Page 39 of Fallen Crown

Instead of keeping my back to him, I rotate around to face him, and he does the same, as though both of us were looking for the other to crack the door.

“Something I’ve never told anyone else?” I pretend to think about it seriously. “Royalty is overrated,” I say. “Don’t tell the Summersets. They’ll freak out.”

He lets out a soft chuckle, and we’re close enough for his breath to stir the strands of my hair that have fallen over my cheek.

“You’ve told someone that before.”

“It’s true. I tell a lot of people that one.”

We stare at each other in the moonlight, and the faint scar on his forehead, just above his right eye keeps drawing my attention. I’ve noticed it before, but it’s rare for me to have a chance to examine him without it being weird.

“How did you get that?” I ask.

“What?”

I run my index finger over the scar, and his brow wrinkles. The brief skin-to-skin contact sends a thrill from my finger down along my body. To think I once believed he was merely a pretty face.

“Nick,” he says. “I said something about Jules, and he punched me.” He lets out a little chuckle. “We were young and drunk. I think he really wanted to punch Alex. Family ring left a permanent reminder to think before I speak.” He hesitates for a moment and then says, “Of course, I have to be looking in a mirror to be reminded, so I forget a lot.”

“Maybe you should just carry a mirror in your pocket to consult before you speak.”

“I have probably heard worse ideas.”

“You don’t seem so sure.” The easy teasing is familiar. We’re rarely combative anymore.

“Maybe I should just carry around a smart-ass who doesn’t mind correcting me.”

“That idea is definitely worse. I’m heavy. A mirror is not.”

Brice digs his arm out of his sleeping bag and flexes his bicep. “Nobody is too heavy for me.”

I can’t help laughing at how he didn’t bother to stroke my ego by saying I wasn’t heavy. Instead, he caressed his own. Typical.

“I’ve been trying to get used to that sound,” he says, “but I don’t hear it often enough.”

“You’ll have to work on being funnier.”

“That’s a Maren comment. Tucker thinks I’m funny.”

We fall into a companionable silence, both of us with half smiles on our faces. It’s a moment I could live in, quite happily, forever.

Brice asked me to tell him something I’ve never told anyone else. I didn’t think I had anything to say, but as we lay there scanning each other’s faces, I realize I might, and the realization makes my stomach clench.

I never used to think I was anything like my father, but as I take in Brice’s features, my heart flutters, and I worry that the apple hasn’t fallen far enough from the tree.

It’s dark when we reach my vehicle after our final leg of our three-day trip. Last night, we were both too exhausted to do anything other than eat and then fall into a deep sleep, but when I woke this morning, Brice had his arm flung around my middle. We didn’t talk about it, and he acted as though it was no big deal. Maybe to him it wasn’t.

But each of these micro-actions feel like we’re inching across a tightrope. If I tumble, I’ll fall into a space I swore I’d never occupy. A moral dilemma Brice said he’d never push me into or ask me for looms before us.

In some ways, our burgeoning connection is unfathomable. A few months ago, there wasn’t anyone I disliked more than Brice Summerset. He was too much of everything and not enough of something. How wrong I was.

For the last three days, we’ve had our phones off. A complete disconnect from the real world. While competitors are participating in the adventure race, they aren’t allowed access to any technology. A map and a compass are the only navigational tools allowed.

When we climb into the car, I turn on my phone, and it chimes with a bunch of missed messages and voicemails. I have three texts from Enzo—the first mundane and the next two worried. I didn’t tell him I was going into the wilderness with Brice. Wouldn’t matter who I went with. Enzo wouldn’t have approved. He’s certain I should be done racing, and while I’m not sure I have it in me to race, I need the training.

“You okay?” Brice asks as he clicks his seat belt into place.

“Fine,” I say, and I cringe at the inauthenticity of using that word.