Page 42 of Fake Crown

“He’s not going back to her,” I say with conviction. “And no one is getting hurt. We both understand the rules.”

Minutes before nine, while I’m waiting outside my lecture hall, the crowd parts, and Brent Faulkner delivers me a latte with an exaggerated flourish.

“Did you want me to find somewhere in here to cash in on the other half of your payment?” he whispers in my ear.

“Oh, Brent. You should never ask about something you’re not prepared to deliver.” I grab his hand and drag it toward the edge of my skirt.

He steps back like I’ve lit him on fire, and I laugh.

“You promised me,” I say in a voice loud enough to turn heads, “lattes and—”

Before I can get the next word out, Brent drags me into his arms and kisses me. His tongue dips in, and I follow his lead. Class has become the last thing on my mind. The doors to the lecture hall pop open, and my classmates stream around us, and I keep kissing him, molding my body into his, contemplating skipping class.

“Any time you want to shut me up like that,” I say, “you can go ahead and do it.”

“When are you done with class?” He presses his lips to my forehead.

“Eleven,” I say. “Lunch?”

“Come to my place,” he says. “I’ll cook for you.”

For a second, our gazes lock, and a flurry of wings beats in my stomach. If anything should cause a riot, it should have been the kiss, but it’s the tenderness in his expression doing it.

“Let me feed you,” he says.

“Oh, you can feed it to me.” I can’t help my wide grin. “I’ll take every inch you offer.”

His lips quirk up into an almost smile, and he slaps my ass. “Go learn something besides sexual innuendos.”

I head into the lecture hall, and when I glance over my shoulder, he’s still staring after me. Another rush of flapping assails my stomach.

When I arrive at Brent’s apartment, Jaxon isn’t home, but Brent is putting together enough food to feed an army. In other words, enough chicken parmesan to feed him with a corner left for me.

“At this point,” I say, taking a seat at the small island. “I probably shouldn’t be surprised at how much you eat, but are you really going to consume all this?”

Brent grabs a raw carrot from the bag on the counter, runs it through the dip, and bites into it. “Over the course of the day, yeah. When I cook, I cook a lot, and then I just grab and go for the rest of the day.”

“Do you need any help?” I ask.

“Nope. You can make yourself at home.” He stirs the pasta in the pot.

I rotate on the bar stool to take in the rest of the small apartment. It’s sparsely furnished with items that have seen better days. One plus of living with two other women—we actually care what our temporary accommodation looks like.

“We don’t spend a lot of time here,” Brent says from behind me.

“I can see why. Prison probably has a similar feel,” I say.

Brent coughs and then chuckles. “All right, what would you do?”

There’s not a lot to work with in the main room. Bare white walls. The furniture could be arranged differently. I lean my elbow on the island and glance at Brent over my shoulder. “Permission to explore everywhere in the apartment for material?”

“And by everywhere, do you really mean everywhere?” Brent winces.

“I won’t open a nightstand, look under the mattress, or examine your dirty laundry—literal or figurative.” I cross my heart. “I’ll stay out of Jaxon’s room.”

“He’s got some stuff in the hall closet that’s probably fair game.”

“I’m on it.” I hop off the stool, and I set to work on rearranging the furniture. Brent watches me with amusement, but he doesn’t offer to help. He’s lucky the furniture isn’t heavy, or he’d be losing fake boyfriend points.