Page 38 of Fallen Crown

To prove that his comment and my reaction doesn’t matter, I drop my food on top of my bag, and I peer over the edge of the container before selecting one of the remaining scones. I’m sure the atmosphere around us has cleared, and I silently congratulate myself on playing it cool as I bring the scone to my lips. But when I glance up at Brice, he’s riveted by my action. My lips part in surprise at the intensity of his gaze. The air crackles around us, as though me biting into a scone is the most erotic thing that’s ever happened.

“Just let it slide in there,” he murmurs. “You won’t regret it.” His voice is rough and quite possibly the sexiest I’ve ever heard him sound.

A little flirting is okay, isn’t it? It’s not like any of this means anything to him, and I’m married. The teasing and the touches and this insane tension between us isn’t foreplay. They’re harmless exchanges between two people who’d never act on whatever this is.

Except when his gaze slides to mine, I’m not sure about any of what I’ve just told myself. His light-brown eyes have darkened, and my breath hitches at our proximity. If I stepped even a little bit closer, I could brush up against him, and not only do I think he’d let me, I think he’d welcome it. The realization is so surprising that I take a step back, as though his rapt attention has stung me.

I take a large bite of the scone, hoping I look as unattractive as possible, and I turn away while I chew. We can pretend that flare of feeling didn’t happen. I’m going to pretend it didn’t happen.

“Tucker,” Brice says to my back. “I feel it, but I’d never act on it. Okay? You’d hate me for it, and I don’t want that.”

“We’re oil and water,” I say, partly because I’m surprised by his blunt honesty. I’ve never met a man who said exactly what they thought with no hint of embarrassment or uncertainty. We had a moment, and he’s not the least bit uncomfortable acknowledging it. But I am. His easiness with whatever is brewing between us is terrifying.

“Nah, we’re not oil and water. I used to think that too, but it’s not true.”

We’re far enough apart now that I can turn to face him without wanting to either brush myself against him or run away. The two instincts are there—the desire and the fear. But I don’t ever want to become my father. Enzo and I might be going through a rough patch, but marriage is for better and for worse. You can’t just pick the half that suits you.

“So what are we, then?” I tip my chin in defiance.

“Oil and balsamic vinegar.”

“It’s the same,” I say. “They repel each other. Globs of vinegar sit in the oil. They don’t mix.”

“Sure, they can be separate. But when they’re mixed properly, they complement each other. The tastes—” He makes a circular motion around his mouth with his index finger. “Mingle, and it’s delicious when it’s done right.”

My heart pounds in my chest, and a cool sweat breaks out under my arms. How can him describing oil and balsamic vinegar be sexy? What is wrong with me?

“I’m the oil, of course. Since I have a much smoother personality.” He grins at me before taking another bite of scone.

“And I’m the bitter bite.” I roll my eyes and try to pretend this whole exchange is annoying.

“Were you raised a heathen with no palate?” He picks up another scone and offers it to me.

As much as I’d like to resist, he’s right that the queen’s baking is unparalleled. I finish the last bite of the one I have in my hand, but I hesitate to accept another.

“Balsamic vinegar is not white vinegar. They’re nothing alike,” Brice continues. “Balsamic vinegar has a rich, complex sweetness, and the tartness is … merely superficial.”

There’s so much sincerity in his tone that it makes my chest ache. There are layers upon layers upon layers to this man, and each one I reach intrigues and scares me more. I take the scone from his outstretched hand, and he searches my expression.

“The oil is made better by the vinegar, that’s all you really need to understand.”

It’s the strangest and best compliment anyone has ever given me. Since I’m not really sure how to respond, I bite the scone and let the sweetness of his presence seep into me.

Brice shifts onto his side in his sleeping bag beside me, and the full moon shines through the open flaps of the tent that are being lifted once in a while by the ocean breeze. Camping out has always been a balm to my soul, and I wasn’t sure how it would be with Brice.

Rather than our conversation earlier inspiring awkwardness or more tension, we’ve been subdued and comfortable around each other, as though we cleared the air.

But we haven’t.

Since we’ve settled into the tent, the air has grown thick again, as though we’re both waiting for the other person to speak. It’s a game we often play from who will text who about training to who will end our training session first. We’re in a weird competition to care both less and more than the other person. I recognize it, but I have no idea how to solve it. Maybe this is just how we function. Oil and balsamic vinegar.

We’re packed into his tiny tent like sardines. Sleeping on top of each other would likely be more comfortable than being wedged in here shoulder to shoulder. Or back-to-back, which is how we are right now. Neither of us sleeping. Listening to each other breathe.

“You awake, Tucker?” Brice asks.

“Yes,” I whisper. He must know. It’s easy enough to tell when someone is really sleeping or just pretending to.

“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else.”