Page 45 of Heavy Crown

“Rory.” When she tries to walk past me, I grab her elbow. “You have to understand—”

“No.” Rory places her hand on my chest. “I agreed to be your friend. You told me it couldn’t be anything more. I guess I just…” Her fingers curl into my shirt, and I long to lean into the contact. “You’ve been here every night, and when we’re together—it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before.”

Her admission is a vise around my chest. If I were someone, anyone, else, I could seize her with both hands. I could ride this emotion until I figure out what it is without worrying about ruining her future, my future, the country’s future. “I can only marry someone who is royalty or a native of Bellerive.”

She gazes up at me in surprise.

“You’re not crazy. I feel it, too, but we can’t ever be more than this. For us to be more than this—” I clear my throat because I haven’t allowed myself to consider the idea. “I’d have to give up everything else.”

“Oh,” she breathes out the word, and her surprise turns to shock. “Oh.” She releases my shirt, and as she leaves me, I trail my hand from her elbow to her fingertips, desperate to wrench her back. My muscles strain at being held in check.

She walks along the lit path toward her apartment, and an ache forms across my chest. This is all we’ll ever be to each other—secret meetings loaded with sexual tension—and I wouldn’t be surprised if she wants nothing to do with me when I return from Europe. Why would she want to be around me after my admission? Drawing closer together is foolish.

I take a deep, unsteady breath. Having her refuse my friendship will be for the best, since I’ll be choosing a wife.

Even as I consider her rejection and my forced marriage, I realize I’ll seek her out when I come home, that I’ll do anything to keep the slice of normalcy she provides.

When I turned down West Shore Road a week ago, a hairline crack sprouted under the surface of my life. While sealing it up is the wise choice, I can’t make myself do it. Like the night I found her, something deep and unknown propels me closer, demands I take notice.

Right or wrong, I can’t leave her alone.

eighteen

Rory

The engine roars, and my hair whips around my shoulders, my ponytail barely containing my long strands. The few pieces that have managed to escape flick against my cheeks, and I grin at Posey when we hit a small wave and the speed boat hops.

“Isn’t this great?” Posey yells.

It is great. The sun is shining, and the ocean breeze is warm. Her boyfriend, Brent, is driving the boat to a shipwreck so we can snorkel with the reef fish. I’m slightly terrified of seeing a shark, but in the last six days I have learned I can’t say “no” to Posey.

Her initial suggestion that we amuse each other while her boyfriend trained turned into me swept into her circle as though I’d always been there. After snorkeling, we’re having drinks at a fancy bar in the middle of Tucker’s Town. Brice is coming, so I won’t feel like a third wheel. It’s the first time I’ll be out in public since Alex rescued me from the wreckage of my life, and Brice’s security is meant to protect him and shield me. Time has passed in such a weird bubble the last two weeks that my accident might as well be years ago. It’s hard to believe anyone still cares.

Despite the flurry of activity Posey has swept me into this week, each night when I climb into bed, I stare at my phone willing Alex to text from Europe. I haven’t heard a word from him, and I’m not sure I will when he returns either. Through Posey, I found out he’s there for coronation business, but she didn’t get into specifics, and I didn’t ask.

I really wanted to pry. How could anything in Europe influence Bellerive’s coronation?

Brent cuts the engine and drops the anchor. The rusty hull of the ship juts out from the ocean less than a hundred feet from us. He passes out the snorkeling gear and gives Posey a quick kiss on her temple.

“Know what you’re doing, Wilson?” He tugs on the back of his flipper, and places I didn’t even know had muscles ripple. He’s an Olympic swimmer chasing Michael Phelps’s records and medal count. “Since you aren’t technically cleared of your concussion, Posey and I will stick close to you.”

“Oh,” I say, waving a hand. “I’ll be fine.” I haven’t had a headache in a few days, and the bright sun isn’t hurting my eyes. Although I’m no expert, I’m confident I’ll be cleared tomorrow when Dr. Bennett takes me to the clinic.

“Rory is probably more worried about the sharks.” Posey’s grin is wicked.

“Sharks?” Brent frowns. “We’ll be fine until the chum drops.”

“Chum?” I’m sure all the color drains from my face.

Posey laughs. “He’s joking. We’re not chumming the water. Most of the ones out here are reef sharks. As long as you leave them alone, they’re harmless.”

“A harmless shark?” I raise my eyebrows before sliding my mask onto my face. “I’ll stick with you two.” Being around them has been a balm to my bruised, romantic soul. They radiate happiness together. Exactly what I want to have—a partner who brings me joy instead of heartache.

Brent chuckles and tucks his snorkel into his mouth. He runs off the back of the boat, his flippers slapping, and cannonballs into the ocean. Posey shakes her head.

“You can tell he wears fins far too often when he can run in them,” she says. “Come on. I’ll go over the back with you.”

We slip into the ocean, and the minute I put my masked face under water, I try to contain my internal gasp at the sheer number of fish swimming around. While the hull of the ship is quite far away, the reef is only a few feet from us. Colorful fish swim around and slip in and out of holes in the coral. Posey motions with her hand, and I kick my feet to follow her.