Page 16 of Fake Crown

Posey

Last night was a lot better than I anticipated. After I cracked the ice with the first goofy hat and we got into the second bottle of wine, Brent loosened up. Soon, we’d tried on and taken multiple stupid hat selfies.

For a sports-obsessed jock, he was good for a laugh, and surprisingly honest.

But his worst memory turned out to be more intimate than I bargained for. I didn’t even know what to say afterward. A lot of times people play off my request or give half the truth. Having seen the videos and the reaction to Brent’s meltdown, I can appreciate how truthful he was. True to his word, I’ve never seen him behave poorly again on camera, and his social media is largely absent of anything personal.

Obviously I lied to him last night about how much I knew. Telling your crush when he’s sitting across the table from you, weird squid hat or not, that you’ve been obsessed with him for years just isn’t done.

Besides, I didn’t really know him then. What attracted me initially was his pretty face and hot body. My claim to only be interested in his body wasn’t a lie, exactly.

I peer at my makeup in the mirror. Much lighter than yesterday, but I’m not going barefaced. With a sigh, I flip my compact closed. Brent left for the pool at the butt crack of dawn, but he was so quiet I didn’t even wake up. I can respect a man who knows when to let a sleeping bear get some shut-eye. A morning person, I am not.

When we got back from the restaurant, we were both a little tipsy, and I stumbled on my way to the bathroom. Brent with his cat-like reflexes managed to grab my elbow in time to steady me. Then our gazes locked for a beat too long, and the air hummed again, a sound I’m becoming familiar with when he’s around.

“What if I already value you?” he whispered.

I laughed and asked him when little Brent learned ventriloquism. For some reason, big Brent didn’t find that funny. His tolerance for my teasing only goes so far.

With one last glance in the mirror, I grab my bag for the day ahead and shut the hotel door behind me. I’ve got a twenty-minute walk to the pool where Brent is practicing, and then we’re going to rent scooters to sightsee around the island for the day.

The wind whips through the trees, messing with my hair, but the ocean air is so refreshing and familiar, I reach the pool early. At the perimeter fence below the high school, Brent’s voice booms out above the buzz of the kids getting ready to enter the school building. I tilt my head and move closer. Instead of in the water practicing, which is what I expected, he’s working with a small group of kids on front crawl on deck. Although I might not be headed to the Olympics, growing up on an island meant a lot time in and around the ocean. My mother was adamant about swimming proficiency for me and my sister.

While I wait for the practice to finish, I watch Brent’s unending patience with one of the boys who is struggling to master his breathing. By the time the head coach blows his whistle, Brent must have explained the technique five different ways, and not once did his tone slip into frustration.

He’ll be a good dad one day.

The thought appears out of nowhere. Brent glances over as though he’s read my mind. Our gazes lock across the pool, and then he holds up his finger while he tries once more with the boy in the pool. The last time, whatever Brent says to him when he leans down, works. Brent lets out a whoop of triumph when the boy surfaces at the wall.

The boy hoists himself out, and Brent high fives him, then he speaks to the coach before grabbing his bag and meeting me at the pool gate.

Warmth floods my body at the realization Brent Faulkner is spending the day with me.

A dangerous sensation.

He’s not supposed to be winning me over, he’s supposed to be learning how to value a woman for more than her tits and ass. I take a deep, steadying breath just as he reaches me.

From his bag, he takes out a power bar and unwraps it. “Want some?”

“You probably need it more than me,” I say. “I had something at the hotel. You didn’t swim?”

“Oh, no. I swam. Here from five to seven with the coach. Kids showed up at seven, and I spent the last two hours coaching with him. My coach set the whole thing up so I could get my workouts in. Trading favors.” He shrugs and bites off a large piece of his bar. “Happens all over the world if I ever want to leave campus.”

“Really?” I take out my phone and punch in the address for the scooter rental place. A twenty-minute walk.

“They changed their practice times to accommodate me today. I won medals in freestyle, fly, and backstroke at the last games. I’m a hot commodity. Everyone who is serious about the sport wants a piece of me.” He smirks around his bar and eyes me. “Even some people who aren’t into the sport.”

“You really believe you can beat Phelps’s medal count?” I’ve read the articles, and while it’s theoretically possible for Brent to do it given his performances at the Olympics when he was 18 and 22, the next one at 26 will tell the tale. In four Olympic appearances, Phelps won twenty-eight medals in total, including relays.

“If I didn’t believe it, I wouldn’t have announced my intention.” He adjusts his backpack to both shoulders. “If you want something, you go after it. You don’t think about failure; you focus on success.”

“You sound like a motivational poster. I bet your bedroom is plastered with them. ‘“You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.’ Wayne Gretzky.’” I eye him. “My favorite is by Maya Angelou. ‘People will forget what you said. People will forget what you did. But people will never forget how you made them feel.’” I make a leaping motion with my hand. “Then, much like at the end of a fortune cookie, you have to add ‘in bed.’”

“Sounds like you need to get laid.” Brent shoves the last of his bar into his mouth.

“From your lips to...” I hold up both hands with crossed fingers.

He runs his hand over his mouth to wipe away any crumbs. “The rest of that is ‘god’s ears,’ right?”