Page 1 of Fake Crown

Posey

The professor at the front of the lecture hall closes her presentation to take questions from the students around me. Since she’s one of the foremost interior designers in the state, I should be paying attention. A career like hers is exactly what I want to have when I return to Bellerive. Instead, I’ve passed my phone to my newest friend, Monica, so she can add her details to my contacts. It’s a long list. My sister, Julia, calls me a friend collector.

“I’ll add you to the group chat.” Monica tucks her dark hair behind her ear with her thumb and forefinger. “I’ve never met anyone from Bellerive island before. Is it as pretty in person as the photos make it seem?” She returns my phone to my outstretched palm, and then she turns her computer screen toward me. On her screen is an aerial view of the island, spreading across the ocean, a mix of sand, lush greenery, and visible coral. An answering ache extends across my chest.

Home.

“Prettier,” I say. “The best place in the world.” Though it annoys me how people always call it Bellerive Island as though the ‘island’ is necessary for understanding. Like Barbados, Bermuda, the Bahamas, and almost every other island, it’s just Bellerive. I drop my phone into my bag, and my pale skin makes me cringe. Living in Michigan has caused me to lose my island glow. But just the sight of the photo on her screen has caused a trickle of homesickness to leak into my consciousness. Some days it amazes me I’ve made it almost four years in America at Northern University.

“Jensen,” Monica muses. “Are you related to Secretary Jensen? It says here she works for the king.”

“The former is my mother, and the secretary in training is my sister.” I wink. “Yes, I know the Bellerive Brothers.” That’s the hashtag everyone uses for the three Bellerive royal heirs.

Each one is a thirst trap for a different reason. Brice, the youngest, is my favorite now, but Nick, the middle son, used to be. That was back when he and my sister were best friends. Their friendship ended years ago, and now, he’s a man-whore. Julia calls the women who flock to him Crown Bunnies. They exist on campus too—people who want to get close to me to get noticed by them. I’ve learned to suss out those people quickly.

“I’d totally bang Brice.” Monica shuts her computer and shoves it into the bag at her feet.

An acceptable response. Anyone who goes for Alex, the future king, is a gold-digger and cannot be trusted. While Alex is just as hot as his brothers, he’s more aloof on social media. Much more guarded. Women who pinpoint him are after a title and position, not the man himself. I ‘lose’ the numbers of those women. Prince Alexander does not suffer fools, and I don’t intend to be on his foolish list. At least not in regards to the friends I make.

“Brice is totally shaggable.” To everyone else but me. I can appreciate them without wanting to have sex with them. Too much like brothers since we all grew up together. Each one annoys me in his own unique way.

When I was younger, Nick had the most crush potential. His friendship with my sister was the stuff teenage fantasies are built on. They rarely speak, but once in a while, I catch him staring at Julia with naked longing. As though he wishes for something he can no longer have. The one time I tried to bring up their past friendship, Jules shut me down by saying Nick wasn’t who he used to be. Apart from all the sex, he still seems like the same guy to me. What do I know?

Monica walks me out of the lecture hall. “Any plans for the long weekend?”

“Probably just sticking around here. All my family is out of Bellerive on various adventures. A couple of my friends from home were talking about coming but never booked their flights.” November isn’t an ideal time to visit Michigan. Not cold enough for snow to stick and not warm enough for other outdoor adventures.

“I’d invite you home with me, but I’m going to my boyfriend’s place. I’ll send you the link to another chat I’m in,” Monica says. “There are always people making last minute plans in it on a long weekend.”

“Awesome,” I say. “My extroverted heart will love it.”

“Sit together next week?” Monica holds the door open as we exit the concrete building into the crisp late-fall air.

A chill rushes through me, and I zip my jacket. “I usually sit with Destiny, but she went home early for the weekend. We can all sit together,” I say. “I’ll introduce you.”

“Perfect,” she says. “Maybe this class won’t be so boring anymore.” A horn beeps ahead of us, and Monica waves at a Black guy driving toward us. “That’s my boyfriend.” She rolls her eyes when he sticks his head out the window to yell something incoherent. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“God, no.” I laugh. “Men are best in bite-sized pieces.” I give her a wicked grin. “Sinful and delicious.”

“Oh, you’re trouble, Posey Jensen.” She wags her finger at me as she walks backward. “My boyfriend isn’t going to like me hanging around you.”

Reason number one why I don’t have a boyfriend. Who wants to be on a leash? “Maybe you need a new boyfriend.” I waggle my brows when the horn honks again.

Monica throws the middle finger over her shoulder and grimaces. “I’ll dump him when Sebastian Swan comes calling.”

“The football player? The one involved in the big scandal last year?”

“He wasn’t part of that. He dates the girl’s roommate. Natalie, I think?” She crosses her fingers. “Is it wrong to wish for someone else’s breakup?”

We reach her boyfriend’s car, and Monica circles to the passenger side.

“Need a ride?” the boyfriend asks, leaning out the window. “We can drop you somewhere on our way outta town?” He’s skinnier than I expected given Monica’s fixation on a football player, but his grin is infectious.

“I don’t live far from campus, but thanks. Have a good weekend.” I wave to them both and head across the street to the eastern campus exit, which isn’t the closest to my apartment, but it’s the route past the Olympic-size swimming pool.

As I walk, I scroll through my various social media accounts on the hunt for my own thirst trap. Brent Faulkner is a legend on campus and in Bellerive. He’s chasing Michael Phelps’s medal count at the next Olympics. While his mother was born in Bellerive, her family left the country when she was young. She married an American, and her eldest child, Brent, has chosen to swim for America, instead of Bellerive, in the Olympics. I guess he feels more attached to the good ole U.S. of A. than his mother’s birthplace.

Do I know far too much about a man I’ve never met? Yes, yes, I do.