Page 88 of Fallen Crown

“But I don’t think any relationship should feel this hard to navigate, should it? Look at me. I just used the word relationship. You know who hasn’t used that word? Brice. Not once, except to directly refute the idea that he’d ever want one.”

“With you?”

“With anyone. He said, and I think this might be a direct quote, that he doesn’t understand ‘the point’ of marriage.”

“Would you want to marry him?” Wren’s tone brims with surprise.

“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t want the option to be off the table, you know?” The thought of marrying Brice calls to mind my mother’s ambitions, and I cringe. “With my divorce not even finalized, the last thing I should be thinking about is whether I want to marry someone else. But I can’t help it with him.” That’s the crux of the matter. Right now, I think I could walk away, and I’d be wounded, but it wouldn’t be fatal. If I let this continue, though… “He wants kids. Badly. And you know…” I gesture with my hand.

“He wouldn’t just want to be the fun uncle?” Wren twists the lid off her water and takes a long drink.

“Nope.” He’s been the most open man I’ve ever met when it comes to children. Enzo claimed to be fine with either having kids or not having them, until I miscarried. Then my trauma over the loss of our baby and my former indifference to starting a family became huge things looming over our fractured marriage. He resented that I’d never cared about having children, and he couldn’t comprehend my grief when he felt he’d been the one with the dashed hopes and dreams.

“Maybe having him go to Denmark will be good for the two of you. Put things in perspective. You’ve spent a lot of time in close proximity, and you and I both know how easy it is for training relationships to morph into something else only to fall apart later.”

That’s almost word for word what Emery said earlier. Once we aren’t seeing each other anymore, not locked in a common goal, these feelings might fade. A training romance has never happened to me before, but I’ve seen it many times in others.

“Am I overthinking this? Maybe I am. I should just go with the flow tonight. Enjoy our last night on the team together. Have a few drinks. Accept our big, fat check for winning. Worry about the rest when he returns from Denmark.” It might be easier to say no to him once I’ve got my bearings. Here, on the racecourse, he feels too much like my Brice and not Bellerive’s Brice.

As the afternoon wears on, and we visit with other teams, I expect the anxiety in my stomach to stop sloshing around at my easy-breezy decision, and when that doesn’t happen, I can’t help wondering what my subconscious is seeing that I can’t when it comes to Brice.

When I arrive at the after-party in my short, tight Bellerive Blue dress, the first thing I notice is a whole table of tequilas set up with shot glasses, lemons, salt, and various other cocktail-making concoctions. InterFlix’s last hurrah must be to get Brice drunk on film, since there are cameras everywhere. Charming.

“Tucker,” Brice calls from the middle of the dance floor where he is already the life of the party. “Come celebrate!” He raises his tequila sunrise in the air. “Get a drink.”

I can allow my uncertainty over what is or isn’t happening with Brice to get a foothold, or I can grab a drink and join the chaos. The cameras already have plenty of footage to prove Brice and I are close. What’s one more night of demonstrating that?

At the tequila table, I take a shot of the top-shelf brand, and as it slides down my throat, it reminds me of kissing Brice. I wiggle and tug on the hem of my dress at the memory. If I close my eyes, I bet I could feel him.

A hand eases around my waist, and when I’m towed gently backward, I connect with Brice’s hard chest. Tequila, mint, and orange juice mingle in the air, and I let my head fall against his shoulder.

“You look amazing,” he whispers in my ear before flicking his tongue against my earlobe.

He still has his ten days’ worth of stubble, and it grazes my neck, sending a shiver racing down my spine. I’m surprised he hasn’t shaved, but I did run my fingers through it the other day and tell him how much I liked him in an almost-beard. Irresistibly sexy.

“Wren sleeping with her Australian friend again tonight?”

“I haven’t asked her yet,” I say with a throaty chuckle.

“Wren!” Brice calls, stepping away from me to search the crowd with his hand perched on his forehead as though the sun might get into his eyes, even though it’s dark.

“Brice!” I grab his arm and rotate him back to me. “Don’t make a scene.”

“I was born to make a scene, baby.” He kisses my temple and pours himself a shot. “Play Truth and Tequila with me,” he says. “One round. I’ve got like…three hundred questions I want to ask you. But only three are actually important. We can start there. You get to ask me anything too.”

“You don’t need tequila to talk to me.” I give him a light punch in the arm.

“I really do,” he says. “I don’t say the sorts of things I want to say to you to other women.”

“And that requires—”

“Liquid courage. It’s a thing. A real thing. Ask any of my brothers.”

“You already seem a bit drunk.” By “bit,” I mean “very.”

He reaches behind me to pour me a shot to pair with his. Before picking them up, he drains his tequila sunrise and sets it on the table. Then he passes me a shot, and he clinks his glass with mine.

“To being unexpected winners,” he says before throwing the drink back.