Chapter 21 #2
Nicholas hobbles to his feet and tries to take a step forward but stops abruptly, wincing.
“Not much.”
“I think we ought to get you back to the castle, get some ice on it,” Bruce says.
Nicholas’s pout deepens, but he doesn’t disagree.
Bruce looks over at us. “You two can stay here. There’s no point ruining the trip for everyone.”
Callum flicks a glance at me. “Are you okay with that?”
Am I all right with spending time alone with Callum, surrounded by nothing but miles and miles of empty wilderness?
“Yes, that’s fine,” I say.
There’s silence between Callum and me as Nicholas’s and Bruce’s voices retreat before the Land Rover’s engine roars to life.
We quietly set up our rods and then head over to a series of pools where the current slows to a leisurely drift.
Only the quiet babble of the water flowing over stones and the call of a bird disturb the silence.
I was taught how to fly fish the first time I visited Balmoral, and I’m semi-competent at casting my line.
The slow casting rhythm, the swishing sound as the line lengthens followed by the fly settling gently on the water, all adds to the peacefulness of the scene.
I stand on the gray stones at the riverbank’s edge, thirty meters upstream from Callum, casting my line and running through everything I’ve accomplished against the odds.
When I was eight, I stood up to Ernie Sanders and his gang of thugs after I caught them teasing a girl who lived in the flat below me. Five to one, and while it wasn’t a resounding victory, I hit hard enough that three of them had black eyes that matched mine the next day.
In Year Nine, my science teacher held me back after class because I’d called him out for the wrong answer.
He’d sneered at me with his posh, public-school accent.
“Not sure what you think you’ll use those brains for, Ollie, unless you’re planning on being the smartest drug dealer around.
Council-estate chav never amounts to anything. ”
Fuck, the pleasure it had given me to go back to talk at assembly after I’d graduated with a first from Oxford, become a successful barrister, and had just been elected as the local MP. I’d looked him in the eye as I walked off the stage.
“It’s amazing what council-estate chav can amount to, eh, sir?”
How in my first term as MP, I’d uncovered a scandal involving dodgy campaign funding by senior party members. My colleagues warned me that by speaking out, I risked labeling myself a troublemaker and killing my political career. Even Garett cautioned me against pursuing it.
But I’ve always had a simple barometer for my morals—imagining my grandad’s reactions to my choices. And that guided me into revealing the scandal. I managed to weather the fallout and establish myself as uncompromising and principled, speeding me up the party ranks.
All those memories run through my head as I cast the line out and reel it back in.
I’ve won so many battles against the odds in my life. But I honestly don’t think I’m going to win the battle with myself to stop wanting Callum.
I lift my eyes to him, and I’m struck by the beauty of the vision. From this distance, I can just make out a look of peaceful concentration on his face as he flicks his wrist to cast the line into the smooth water.
He’s backlit with the morning light, the sun giving his hair even more of a golden glow than usual. The lines of his body are as exquisitely carved and as breathtaking as the craggy peaks of the Scottish mountains rising into the cool, crisp morning air behind him.
I have never seen anything more perfect.
Callum glances up, and our gazes connect. It’s like an invisible thread tethers us, as strong as our lines. Peacefulness leaves his expression, and it’s replaced by something else, something that looks like longing.
I drop my gaze back to the water, trying to compose myself and focus on the fishing.
Fly fishing is an art, and I think it’s fair to say neither Callum nor I will be challenging the grand masters as we don’t catch anything.
Eventually, we stop and head to the bank to unpack the picnic hamper Bruce brought with us.
“I think the fish have us well and truly outsmarted today,” I say.
Callum gives me an impish grin. “Do you know why fish are so smart?”
“Why?”
“Because they swim in schools.”
I groan loudly.
“Nothing like a few jokes to aid digestion,” he says.
“I’m not sure if your jokes are the stomach-settling type,” I say.
He laughs as I unpack the sandwiches.
And fuck, this is just so easy. It’s so easy to joke back and forth with Callum about our fishing skills and the size of all the fish that got away as we munch our way through the picnic.
I like so much about Callum, but one of the things I like the most is how he brings out this side of me I never knew existed.
The sun is high now, and its warmth envelops us like a comforting blanket. The birds are singing from the trees above us, and it almost feels like this moment will never end.
Callum takes off his jumper, his face flushed. “I never thought I’d say this, but it’s getting hot.”
“We should go for a swim,” I say.
He looks at me as if I’ve suggested we should start farming unicorns.
“Did the voting public seriously think you were of a sound mind to lead them? Have you actually tried swimming in a Scottish river?”
I chuckle. “A bit of cold never hurt anyone. Good for the spirit.”
“Next you’ll be telling me it’ll put hairs on my chest.”
My breathing stutters as I imagine Callum’s chest, the smoothness of his skin, the hard planes, and the soft curves of his body.
I straighten, concentrating on putting the leftover lunch items back into the picnic hamper to avoid him seeing my reaction.
“Okay, let’s do it,” Callum says.
I snap my head up to look at him. “What?”
“I’ve got to accept that my summers are no longer going to be spent swimming in the Pacific, so Scottish rivers are the next best thing, right?”
“Right,” I say.
It turns out I didn’t think my suggestion through. Going swimming with Callum means us both stripping down to our boxers.
I’ve always kept fit, and unlike many of my predecessors, I regularly frequent the gym at Number 10.
But there’s no escaping that I’m a man in his late thirties with a demanding desk job and without time to maintain a perfect physique.
Callum however… I gulp when he pulls off his T-shirt.
He’s naturally blessed with broad shoulders, a lean muscular torso, and golden skin.
I haven’t thought much about the age difference between us, but right now, I remember he’s a man in his prime.
I glance away. When I glance back, I find his eyes lingering on my chest.
He raises his gaze, and the heat in his eyes has me almost stepping towards him before I seize control of myself.
My face must have given away something because he offers a rueful smile, rubbing the back of his neck, looking away.
Bloody hell.
It appears we are just as attracted to each other’s bodies as we are to each other’s minds and personalities. Which isn’t exactly what we need to add to the mix.
I take a step into the admittedly nippy water.
Callum joins me, and his flesh becomes covered in goosebumps as he walks in up to his thighs.
Fuck, now my mind is trying to suggest other ways I could make Callum’s flesh goosebump.
I wrench my mind away from ogling Callum.
Instead, I mull over his previous statement and realize there’s a simple question I’ve never asked him in all our conversations.
“Do you miss California?”
Callum hesitates. He worries his lower lip for a few seconds before answering.
“I miss the simplicity of my life there,” he says finally.
“Not that I thought it was simple at the time, but in hindsight, it was. And I miss the weather, obviously, and my friends.” He bends down to trail his hand through the water, then looks back at me.
“And I definitely miss my anonymity. I had no idea how much freedom I had. I could do whatever I wanted without any major consequences. Now, everything has consequences.”
I swallow hard. He’s right that every part of his life now has consequences. For a second, I imagine I met Californian Callum, just a guy in his mid-twenties working in an insurance call center.
I would have been attracted to him. I would have liked him. If I’d had any indication he was attracted to me in return, I would have asked him out, and we could have been together without any worries.
But I apply the brakes in my mind before I can go too far down that alternative reality.
If Callum hadn’t become the Prince of Wales, we would never have met.
I take another few steps and dive under the water. The cold slams the breath out of me and my skin instantly numbs. Callum definitely has a point about Scottish rivers not being particularly toasty.
We only last a few minutes in the water before we emerge spluttering and dripping.
“I think we should be awarded a medal of bravery for that,” Callum says as he lies on a beach of small pebbles, shivering. I try not to look at him stretched out, water droplets gleaming on his golden skin.