Page 89 of Fake Crown

She tried to play off her tears yesterday as the stress of moving and establishing a new routine, but that’s not how we work. We don’t go the distance by trying to tough it out alone when we don’t have to. I can train in Bellerive for short stints without compromising my spot on any of the elite US teams I’ve been chosen for. If that means I do a lot of flying back and forth while Posey gets settled here again, then that’s what I’ll do. I opted to take my first semester courses for my master’s program online. Flexibility is key.

I didn’t tell her I was coming, and she’s at work right now. My frequent flyer miles will be racked up and promptly used. Her first year with the company, her vacation is limited, and so a lot of the back and forth will fall on my shoulders. Between international swim meets, finishing my degree, and the rest of my training, the next six years aren’t going to be easy. But I know she’s worth every flight, every middle-of-the-night phone call, every other sacrifice that’ll come my way.

In the arrivals terminal, a guy with light-brown hair and a cocky grin is standing with a huge sign with my name scrawled on it. Has to be Brice. Posey said they have a similar sense of humor, and I could envision her doing exactly this. Nothing subtle.

Last night I called Julia and asked whether she could arrange to get me into Posey’s apartment on the sly. She said she’d come up with something, and it looks like the youngest Bellerive Royal is the answer.

“Brent Faulkner?” he asks when I get close. There’s a man in a lightweight suit beside him. A humid breeze blows in the open doors behind them.

“You must be Prince Brice.” I extend my hand.

“Just Brice,” he says. “No need to stand on formalities when you’re practically family. Never thought I’d see the day when Posey gave a shit about a guy. The apocalypse has to be coming.” He gestures to the exit. “I’ve got a car. Jag here,” he nods to the guy on my right, “will drive us to Posey’s apartment. Julia gave me the spare key.”

“Sorry to take you away from whatever you’re supposed to be doing to play chauffer.” I hitch my bag onto my shoulder again.

“Just finished college this spring. Giving me things to do is a bit of a low priority for the Bellerive Royal brand. Chauffer fit my mood today.”

He leads the way toward the waiting car, which is parked in a slot that clearly indicates No Parking. Being above the rules must be nice.

Jag takes my bags and pops them into the trunk before Brice and I slide into the rear of the Rolls Royce.

“How long are you here for?” Brice asks as the car pulls away from the curb.

“Two weeks.” I peer out the window, and I marvel at how green everything is. The airport is on the tip of the island. As the plane was descending, it felt like we’d land on the cliff. There wasn’t much room for error to hit the runway.

“If there’s no fog today, take West Shore Road,” Brice says to Jag, and then he turns to me. “You’ve never been here before, right?”

“No, I haven’t. My mother was born here, but we’ve never been back.”

“Shame.” He grins. “I have a feeling you’ll fall in love with more than just Posey once you’ve been here a while. No better place in the world.”

We turn onto a road that feels balanced on the edge of the cliff. It reminds me of California State Route 1—spectacular views as long as you’re okay with extreme heights. That drop would be deadly.

“This is incredible.” The ocean stretches out beside us, and a sports car zooms past, going far faster than I’d think safe on a road like this.

“A lot of dare devils take this road,” Brice says when I turn to follow the sports car that’s disappeared behind us.

We turn to the right at the edge of the cliff and go through a tunnel. As we emerge, I’m struck by the old-world feel of the town ahead of us. All the buildings are limestone, brick, stucco, or what looks like the black rocks from the cliff face.

“Welcome to Tucker’s Town,” Brice says. “Capital city, and named after the Tucker Family. Way, way, way back this was their farmland.”

He must have missed a way in his description of time because it feels like I’ve stepped back in history. The car slows on the river rocks that take the place of the smooth asphalt.

“The whole city is like this?” I ask.

“Just the center. You can sort of tell from the architecture of each subdivision and business area when it was built. We only allow teardowns in exceptional circumstances. The exterior of a building has to remain mostly unchanged, but we allow interiors to be heavily modified. Coolest place on earth. Outside looks like the 1500s, but inside is a modern beauty.”

Another reason Posey probably loves this place. The blend of history and modern interior design. Sounds like exactly the sort of challenge she’d love.

The car glides up to the outside of a four-story brick building, and Jag comes around to retrieve my bags.

“What are you doing while Posey works?” Brice asks when I open my door.

“Training,” I say. “Two practices a day plus dryland.”

“If you can squeeze in a lunch or dinner while you’re here, send me a message.” He passes me a slip of paper with his number on it along with a set of keys to Posey’s fourth-floor apartment. “I’ll give you the grand tour of the royal estate in between shots of Patron.”

“Tequila drinker?”