Page 68 of Fake Crown

When we get to the hotel, everyone breaks off toward their own rooms on the second floor, and Brent doesn’t even hesitate to stay in the elevator with me to go to the fourth floor. His arm is around my shoulders, and I’m pressed against his side, breathing in the scent of chlorine and bodywash. I’m not sure when chlorine became an aphrodisiac, but for the rest of my life, I’m probably going to associate this smell with intense sexual pleasure. Not at all awkward for future me.

“What’s up? You’re quiet,” Brent says when the elevator doors close for our ascent to the fourth floor. “All that cheerleading wear you out?”

“Have I been quiet?”

“You’re normally the center of every conversation.” He gazes down at me.

There’s amusement in his tone, and I squeeze him. If I’ve been quiet, I haven’t even realized it. But ever since I took the bus here, I’ve been trying to grapple with whatever has developed between us. Tonight’s dinner and Brent’s acceptance of my outlandish behavior at the pool only increased my confusion. There are very few subjects that are off-limits, but once I say a word to Brent about turning this fake relationship into something real, I’m admitting he’s important to me.

He is, obviously. He’s great sex and regular lattes.

Deliverer of intense, feel-good affection. Guy who hits home runs off my curveballs.

But boyfriend? Real, legitimate, have-to-care-about-his-feelings, expect-him-to-care-about-mine boyfriend? That’s a leap.

The reality is that I could be a rebound. Someone to pass the time. The sacrificial vagina, which I found so funny a few weeks ago.

While I dig my room card out of my purse, I decide to wade into foreign waters. “Were you like this with Val?” I ask.

“Like what?” He trails me into the room with his swim bag still slung over his shoulder.

Instead of following me into the main sleeping area, he veers into the bathroom to hang up his wet suit and towel. When I don’t answer, he pops his head out of the bathroom and tries to catch my gaze. “Like what?” he asks again.

There’s probably no way to ask him without giving myself away. What exactly I’ll be giving away, I’m not sure. But the question I have doesn’t feel like one a fake girlfriend would bother with.

“So affectionate and attentive?” I keep my voice light, as though it’s genuine curiosity driving me and not a burning desire to figure out where we stand without asking the question.

A frown creases his brow, and he disappears into the bathroom without answering me. There’s a fluttering in my stomach at his silence, and I stare out the hotel room window at the other high-rise buildings around us. If there was still enough light, I’d be able to see Washington Park.

In the reflection, Brent approaches me from behind without touching me. I long to lean into him. Whenever he’s within touching distance, that’s what I want to be doing.

“Why are you asking about Val?” he asks.

Our gazes connect in the reflection, and I try to hold my ground. “Call it curiosity.”

He places his hands on the glass, framing me in, and his chest brushes against my back. His lips graze my ear, and a shiver slithers down my back. There’s no doubt where this is headed, and desire pools in my belly at the remembrance of how good it is to have him tight against me.

“What else could I call it?” He nibbles on my earlobe, and I arch into him before grinding against his erection. He chuckles, and one of his hands slides down to my abdomen and holds me in place.

“Just curiosity,” I breathe out.

He spins me around, and my back is pressed against the cold window. “I’ve never treated another woman the way I treat you.”

His words set off an explosion in my chest, and I tug him into a kiss. I drag his shirt over his head, and my fingers find the button on his jeans next. We shed our clothes in a rush, but when we tumble onto the bed, Brent holds himself over me instead of storming ahead.

“Tell me why you really wanted to know,” he says, and he brushes my hair off my cheek.

The gesture is tender, and my heart swells in my chest. There’s no way I can articulate all the conflicting emotions coursing through me. The why feels complicated and dangerous. It is curiosity, but he’s not wrong. My desire could be labelled something more. “Never?” I whisper instead of giving him a real response.

“Never,” he says. “What do you think of that?”

I bite my lip, and I scan his sincere expression. “I don’t know.” His admission is terrifying and exhilarating—what I imagine parachuting to be like. I’m flying through the air, and I have no idea where I’ll land. Soft ground or hard. Would he truly be a good boyfriend or is he just good at pretending?

“You’re not running screaming from the room,” he says with a smirk. “I’ll take my wins where I can get them.”

No running, but if we inch any closer to what neither of us is admitting, I might be tempted to flee. Instead, I arch into him, and his gaze heats. “It’s my turn to win now, and I’ll even scream for you.”

“Promise?” He brushes his lips against mine.