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The Unlikely Heir
-- EXCERPT: Oliver and I sit next to each other on the park bench. Our shoulders brush, and my heart races. Someone as handsome as him shouldn’t be allowed to mix with mere mortals. It’s not fair. Oliver stares out across the dimly lit soccer pitch. “I used to trudge across these fields, this skinny kid with big ears, a kid without a mum or dad, struggling with my sexual identity.” “Imagine what that kid would say if he could see you now,” I say. Oliver gives a low chuckle. “If someone had told me that one day, I’d be prime minister and sitting on this bench talking to the Prince of Wales, I don’t think I would have believed them.” “And yet here we are,” I say. “Here we are,” Oliver echoes. His eyes meet mine, and we just stare at each other. My heart thuds under the weight of Oliver’s unwavering gaze. I tilt my head back to look at the night sky. But because we’re in London, where light pollution reigns supreme, there are no real stars to be seen. Instead, I focus on one of the nearby streetlamps and the haze around it. It’s beautiful in its own way, another reminder of the hidden beauty in this world. “I never imagined when I saw the coverage of your election that you’d one day become my best friend,” I say. It’s true. Me at twenty-two, sitting in my small apartment, watching on TV the handsome, confident man on the steps of 10 Downing Street with his gorgeous husband. Could I have ever imagined our lives would overlap in this way? It’s only after the words are out of my mouth that I realize how intense they are. Shit. Oliver’s probably worried I’m going to ask him to be my BFF. Maybe seal our friendship by becoming blood brothers. Heat floods my face. “I mean, you’re definitely the person I’m the most real with,” I add quickly, flicking a glance at him. The light of the streetlamp reflects in Oliver’s eyes as he stares at me. “You’re the person I’m the most real with too,” he says quietly. My heart thuds recklessly. Oliver’s tie is loosened, and he’s staring at me with those intense dark eyes. There might be a time and place where I can resist Oliver when he looks at me the way he’s looking at me now. But it is not this moment. I lean toward him and press my lips to his. It’s just a light touch of our mouths, yet all the nerve endings in my lips tingle like they’ve been electrified. Oliver’s breath leaves him in a silent exhale, a gentle ghosting over my face. His lips are soft and warm under mine. It’s a gentle kiss, fragile as a feather. When I pull back, Oliver is staring at me, his eyes wide. His chest rises and falls rapidly. “Bloody hell, Callum.” His voice is rougher than normal, and he looks flustered, and I’ve never seen him look flustered before. He’s usually so in control. And I think I like flustered Oliver even more than in-control Oliver, which is why I close the distance between us again. “The rules don’t apply tonight, remember?” I whisper against his lips. I hover there, close to him. But I don’t want to kiss him again if he doesn’t want this. Oliver’s eyes scan my face, and suddenly, he makes a noise in his throat and one of his hands palms the side of my face. And we’re kissing for real. I’m kissing Oliver Hartwell. The fact causes my mind to melt, leaving me incapable of coherent thought, so instead, I just catalog the sensations. The heat of Oliver. His taste. The feel of his tongue moving in sure strokes against mine, the rasp of his stubble against my skin. I am definitely, definitely kissing a man. I’ve never felt this way kissing someone before. My hands go to the back of his head, grabbing strands of his soft hair like I’m trying to secure him, tether him, keep him exactly where he is, where I get to breathe in Oliver, continue kissing him. Oliver’s lips move fervently against mine, his hands sliding down my back. I let out a soft moan, lost in the sensation of kissing him. I’m not prepared to let this kiss end. Because it turns out Oliver’s lips contain the answer to every question I’ve ever had about myself. And that overrides the fact that of all the people in this world I shouldn’t be kissing, Oliver is top of the list. Our kiss smooths out, slowing from hot and heavy to tender and sweet. It’s a lingering kiss, as if Oliver feels exactly like I do, like he wants to extend this perfect moment for as long as possible before the real world intrudes. But we can’t block out the rest of the world forever. Eventually, Oliver withdraws from me. In the dim light, his pupils seem enormous, swallowing his irises so the black pools are all I can see. “Callum,” he says. Somehow, he says my name like it’s both a question and the answer.
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