Page 13 of Fake Crown

She says it without an ounce of insincerity. “Like fairies and shit?”

“Fairies and shit.” She pretends to think. “I’m sure there’s shit. It’s a natural by-product of living things. As for the fairies, really, Brent? Really?”

I chuckle. “All right. What makes it so magical then?”

“It’s the perfect blend of modern and old-world. My limited experience of Bermuda, which includes my internet searches on the plane, tells me that this island is an infant compared to Bellerive.”

“Oh really? An infant. Bold statement.”

She eyes me with a sly smile. “Bold is the only way to go, baby.” Her voice is husky with fake desire. She can turn it on and off like a faucet.

I shake my head at her audaciousness. One thing I can say about Posey already—life with her would never be boring. “How old is Bellerive?”

“We go all the way back.” She winks. “Monarchy records start in the 1100s after a brief war for power. We weren’t discovered, so much as evolved. We’re one of the few countries that didn’t have multiple external power exchanges. Our monarchy, when other countries came knocking, was strong enough to maintain control. We’re also small, and not particularly useful in terms of war or trade.”

“Does everyone on the island know so much about royal history?”

“Um.” Posey’s gaze darts away as though she’s unsure how to answer.

“Hard question?” I smirk. “It’s not like I asked for your worst memory.”

“Would you like to know my worst memory?” She squares her shoulders.

“Feels like a trap.” I check the map on my phone, and then I glance at her.

“My worst memory involves my sister, Julia Jensen.” She tries to smother her grin and fails.

The name rings a bell for some reason. I frown and indicate the street ahead of us. “We turn here. What makes it so bad?”

“Her best friend, Nick, was in a motorcycle accident, and he refused to see her.” Posey’s expression turns far away. “She was so hurt. So, so hurt. Unrequited love is the worst.”

“She was in love with him?” I place my palm on the small of her back to steer her toward the restaurant’s entrance, and the contact warms more than my hand. “Sounds like a disaster.”

“She was. It was.” She sighs. “Still is. Love is nothing but trouble.”

“That why you don’t do boyfriends?”

“I—I don’t know.” She frowns.

“If your worst memory is your sister having her heart broken, that’s quite an impact. Bound to make you cautious.” Did Val and I ever talk about anything important? Most of our time together was spent with me balls deep in one of her orifices or with her posing me for thirst-inducing photos. Soul searching questions like my worst memory never came up.

“I’m probably about one hundred paces away from cautious... Is there a phobia of relationships? That might be me.”

I open the door to the restaurant, and I consider Posey’s claim. “Sounds hyperbolic.”

“Oh yeah. Totally is.” She laughs. “I have a healthy fear of relationships.”

A slow smile spreads across my face, and as a waiter approaches, I whisper in her ear, “Sounds like an oxymoron.”

“For two?” the waiter asks.

“You sound like an English major.” Posey beams at the guy. “Yes, for two.”

“Business major.” I follow the two of them to a small table in a corner. The restaurant is tiny, with maybe fifteen or twenty tables in total. On coat hangers, hung from the ceiling, and around the perimeter of the restaurant are hats on hooks, so many hats.

“Ah, big business.” Posey smirks.

“Alliteration,” I say while I take in the deluge of hats. Odd, but I suppose that’s how they sell the Mad Hatter image without infringing on Alice in Wonderland.