Page 55 of Fallen Crown

Even though it’s two days after my father’s death, and the parking lot of the marina we’re meeting at to go paddleboarding is packed with press, I’m holding it together reasonably well. Paxton, Riker, and Wren are teamed with my security, and they are running interference on anyone who tries to get too close or shouts too loudly some insensitive question about my father’s last moments. If I didn’t have this special place inside me I once created for these royal catastrophes, I’d be a mess right now. My grief is a spectator sport. The whole thing feels like it’s happening to someone else. Likely not healthy, but I don’t care. I just want Tucker to get her ass here so we can get on the water.

I didn’t talk to her at all yesterday after she dipped out on me before I woke up. Then my conversation with Rory made me question whether I was being fair to Maren, leaning on her so hard. So, I called Seth, and a bunch of guys came to the palace last night to drink and gamble. For the first time in my life, I did not enjoy my evening of debauchery. In fact, halfway through our second poker game, I contemplated canceling it, sending everyone home, and texting Tucker to come climb with me.

Tucker wheels into the parking lot ten minutes late. She gets out of the vehicle looking frazzled, and the press descend on her, causing my hackles to rise. They’d better not fucking mess with her. I take a step in her direction, prepared to be her bodyguard if needed—after all, these idiots are here because of me—but Jag seems to sense my mood, and he immediately leaves me to guide Tucker through the minefield of questions, microphones, and cameras.

“Grab a board,” she says to us as she drops her things beside the main building.

We each pick one up and cart them toward the water. The cameras and reporters are trailing behind us with only my small security detail as a buffer. A miscalculation on my part. Should have organized for more people.

Once we’re past the small waves, Tucker calls out the route, but she seems distracted, not like herself. On any other day, I’d break out the dad jokes to see if I could get a smile, but I’m still too deep in my own feels about my dad and about what could have happened between us the other night. Rory’s advice keeps ringing in my ears, making me irritable.

Wren paddles along beside me, and I brace myself for a conversation I’m not in the mood to have. Maybe I should have skipped training today, but I wanted to see Tucker, and I wanted to keep my mind focused on something positive.

I’m in a bad fucking mood, though. Clearly, the positive part isn’t working.

“Are you hungover today?” Wren asks.

“What?” I frown and glance at her while I try to keep up with the brutal pace Tucker is setting. “No. Why?”

“Rochelle Butler posted selfies last night from the party you had at the palace.”

That explains a few of the insensitive questions hurled at me by the press. It wasn’t exactly a party, and if anyone is calling it that, they clearly haven’t been to a real Brice Summerset shindig. Last night was deliberately mild. I needed a brain break, and my friends provided it, even if the whole time I kinda wanted to be somewhere else.

Rochelle just got herself uninvited from every event I have for the rest of my life.

We paddle for a little while in silence, and my breathing is elevated. The waves have picked up, and I’m not sure whether going back the way we came will be the best course of action. Since it’s not my call, I’ll keep my mouth shut.

“Tucker tell you why she was running late?”

“Got in a fight with Enzo,” Wren says. “But I got the impression there were some other things going on. Not sure. She’s either super specific or very vague with her reasons for anything.”

Tucker and Enzo in a fight would be useful information if Wren knew why. Otherwise, I’ll assume it’s like any other day when you’re married and living in separate countries. I’m guessing the distance isn’t a choice both of them made, but maybe it is. Maybe Tucker is fine with him being gone. But then I remember the poisoned candy comment.

“That was a cute photo of you and Grace that PR posted this morning.”

Rory must have snapped it yesterday when I wasn’t looking. She loves making me appear like the doting uncle. I am a doting uncle, but I don’t need it spread out for public consumption.

Fuck, I’m in a mood. It started yesterday when I woke up to find Tucker gone, and it’s only increased today. Normally, I don’t care how the royal PR machine paints me. Right now, my life feels like the wrong combination of things, and I can’t seem to find even footing anywhere.

“Just so you know, Maren told us about you wanting the team there tomorrow. We’ll one hundred percent be there to support you. I’m really honored that you’ve asked.”

Her sincerity is genuine, and a hint of unease creeps across my chest. While I did tell Rory that I wanted them at the funeral, I never cleared it with Alex or with PR.

When we get to our outbound destination, Tucker looks at the sky and calls time on our paddle. There’s a storm rolling in, which normally one of us would have checked the marine forecast for. For some reason, none of us did.

There’s a house with a covered porch where we’ve left paddleboards one other time when the weather turned on us unexpectedly. At the pier, Tucker’s sister, Sawyer, is waiting, and so is Jag. Given how fast we’ve been paddling, I have no idea how Tucker had enough time or energy to alert her sister about a pickup.

After we’ve stacked the paddleboards, Maren motions for Wren, Paxton, and Riker to climb in with her, leaving me the odd man out. Not that I don’t have a ride, but it feels deliberate.

“Hey,” I call to her before she can slide into the passenger’s seat. “About tomorrow—“

“Desmond called me,” she says. “I have the important details. We’ll all be there. Don’t worry.”

My heart is doing somersaults in my chest at her easy-breezy attitude. Did I really fuck things up that badly the other night? Or is this about her fight with Enzo? Or something else I’m completely missing?

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” If Desmond, Alex’s secretary, called her, then Alex must be okay with the arrangement I made.

“Yep.” She gives me a wave. “Tomorrow.” Then she slides into the passenger seat, and the four of them are gone in a puff of exhaust.