Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Callum
Saturday morning, and I’m on my way to a rubber boot-throwing contest, or as they call it here, a welly-wanging contest.
“So, what hazards are we watching out for here?” I ask Raymond as we pull up outside. “Not to fall flat on my face in the muddy field? Try not to land a Wellington boot on someone’s head?”
Raymond has spent the trip buried in his phone. He glances up at me now, frowning.
“It doesn’t matter what you do. Any headlines you generate would be preferable to the ones dominating the press right now. Do you know there’s an editorial in The Corporate Times today questioning the place of the monarchy in twenty-first century Britain?”
“Really?” I ask weakly.
“The Times!” Raymond says, his mustache bristling with indignation. “I can’t believe they have betrayed us like that.”
He shakes his head in disgust. “Hopefully, your investiture will remind the British public what they love about the monarchy,” he continues.
My stomach hollows as it always does when I think about the upcoming investiture ceremony. It will be the most formal thing I’ve ever participated in.
Just me, on a dais in the middle of a castle, bowing before my grandmother, pledging my allegiance as the whole country—the whole world—watches.
What could go wrong?
Unfortunately, with me involved, the possibilities seem endless.
As I step out of the car, my ears are filled with the noise of an angry crowd shouting anti-monarchy slogans.
My security team ushers me past the protesters, but not before I glimpse some of the placards:
Dethrone Inequality and End Royal Rule
Give Them all the Royal Finger
Crowns Should be in Dentistry, Not Democracy
I almost want to stop and congratulate the person brandishing that last one because anyone who can put a pun and alliteration in the space of seven words of tooth-related humor deserves some acknowledgment.
But I’ve been given strict instructions that protesters are like the media. You don’t acknowledge them under any circumstances. It will just encourage them more.
Given how the media stalks us relentlessly, I’m not sure if anyone can argue that strategy is particularly successful.
When I round the corner to the field, the sight of people of all ages clad in Wellington boots of every color imaginable brings a grin to my face.
Because here’s the thing.
I love it. When I ignore the press and social media and simply concentrate on my job, which is to interact with people and form a connection with them, I absolutely love it.
I love chatting with a variety of different people.
I love discovering what’s important to them, listening to their stories, and sharing my own.
I’ve even changed my opinion on the speech-giving aspect of my job now that I think about my words as just another way to connect with people. So I often find myself going back and forth with Maudie about the contents of my speeches, trying to put more of my personality into them.
And okay, it still feels weird that people are excited to meet me, Callum Prescott.
But I’ve realized it’s not actually me they’re excited about. It’s what I represent.
I represent a thousand years of British history. I represent something larger than me, larger than all of us. A continuation of tradition.
A woman sporting a sunshine-yellow raincoat and equally bright wellies bounces toward me, her hand outstretched. "Your Royal Highness, it’s an honor to have you at our Welly Wanging Championship. I’m Susan, Chief Welly Wanger for today’s event.”
I take her hand, giving her a big grin. "Nice to meet you, Susan. I have to confess I’m a welly-wanging virgin. In fact, up until this morning, I called them rubber boots."
She laughs loudly. “We’ll go gentle on you, I promise.”
Susan leads me toward the welly-wanging arena, and I spot a familiar figure at the edge. Nicholas.
He’s standing on the far side of the field with a cluster of people around him.
Seeing my brother causes a flurry of happiness and anxiety inside me.
Happiness because this is definitely one of the perks of this whole thing, getting to know my younger half-siblings better.
Anxiety because there always appears to be an element of appraisal in Nicholas’s cool blue gaze when he looks at me.
I see the moment the crowd spots me. They turn away from Nicholas, pulsing toward me, my name filling the air as people press closer.
He’s a prince, but I’m the heir. I’m the one who is going to be king.
I shake hands and greet all the well-wishers.
It’s not until the competition is about to begin that I have a chance to sidle over to Nicholas.
“In ancient times, royal brothers would have competed in fencing displays and jousting. Now we throw wellies,” I say to him.
He raises an eyebrow. “Would you have wanted to face me on a jousting field?”
“Given my complete lack of horsemanship skills, I think the change has definitely worked in my favor,” I say. “I’m guessing my welly-wanging prowess will be more proficient than my jousting skills.”
Nicholas smirks. “One would hope so.”
We wait together, and I realize I don’t really know what to say to my brother. What’s going on in his life, how he’s coping with all the changes.
I open my mouth to ask, but one look at his closed expression and my words die.
Besides, with the number of cameras trained on us, it might not be the best time to start a deep and meaningful conversation with my brother.
A whistle blows, and the competition begins. People of all ages take turns flinging their wellies into the field, the atmosphere filled with laughter and cheers.
Our turns finally arrive, and Nicholas steps up to the mark, his welly in hand. With a smooth motion, he sends it sailing through the air, landing with a satisfying thud in the muddy field. He gets the loudest cheer.
He looks at me, one eyebrow raised.
“Your turn,” he says.
A young boy hands me a neon-pink boot, which seems to weigh as much as a small boulder.
I grip my welly and, taking a deep breath, heave it as far as I can. It soars through the air, tumbling end over end, before landing with a satisfying thud a few feet before Nicholas’s.
And even though I don’t beat his throw, the crowd erupts into even louder cheers than they did for Nicholas.
Nicholas turns to me.
“I guess it’s lucky the kingdom isn’t determined by who can throw a welly the furthest distance,” he says.
“Yeah, lucky,” I echo.
When all the welly wanging is over, and I’ve said my goodbyes to the organizers and Nicholas, my security team ushers me past the protesters into the car.
Once I’m safely inside, Raymond looks at me like he’s just had an epiphany.
“You need to go on a date,” he says.
“What?”
“Nothing will distract the media more than the idea that they might get a new princess. It’s exactly what we need to secure the monarchy.”
I bite my lip. If we want distraction, I’m fairly sure revealing the truth about my romantic life would make most people forget my dishonest relatives even exist.
I want to secure the monarchy. I promised my grandmother I would do everything I could to help her.
So how can I refuse Raymond on this request? I can’t exactly tell him the truth.
I’m worried about how my secret boyfriend, the prime minister, will feel about me going on a date.
I rest my forehead on the glass, watching the fields of England outside the window.
I’m antsy before my video call with Oliver, pacing my room restlessly. I don’t know how to reconcile the two wants in my life: being the best Prince of Wales possible and Oliver.
There’s a flutter in my stomach when he finally calls me. I dive toward my phone like a seagull spotting the last french fry on the beach.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” He gives me his lopsided smile, and my heart skips.
Oliver is just so naturally sexy. Especially now, at the end of the day, tie loosened, stubble on his cheeks.
I want to be there next to him, to brush my lips over his, graze my mouth down his jaw, his neck, feel the thrum of his pulse beneath my touch.
I want to be in his arms, forget the pressures of our positions, and just be two men who love each other.
But what I want is impossible.
“Raymond wants me to date,” I blurt.
Oliver’s smile fades. “What did you say to him?”
I scrub my hands over my face. “That I’d think about it.”
A muscle in Oliver’s jaw works. “It can’t hurt for you to be seen going on a few dates,” he says finally.
I just stare at him through the screen. “Are you seriously okay with me dating?”
“Of course I’m not. But I understand if you have to do it.”
It feels like someone has my chest in a vice and is squeezing.
Suddenly, it’s all too much. The pressure, Nicholas’s jibes, missing Oliver, knowing I’m going to have to go on a date and pretend to enjoy myself while the world’s media watches, knowing I can’t be with the man I love.
The frustration, the longing, and the uncertainty of our future threaten to consume me, leaving me unsteady and lost.
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.
Oliver stares at me for a few heartbeats, his face flickering with emotion. Then he exhales slowly. “I’ll come to you,” he says. “Clear it with your security team and give me half an hour. But I’ll get there.”
“Thank you.” The words whoosh out of me.
Oliver ends the video call, leaving me staring at the blank screen.
I lurch to my feet, still struggling to calm my racing heart, and head into the hallway to find my security team.
Mateo is on duty. He’s a no-nonsense guy who I’ve always liked. Although he’s potentially not going to like me for what I’m about to unleash on him.
I clear my throat. “Um…Mateo, the prime minister is going be coming to the palace to see me. Can you get it cleared by whoever it needs to be cleared by?”
A frown line forms between Mateo’s eyes. “Oliver Hartwell is coming here? Now?”
“Yeah. In about half an hour.”
“Where are you going to be meeting him?”
“Uh…he’s going to be coming to my apartment. It’s a private visit.”
I try not to blush, but I’m fairly sure the heat my face is generating could be used to power a whole city.
Mateo’s eyes widen for a second, but then his frown line reappears as if he’s still confused, like he’s dismissed the normal conclusions he would draw in these circumstances because it’s too unlikely.
I’m neither going to confirm nor deny the suspicions my security guard has about what I’m planning to do with the prime minister.
I retreat to my apartment, where I stare at the William Turner landscape on the wall, trying to let the cool colors and serenity of the British landscape soothe me as the minutes tick by.
It doesn’t work.
Finally, there’s a knock on my door.
Oliver.
I barely let him get inside the door before I’m on him. I sink into our kiss, and I’m drowning, drowning in all things Oliver.
He pulls back, one hand still on my cheek, studying me with his dark eyes.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“Not really.”
I kiss him again. It starts off ferocious but softens to something languid, Oliver’s tongue caressing mine like we have all the time in the world to be together.
Which we don’t. I know we don’t.
Fear grips my stomach, curdling the contents.
I pull away from our kiss, breathless.
“I want you,” I say.
“You’ve got me,” he replies.
I clear my throat. “No. I mean, I want you.” It appears I’m incapable of articulating my wants in a grown-up manner.
“In every way possible,” I add.
Oliver’s eyes flare with heat as he understands me. His chest rises and falls more rapidly.
“Callum,” he says hoarsely.
“Please, Oliver,” I say.
“Of course. I’ll give you anything you want.”
I don’t correct Oliver, but it’s not a want. It’s a need.
I need to have Oliver’s body pressed up against mine. I need him to be removing our clothes and steering me toward my bed. I need him to trail kisses down my body, worshiping me like I’m a temple and he’s my most devout follower.
He kisses my shoulder blades, the soft flesh inside my arm, the curve of my waist. Parts of my body I would have never thought were remotely sexual, but every kiss he plants on my body leaves me a straining, panting mess.
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.
Then, he’s slipping on a condom and his body hovers over mine, his weight, his metal dog tags around his neck falling against my skin as he laces our fingers together.
He pauses, and I stare up to meet his gaze.
“I need you,” I whisper.