Page 13 of Fallen Crown

“Don’t over grip the handholds. Keep your hands relaxed and light.” I demonstrate, and when Brice grasps the rock just above our heads, I slide my hand under his to check the tension in his wrist. His skin is warm and smooth against mine. “Yeah,” I say, “gentle like you’re cupping an egg or a light bulb and trying not to break it.”

“I tend to prefer my grip firm,” he says with a smirk.

“Not a surprise that your primary concern is your own satisfaction.” I give him a mild look and keep my voice pitched low.

“My own satisfaction is always a concern,” he says, leaning close enough that his breath stirs the tendrils of dark hair that have escaped my ponytail, “but it’s never my only one.”

I can feel my jaw tighten at his obvious innuendo, and my heart kicks at his proximity. An unexpected awareness electrifies the space between us, and when our gazes connect, his expression shifts from brimming with amusement to one laced with curiosity.

“You’re not as immune to me as you’d like to believe,” he whispers.

“Everything okay over there?” Wren calls to us.

“Peachy,” Brice says. “Tucker was just explaining how to achieve satisfaction”—he glances at Wren—“when climbing new heights.”

Wren’s concerned gaze seeks mine, and I shake my head in response before stepping away from the wall and Brice. His comment about me not being as immune as I’d like is far too close to the truth. Whatever zipped between us isn’t something I’ll be allowing to happen again. For one, I’m married. And two, Brice Summerset is the last man who would ever tempt me. Talk about jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Chapter Seven

Brice

For the next two hours, my climbing skills are picked apart by first Maren and then Wren. When one explains a technique, and I don’t immediately pick it up, the other interjects with a different explanation. There’s an ease and a shorthand between them that probably shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. A few times, Maren even laughs at Wren’s sometimes eccentric instructions.

By the time we’re on the last climbing section, my muscles, which were already sore from Tucker’s torture yesterday, are screaming in protest. I’ve hidden my discomfort so far, but I’m not sure how much longer I can prevent it from being obvious. There’s no way I’ll be the first person to suggest quitting, and neither of them seems to be losing enthusiasm for correcting my mistakes. Holding in my sigh of resignation, I stare up at the wall of the last section where the handholds are farther apart and a whole lot smaller. What a joy.

Joshua, the owner of the climbing gym, peers into the room. “Maren Tucker,” he crows. “I saw your name on the booking calendar, and I couldn’t believe it. You’re back training?” He wanders into the high, open space. His family, who are central figures in Bellerive’s Filipino community, own a slew of gyms and fitness centers across the island.

“Coaching,” she says, and there’s a pink tinge to her cheeks. She holds up her index finger to me and Wren, and then she makes her way to him at the door.

“She’ll warm up to you,” Wren says once Maren appears to be out of earshot. “She’s had a tough year, and she’s not great at letting people in under the best circumstances.”

If she’d made that claim yesterday, I’d have said hell had a better chance of freezing than Maren Tucker did of deciding I wasn’t a complete waste of space. Even earlier, before Wren showed up, Maren made her dislike for me clear.

Then at the rock wall, when she touched my wrist, an unexpected spark jumped between us. Nothing I’d ever act on, but it was the first indication I’ve had that I could alter how she sees me. Perhaps she doesn’t hate me for some perceived slight or flaw in my character. Perhaps she hates me for the way I make her feel.

And that? Well, I know how to handle women who want me but can’t admit it, even if I’m slightly disappointed she’s turned out to be one of them. No need to hate the popular kid just because he’s popular.

“I’m not worried about what Tucker thinks of me,” I say. The last two days of training has made it clear I’ll have to work hard to keep up with the team. While I’ve always been the peacemaker between my elder brothers, I do have a competitive streak. Normally, I’m winning ladies, not races, but I enjoy the idea of this new challenge. So different from anything I’ve ever done before. “Tell me what I can train on my own without her interference.”

“Interference, huh?” Her lips twitch. “Most would call it coaching, especially with the amount of knowledge Maren has of the races and the rigors of them.”

“I would appreciate Maren’s skills if she was riding something other than my back.” I flash her my most charming smile.

“I’m starting to see why the two of you don’t get along.” Wren shakes her head.

“We only need to tolerate each other for the sake of the race.” I cross my arms. “She’s married anyway, and I try my best not to be a home-wrecker.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watch for her reaction at the mention of Enzo, the absentee husband.

“I notice you didn’t say you weren’t a home-wrecker.”

“Can’t help what you don’t know,” I say. Or don’t get around to asking. A few women have proven to be slippery with the details of their life. A consequence of being rich and moderately famous—sometimes people can’t resist my magnetic pull, and they’re seduced by the idea of one night with a royal. For some, forbidden fruit tastes much better than whatever they’ve got lying around at home. Who am I to deny their desires? My life isn’t theirs.

“You can train your body as much as you want here in Bellerive,” Wren says. “Take yourself to the brink of exhaustion, but you’ll never match the mental toughness needed on the course. If it’s bad weather, train anyway. Climb the stairs, run the hill, bike up Mount Juniper. There’ll be a lot of low points, but you gotta battle through those to get the highs.”

I can’t decide if she’s telling me I’m already not doing enough or if she’s just trying to give me a reality check. Either way, I file away her suggestions. Jag and I are going to be getting extremely fit over the next six months.

“That what happened to Tucker at the last race?” I ask. “Not mentally tough enough and made a mistake?”

Wren’s expression closes, and I realize I’ve gone about ten steps too far. Since she’s proven to be my sole ally, pissing her off will only make training more miserable.