Page 61 of Fallen Crown

When I draw back to look at him, he slides his hands into my hair, dislodging my ponytail. We stare at each other for a beat, and then he brings my forehead to his.

“I always try to balance what I’ll regret more,” he says. “And I think I’ve finally decided.” He tilts my head, and his lips are a hair’s breadth from mine. “What about you, Tucker? What will you regret?”

Not this.

Then I tug on him so his lips connect with mine, and he meets and matches the intensity of my kiss. We slide against each other, feast on our pent-up hunger. His lips are soft and pliable. He dips his tongue into my mouth, and I welcome the connection, the feel of any part of him inside me. He tastes like mints and tequila as though he took a shot before he walked out his door.

Or maybe he always tastes like this—like intoxication. When I rock against him, he groans, and his hand grips my ass, squeezing my cheek, encouraging me. Neither of us says anything. We kiss and grind and gasp, lost in a haze of feeling. I can’t remember the last time I wanted anyone the way I want him. I’m so wet and hot that I think I could probably come from this alone.

More. More. More.

When my phone rings, I block out the noise. If we stop kissing, I’ll realize this is a mistake. Brice was right to reference regret, except he seemed to know which side his regret would fall, and with him hard underneath me, all I know is that I don’t want this to end.

After the second ring, the internal sound system picks up the signal, and an automated female voice announces my caller ID.

Call from: Enzo, husband.

The reminder that I still have a husband, that I shouldn’t be doing this with Brice, that I’m a terrible person, is like being dunked in a tank of ice-cold water. Years ago, I thought putting Enzo in my contact list like that was cute.

I spring off Brice’s lap, and I avert my gaze while running my hands through my loose strands. Somewhere along the way, my hair elastic vanished, but it’s better because I can use my hair as a shield. My breathing is ragged, and the dampness between my thighs is embarrassing. What have I done? What would I have done?

The phone keeps ringing, and Brice rests his elbows on his knees with his head bowed toward the floor.

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” I whisper. I wasn’t thinking. This time, I let my body lead the way, and guilt is already eating at me. No matter what, I shouldn’t have kissed Brice. The other day I gave Enzo an ultimatum about returning home. My choice felt clear—save my marriage.

“It’s my fault,” Brice says. “This isn’t your fault. It’s mine. I knew where you stood, and I—and I selfishly went after what I wanted anyway. I’m sorry, Maren. Truly.”

To hear him say he wanted me, even if the evidence was literally underneath me only a moment ago, sends a shot of warmth through me. It shouldn’t be warmth shooting through me; it should be guilt.

The phone stops ringing, but my voice message system is about to click in. I frantically search the coffee table and the surface of the couch for my phone, but I can’t find it. In a panic, I rush to the wall to hit end or to pick up or to do anything but have to hear Enzo over the speakers in the house after I’ve just made out with Brice. The disconnect is way back by the kitchen wall, and I’m not going to make it in time.

“Hey, M. I know we haven’t spoken since our fight. But I heard you. I understand what you need.”

I smack the disconnect on the wall.

“He understands what you need?” Brice scoffs from the couch. “Does he? What the fuck does he know from Boston?”

“Brice.”

“No, seriously. You want to be married to that? Someone who doesn’t understand that he needs to be here when his wife is hurt and suffering and sad? Someone who has to be told that? Likely repeatedly. I just—” He lets out a frustrated noise, and he heads for the door.

I’m at a loss about what to say to him. We’ve never talked about Enzo, so I don’t know how to defend him or whether I even should. He has been a terrible husband for getting close to a year now. But he wasn’t always. Was he? We used to be good together.

At the door, Brice opens it and stands in the frame for a moment. “I’m making the calls, and I’m getting our team to Fiji. I’m sorry I kissed you. If it makes it easier for you, we can pretend like this didn’t happen. You’re not your father, and this truly will stay between us. I won’t—” He rests his forehead against the edge of the door. “I won’t let it happen again.” Then he tugs the door shut behind him as though I couldn’t possibly have anything to add to the conversation.

What would I have said, though? I kissed you. Super mature, and not at all the point. I wanted to kiss him, and I want to go on this race. Part of me is terrified of both of those realities, but it doesn’t change them.

From the minute Brice tugged me onto his lap, Enzo never crossed my mind. Maybe that’s all I really need to know. Enzo isn’t here, and there’s a chance he won’t even be here when I get back from the race. He’s given me empty promises before.

I find my phone stuffed between the couch cushions, and I stare at my contacts before searching one out and hitting dial.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Brice

For the rest of the week while I make phone calls to the race committee and InterFlix to get Maren on the team, all I can think about is how badly I fucked up with Tucker. Epic-level fuckup. That phone call I overheard from Enzo makes it clear she’s still trying to patch up her marriage. I convinced myself she couldn’t possibly want to be with someone who was so careless with her heart. How wrong I was.

The truth is, it’s not like I’m prepared to offer myself as a better option. While I might never do what he did, I can’t see myself getting down on one knee and declaring my undying devotion for anyone. That means I’m asking her to abandon a relationship she intended to have forever for a few hookups with me. It pains me to realize Rory might have been right. I had no business trying to wedge myself into something I didn’t understand.