Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Oliver
Callum and I end up at a dodgy twenty-four-hour cafe. The smell of grease mixed with the acrid smell of floor cleaner assaults my nostrils.
We manage to make our way to a plastic, mustard-colored booth in the back without attracting the attention of a few other patrons scattered around the cafe.
It’s helped by the fact that one of Callum’s bodyguards produced two hoodies and baseball caps.
We shucked off our tux jackets and put the hoodies over our shirts.
With baseball cap brims lowered over our eyes, our disguise is complete.
Our protection officers take up another booth, and I deliberately don’t meet the eyes of my guard, Dennis, because I know there will be questions lingering in his gaze.
What are you doing right now?
I don’t have a bloody clue.
That’s the straight-up, honest answer.
The question pounds away in my head as Callum and I examine our laminated menus and then place our order with a bored waitress who doesn’t seem to notice she’s serving two of the most famous men in the country.
“I just need to go to the loo,” I say to Callum after we’ve ordered.
“Okay.”
Once my security team has checked out the threat of the bathroom, I stand at the sink, staring at myself in the mirror. I hardly recognize myself in the navy hoodie and dark baseball cap pulled low on my head.
And the question screams even louder in my mind.
What the hell am I playing at?
The whole evening I’ve been drawn to Callum in a way I can’t explain.
Seeing him in the flesh for the first time in a month, dressed in a tuxedo, I was overwhelmed by how incredibly good-looking he is.
I’d clocked that before, of course, but somehow, after all the messages we’ve exchanged, after seeing his vulnerabilities, his intelligence, his sense of humor, he’s even more handsome now.
The way one section of his hair seems determined to flop into his eyes. The curve of his full lips when he smiles. The clear translucence of his green eyes. The way he talks, not just with his words but his hands too, as if words aren’t enough to convey the fullness of his thoughts.
As a gay guy, I’m used to finding straight guys attractive. I’ve learned to control that part of me to the extent I could stand next to a naked Mr. Universe and not react.
I take a deep breath.
It’s fine that I find the Prince of Wales attractive. It’s not a concern. I can handle this.
I splash some water on my face, then grimace at myself in the mirror before exiting the bathroom.
Callum looks up from the booth, his face breaking into a wide smile.
His West Ham cap is perched slightly lopsided on his head, and his eyes sparkle at me like emeralds catching the sun, and bloody hell, it appears I’m turning into an amateur poet.
His smile morphs into an impish grin as I slide back into the booth. “Your pie arrived, and I may have taken a bite.”
My stomach lurches.
Holy shit.
I’ve dealt with countless crises in my three years as prime minister. Economic, social, national security.
But it appears spending an evening with the future king is what will defeat me.
Because I suddenly realize my problem isn’t that I’m attracted to Callum. My problem is I’m charmed by him. And that feels like a much more dangerous proposition.
I glance down at the plate of pie in front of me, noting the missing spoonful.
“I’m not certain if nicking a person’s pie is in the royal etiquette book,” I say.
He gives me an innocent look. “I was just checking to make sure it wasn’t poisonous.”
“Right, because that’s historically been the role of royalty, to check for poison on other people’s plates.”
Callum laughs.
And I try not to notice how his whole face lights up.
“To my knowledge, no British monarchs have ever died by poisoning, despite what Shakespeare might have you believe,” Callum says. “Sixty died of natural causes, fifteen were killed in battle, nineteen were assumed to have been murdered, assassinated, or executed, and three died accidentally.”
“That feels like a morbid set of facts for you to know,” I comment.
“Well, when I learned it, I didn’t think being king was in my future, did I? Besides, the odds are still in my favor for natural causes.”
“I’m not entirely convinced a monarch’s odds for death by natural causes is quite as good as the general population,” I say.
“Uneasy is the head that wears the crown,” Callum offers. He leans forward and takes a spoonful of his own apple crumble. He has long fingers that delicately wrap around his spoon. How can the way someone holds their cutlery captivate me?
I wrench my gaze away.
“I’m impressed that you quoted it correctly. Most people go with ‘heavy is the head that wears the crown’ rather than the original version,” I say.
“I’ve studied a bit of Shakespeare,” Callum says. “But I’m not sure if that’s a good thing right now.”
I frown. “Why not?”
“Well, Shakespeare didn’t exactly portray any royalty as having a long and happy life.”
I can’t help a small chuckle at that.
“Do you know how historically accurate Shakespeare’s plays actually are?” I ask.
“Well, he did portray King John as dying by poison, whereas historians believe he actually died of dysentery. Which I guess wouldn’t be an attractive scene played out on stage.”
“Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.”
Callum grins. “I think you’ve just stumbled across the motto for the British press.”
The sound of our laughter blending together causes my heart to hiccup.
A movement catches the corner of my eye. It’s Dennis’s head jerking up at the sound of my laughter. He turns to stare at me, his eyebrows rising. I guess I don’t laugh that much.
I turn my focus to my pie, savoring the sweet, buttery crust and the tartness of the apples underneath.
“So, how is your pudding, anyway?” I ask inanely.
Callum turns his attention to his apple crumble. “I have a theory that if you drown anything in custard, it has to taste good.”
I nod. “I like that theory. I might have to give it a thorough testing though.”
“Do you want to try some?” He slides his plate over towards me.
“All right then.”
I go to take a spoonful just as Callum reaches for another, and our spoons click together.
Callum tries to shove my spoon out of the way, and it turns into a short but heated spoon battle that makes me laugh again.
Callum uses my distraction to get the large bit of crumble we were fighting over. I can’t help watching his mouth as he polishes off the spoon.
I look away, trying to compose myself.
“I used to come to greasy spoons like this with my grandparents,” I say. “It would be our treat to come on a Sunday and have the full English.”
“You were raised by your grandparents, right?”
“Yes, I was,” I reply.
It’s currently two a.m., and I’m knackered. I should be heading home to get some sleep. I’ve got a country to run tomorrow, after all. I’m teetering on dangerous territory here, but I can’t make myself leave.
Instead, I find myself telling Callum stories about my grandparents.
Things I’ve never told anyone. I never shared much of my childhood with Garett.
The gap between his posh childhood on a country estate and mine was an impossible distance to bridge.
We had the shared territory of Oxford and our lives as young London professionals, which seemed like enough at the time.
Whenever I mention my childhood now, it’s only to underscore my working-class credentials. Free school meals, scrappy fights in the council estate, and rummaging in the charity shop for secondhand clothes.
But I now find myself telling Callum small, seemingly insignificant stories.
How one Christmas, Nan said she wanted a new apron, and Grandad dispatched me to get a floral one he knew she’d love.
But as a lark, he told me to also purchase one of those saucy ones with a naked female body on it, and that was the first one we handed her to unwrap on Christmas morning.
Nan was so angry that we’d spent money on it that she wore it through Christmas Day and refused to wear the proper one, and it became such a family joke that she’d wear it without thinking, even when we had company over.
I tell him of the hours I spent in dimly lit arcades, where whose name was at the top of the scoring board in Mortal Kombat II gave you ultimate bragging rights.
I even tell him about the moment I told my grandad I was gay, which was the most nerve-wracking moment of my life up to that point.
I’d been a shaking, sweaty mess. I’d contemplated writing a letter, but repeated drafts had ended up being devoured by the bin.
Eventually, I’d run out of patience and blurted it out while sitting next to him on the settee as he played Patience on the coffee table, his oxygen tubes in his nostrils.
I’d mumbled the whole thing to the couch cushions. “You-need-to-know-something-about-me. I’m-gay-and-no-it’s-not-something-I-can-change.”
My grandad had stopped slapping cards down on the table, and for a moment, there was nothing but canned laughter coming from the telly.
The silence from my grandad had been measured by the thumping of my heart.
“Ollie,” he’d said finally.
I couldn’t raise my eyes to meet his.
He’d put his hand on my chin and jerked my chin up so I was forced to meet his gaze.
I’d flinched because I’d seen a flicker of anger there, and the thought of disappointing this man who’d raised me, my grandad who had taught me everything I knew about what it meant to be a man, caused me to wither inside.
His eyes pierced me. “Look me in the eye when you’re telling me. Not looking me in the eye makes me think you’re ashamed. And you should never be ashamed of who you are.”
My grandad’s words formed the bedrock of my attitude towards my sexuality after that. I wasn’t ashamed. I wasn’t going to hide. I would look people in the eye and tell them this is who I am, like it or shove it.
“That’s a really lovely story,” Callum says quietly when I finish telling it.