Page 11 of Fake Crown

“One of the groomsmen.”

“What are your commitments this weekend? There must be things you’re expected to do. Do you want me to go to them or keep myself scarce unless Val shows up?” I perch on the edge of the bed closest to the window and cross my legs.

He turns and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His triceps pop, and I die a little inside. “You’re being very agreeable.”

“Am I supposed to be difficult?” Truthfully, I can’t get an impression of him to stick either. One minute I dislike him intensely, the next, I suspect I could like him, and in both scenarios, I want to rip his clothes off.

“I cannot get a beat on you,” he admits. “You’re like this mishmash of a bunch of people.”

“Everyone wears more than one face.” I circle my makeup-heavy one. “This is mine today. You’ll get a different one tomorrow, I promise.” I wink.

He picks the pen off the nightstand and twirls it across his fingers. “Nothing planned for tonight. I have practice at the Saltus Pool tomorrow morning. Then I’m free the rest of the day until the wedding party has drinks on the terrace tomorrow night. Saturday, the wedding starts at four, followed by dinner and the reception. Sunday, I have a practice again mid-morning, and then we fly out Monday morning.”

“Do you practice every day?”

“Usually doubles, plus weights. This is basically a vacation for me.” He chuckles. “Which I wouldn’t have been able to take if we weren’t two years out from the next Olympics.”

“You wouldn’t have come if the Olympics were closer?”

“I would have, yeah. We’ve been friends since we were kids. But my spare time would have been taken up with training. Wouldn’t have been drinking.” He shrugs. “More discipline. Less freedom. The rewards are worth it.”

The timbre of his voice when he talks about his training causes a warm sensation to sprout in my chest. There’s something about the declaration of hard work and sacrifice as ‘worth it’ that makes him less of a lost cause.

“What’s your thing?” He takes a seat on the other bed across from me. “What makes Posey Jensen tick?”

“I’m taking interior design, but my real claim to fame is probably face-to-face networking. Put me in a room, and I can leave with ten new contacts, easy.”

“You’re a people person.”

“An extreme extrovert, yeah. I love talking to people.”

“I’m kinda in the middle.” He leans back on his hands, and his T-shirt rides up. “I think I’m naturally more introverted, but this whole swimming thing has forced me to be more extroverted.”

“Media?” I’ve watched some of his interviews. He comes across well. Of course, it’s easy to be gracious when you’re winning every race.

“Media, camps or tutorials, fans on the street.” A hint of a smile tugs at one corner of his lips. “Women who pretend to be someone else to get close to me.”

His tone is teasing, so I take it as he intends. “Damn dramatic women.”

He chuckles, and a heavy silence stretches between us. “I didn’t mean to offend you—or anyone—with my phrasing. Val and I had just broken up, and I was angry. I asked Jaxon if I should use that line, and he said yes.”

“Jaxon Parish?” Explains a lot.

“You know him?” Brent raises his eyebrows. “He’s my roommate.”

“We had a class together freshman year. His decision-making skills are…questionable. But he’s a lot of fun.” He was in my group for an actual escape room for our psychology class, and every idea he had to get us out was hilarious and terrible. Back then I liked him because he reminded me of Prince Brice. We haven’t run into each other much since that class.

“You’re saying I shouldn’t have listened to him?”

“There are two guy staples I hate.” I raise a finger. “One: the implication that any ex-girlfriend must be or is ‘crazy’ for a variety of reasons that often say more about the guy than the girl. Two: the idea that any and all drama in a relationship—platonic or otherwise—comes from the female part of the equation.”

Brent shifts so he’s stretched out on the bed across from me. I mirror his pose, and I tug on the hem of my skirt to keep it covering my bits.

He smirks, but when our gazes connect, the room electrifies, the same way it did by the window. As though the oxygen is being suctioned out of the room. I’ve wanted guys before, but I’ve never experienced this level of instant love-hate chemistry.

“Speaking from experience?” he asks.

“Not sure there’s a man alive who’d refer to me as an ex-girlfriend. I enjoy my free agent status.”