Page 25 of Fallen Crown

“I’m not not proud of myself.” I grin at her across the space between us. My attitude is partly alcohol and partly the urge to get under Maren Tucker’s skin. Who’d be proud of what I did? But I was an eighteen-year-old punk who’d had his heart broken. My only power move, as far as I could see it then, was what I did. Being with Felicity hadn’t even been fun, and I’d promised myself two things after that night. The first was that there’d be no more girlfriends, and the second was that sex couldn’t be completely meaningless. Took some trial and error for me to be sure that second one should stick.

Tucker got the important part of the truth. I’m not a fucking cheater, and I can’t imagine ever doing that to anyone because I understand how terrible it is to be on the other end.

“Still hate me?” I squint at her.

“I’m reevaluating my stance on Brice Summerset,” she says. “Though being proud of hurting someone is never a good look.”

“I will take your opinion under advisement.”

“Now you sound like your brother.”

“Heard that before, have you?”

“I sit on a board with King Alexander. He’s rather fond of that phrase when he really wants to tell someone to fuck off.”

That elicits a chuckle out of me, and I nod before pressing the bottle to my lips again. Alex is Alex wherever he is.

Tucker wanders over to me, and she crouches in front of me in a practiced move given she’s in a dress. We’re eye to eye, and she searches my face. “You can’t run hills when you’re this drunk.”

“I am aware,” I say.

“Do you want to talk about your dad?”

“Not even a little bit.” I’m not sure that’s true, but I can’t imagine what I’d say to her. There isn’t anything to say. The time for protesting or long-winded espousals on my feelings was months ago, before we agreed to go along with this for Dad’s sake. Hell, months ago, I was a driving force behind legalizing this. And it’s not even that I’m uncertain now. I just wish it wasn’t happening, not that it can’t happen.

“Okay,” she says.

Her response draws my gaze from the bottle to make eye contact, and the depth of understanding I read on her face is surprising. Her siblings and parents are all still alive. What would Maren Tucker know about the rawness of a grief like this? The loss of possibility, of a future I’d always imagined. All the things my father will never know, never witness. Tears prick at my eyes, and I glance away while clearing my throat.

“You’re going to be late,” I say.

“Do you want to be alone?” She rises to her feet and smooths down her dress.

“What would you do if you stayed?” Having her here has been an unexpected and not unwelcome distraction from my terrible, no-good, very bad day.

“I have a change of clothes in my vehicle. If you were serious about Jag belaying, I could give your wall a shot.”

“And I’d just watch you climb?” I narrow my eyes as I consider my options. Drink alone or drink here while watching a not-unattractive woman perform daring feats of athleticism.

“Or talk to me. Or say nothing.” She takes my bottle of tequila from my hand. “Drink some water.”

“Boo!” I laugh and stagger to my feet. When she tries to help me stabilize myself, we end up mere inches apart. On impulse, I smooth down her dark hair with both my hands and plant a slobbery kiss on her forehead. Although I don’t mean for it to be anything more serious, her breath catches at the contact, and an unexpected warmth spreads across my chest at her proximity. She smells like peaches, as though she bathed in them.

Instead of letting her go, I draw her into my chest, and she comes willingly, wrapping her arms around my waist in a reciprocal hug. “You may be a party pooper, Tucker, but you’re just the right hugging height.” I rest my chin on the top of her head and release a sigh.

“Glad I can be of some service.”

“Well, if you’re talking about servicing me—”

She punches me in the side and steps back. “Do you want me to stay or not?”

“Jag,” I call to my bodyguard at the door. “Tucker needs a belay.”

A hint of a smile tugs at her lips before she heads for the door to grab her things. It’s only when Jag comes to my side that I realize Tucker took what was left of my tequila.

“She come here to ream you out?” Jag asks.

I stare at the door, at the way her absence has caused something inside of me to shift back into a sadness I’ve been holding at bay. “The opposite,” I say. “I think she came to comfort me.”