Page 5 of Fake Crown

My phone pings with a message from him with a link to the chat, and then it pings with three more responses to my ‘what’s up’ text message. So far, they’ve all got weekend plans and questions about my status with Valentina.

“Maybe I don’t need to take someone,” I hedge.

He slips his phone into his front pocket. “She’ll show up, get on her knees, and your naked bod will be all over her socials by the end of the weekend. I’ll even put money on that. Big money. How much you want to bet?”

Without too much trouble, I can imagine his scenario playing out. When another rejection arrives in my text messages, I open Jaxon’s link.

“Group chat it is,” I say. “Should I make a point of saying I don’t want any drama?” I bite my lip.

“You using your real name in there?” Jaxon peers over my shoulder.

“Initials.”

“Use the drama line. It’s a good one.” Jaxon slaps me on the back and heads into his room to finish packing for the weekend.

The first woman I chat with already seems high maintenance. I couldn’t have spelled out no drama any clearer. I frown at my phone for a beat when someone named Jensen jumps in.

“Jax, do you know a Jensen on campus?”

“Jensen.” He leans against his bedroom door and stares up at the ceiling. “Only Jensen I know is a last name. It’s a first name?”

“Seems like.”

“Gotta be a dude. Maybe it’s Jensen Ackles.”

“Gonna go out and slay some demons in Bermuda.” I chuckle, and I mull it over for a beat. A bros weekend wouldn’t be so bad. Whoever it is can be a buffer between me and Valentina if she really does turn up. Jaxon is right—my ex is a wild card. I write back, and while I wait for him to get back to me, I field a few other questions from random people.

“He’s in. Sent me his flight details already.” I scan the screenshot for a name, but there’s a black box over his payment details. Smart, actually.

“Sweet. It’s a dick party.” Jaxon grins. “He can be your wingman for your rebound hookup at the wedding. Any of the bridesmaids single?”

I let out a sigh, and for the first time since I left the athletics’ complex, a twinge of sadness sneaks in. While Valentina might not have been my ideal girlfriend, she put up with my hectic training and travel schedule as long as I let her take an excessive number of photos when I was around. Most girls are not cool with being ignored, and I am laser focused on my next set of Olympic medals.

Instead of seeking a lackluster relationship, I should be looking for short-term hookups. No commitment. No chance of hurt feelings. No one gets let down. My focus can stay on hunting down Michael Phelps’s records one race at a time.

“I don’t know if any of them are single,” I say. “But I guess Jensen and I will be finding out this weekend.”

Jaxon gives me a high five and heads back into his room. I follow his lead and go into my bedroom to pack for the weekend.

Fingers crossed this Jensen dude is up for some fun.

Posey

Most people would probably be nervous or scared about meeting a stranger at the airport for a weekend getaway. Not me. I’m excited to see the look on Mr. No-Drama-rama’s face when he realizes Jensen is Posey Jensen, and I don’t just stumble into drama, I thrive on it. Give me all the nonsense, and I’ll give it right back.

When I get to the terminal, I head to the check-in. He messaged me to say we’d meet up on the other side of security for a beer before boarding. Just thinking about our exchanges makes me chuckle. Rather than fessing up, I poured more half-truths down the chat lines. Hair brown, eyes brown, average build, beer drinker (any alcohol, who am I kidding?), sports enthusiast (I enjoy men’s assets)—all true. Not quite who he’ll be scanning the crowd for. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Once I’m checked in and on the other side of security, I sashay through the terminal with my short skirt and high heels. Rather than my usual low-maintenance makeup application, I went full face. There’s something about any man implying women are difficult and saddled with drama that gets my back up. Lots of women aren’t like that at all. Sometimes I’m one of them, and sometimes I’m not. I hate the idea of being slotted into some jerky guy’s preconceived notions of what a woman should and shouldn’t be.

Enjoy your weekend, asshole.

When I’m near the pub, I shoot a message into the chat app to let him know I’m here. He messages back that he’s in a booth near the rear of the pub wearing a Northern University baseball cap. My heels click across the faux wooden floor on my way to the scattered tables and booths. In a far corner is a broad-shouldered man staring at his phone with a baseball cap concealing his face. I bet he’s one of those types that lives in the gym and stares at himself in the mirror.

A hint of a grin twists my lips as I approach. I cannot wait to see his face.

“BF?” I ask when I’m standing beside his table.

He glances up, and my heart stops. Holy fucking shit. Heat rushes through my body, followed by a jolt of ice cold.