’s just sworn at because his face turns an interesting purple color.
“The cook—” I start to say.
Before I have a chance to explain, there’s a loud explosion behind us.
Gabe and I both jump.
Suddenly, Teddy and Mike, two members of my security team, are pushing me to the ground. My breath slams out as Teddy lies on top of me, frantically talking into his walkie-talkie.
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” I struggle to free myself from the tangle of bodies. “It’s just an aerosol can exploding from getting too hot.”
Teddy pulls back. “It’s what?”
“A pressurized aerosol can. They can explode if they get too hot.”
I climb to my feet, trying to brush off the grass sticking to my sweater, my hand shaking slightly. I’m suddenly aware the whole crowd is watching me, so I say it again in a louder voice.
“It was just the cooking spray. You need to keep it away from hot grills.”
Mike has gone over to inspect the warped metal remnants of what used to be an innocent-looking aerosol can.
He picks it up, turning it over in his hand.
“This thing could’ve taken out someone’s eye,” Mike says.
I nod enthusiastically. “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.”
There’s a buzz of noise as conversation breaks out among the guests.
Quinton comes over, white-faced.
“Thank you.” He shakes my hand. “Thank you so much.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I say, suddenly aware of all the cameras trained on me.
For once, the British press exaggerating everything works in my favor.
Prince Savior: Prince of Wales Saves Teenager from Maiming
Royal Reflexes: Prince of Wales Deflects Danger
The Fresh Prince of Aerosol: Royal Heir Saves Day
Even the trolls on social media are struggling to find a negative spin on this.
“Well, you’ve definitely got the journalists changing their tune.” Raymond flicks through the headlines as we have afternoon tea in my sitting room.
His mustache has an opinion on it, quirking up like it’s attempting a question mark, as if it can’t quite believe the fickleness of the British media and public.
“Ah…yeah,” I say as I scroll through my phone, smiling at the meme Amelia sent me.
Always be yourself. Unless you can be a superhero. Then always be a superhero.
By habit, I check BritishPatriot’s account, but he’s gone quiet over the past week.
I don’t want to think about that now.
I don’t want to think about that night with Oliver, how he went out of his way to help me, how he listened to me, how he looked at me.
I don’t want to think about how I ruined everything by kissing him.
But here’s the thing. He definitely kissed me back. There’s no way he wasn’t an enthusiastic participant in that kiss.
I just want to talk to him. I want to get things back to what we had before.
Even as I read all the positive coverage, an empty feeling grows inside me because I can’t share this with the one person I most want to talk to.
“Now, I’ve been meaning to discuss something with you,” Raymond says.
I look up at him, and my gaze snags on the way his mustache is twitching. Whatever Raymond wants to talk about obviously makes him uncomfortable.
“Now, as you know, one of your most important jobs is to provide an heir,” he continues briskly.
I splutter on my mouthful of tea.
“An heir?” I ask.
“Yes. Now that you’ve settled into life in England, it’s time to consider going on some dates. A royal romance is exactly what we need to keep the papers distracted from everything else.”
My stomach rolls. My hands shake slightly, threatening to spill my cup of tea, so I set it on the tea tray.
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.
I have no desire to see Raymond choke on his mustache, however, so I keep that particular fact to myself.
Raymond is looking at me expectantly, waiting for a reply.
“I’ll think about it,” I promise.