Page 26 of Fallen Crown

Tucker reappears dressed in a tiny pair of spandex shorts and a sports bra, and I silently congratulate myself on opting for ogling the hot woman rather than sipping my tequila alone.

For the next two hours, she climbs different routes up the wall, and at one point, she lets me call out a color for her to use next from my spot lying on the spongy black floor. She doesn’t ask me again about my father, and she even laughs a few times when I give her an impossible transition that she, annoyingly, makes possible through her sheer boldness. There’s isn’t a leap she won’t take, and nine times out of ten, she makes them.

She’s a study in contrasts. Uptight and rigid and free and fearless. A mystery that suddenly feels worth solving.

Chapter Twelve

Maren

What I’m doing is dangerous, but I can feel something inside me coming back to life, and part of me wants to grasp that sensation with both hands. For a while, I was so low, I wasn’t sure the highs would ever return.

For the sixth night in a row, I’m headed to the royal estate where Brice and two of his bodyguards wait. They’ll belay us, and we’ll climb.

Seems simple enough, right?

But the fluttering in my stomach tonight as I drive through the gates makes me wonder if I’m inching toward a flame I won’t be able to control. Previously, I’ve kept Brice’s easy familiarity at bay through an icy, impenetrable front. Yes, I believed he cheated on Presley in high school, and that colored my view of him, but my dislike was more than his resemblance to the worst part of my father. To me, he always felt like too much—too loud, too confident, too attractive—as though he was making up for some deficit inside by trying to be everyone’s friend.

I’m not sure what my opinion of him is morphing into, but it’s changing—rapidly. Brice Summerset isn’t all gloss and no substance, but I’m not sure what exactly lies beneath the surface.

When I step through the barn door, Brice is already there in a red tank top and black shorts. His tattooed biceps are more defined than they were even a week ago. For him to become more attractive hardly seems fair. His light-brown hair is mussed, as though he’s been running his hands through the short strands while he waited. On his feet are the shoes he’ll take with him on the adventure race. I told him yesterday he should start climbing in them, and today he has them on.

Goose bumps of anticipation rise across my skin.

Enzo doesn’t want me to race anymore, and I’ve told him I’m only training my replacement in the terse text messages we’ve exchanged. Training is what the group of us did earlier when they went for a ten-kilometer run along the hilly, looped course while I called out their times per loop.

Coming to the barn isn’t about training Brice or getting the team ready.

I’ve never considered myself a liar, and after I hurt myself, I tried to be honest with Enzo. Even as guilt and grief dogged me, I tried to tell him that I needed the training, maybe even the racing. He didn’t want to hear it, and I craved his support so badly I was willing to say anything to get it. Now when we speak, I skirt the truth out loud while something inside of me is unfurling, blooming in a way I wasn’t sure would happen again.

For the first time since my accident, training isn’t just soothing. It’s exciting.

“I had them change all the handholds today.” Brice gestures toward the wall. “You seemed a bit bored last night, so I asked maintenance to make the routes more challenging.”

Bored? Must have been my guilt showing through that I sent Enzo’s call straight to voicemail and texted him that I was at a charity event. I was on my way here, and I didn’t want to explain what I was doing or why. None of the answers are easy when Enzo and I are so far apart.

Tonight, Brice and I are meeting later than normal because Brice had to attend a meeting about the palliative care center being established in an old, run-down, ocean-view mansion the committee is looking to convert. Not sure if he offered to take point on that initiative for the family or he was assigned it. Either way, I wasn’t sure what sort of mood he’d be in when I arrived. But he seems the same as he’s been all week. Not buoyant or down—level—as though he’s got a tight grip on whatever emotions are going on below the surface.

“I like a challenge,” I say while I scan the new routes.

“Hmm,” Brice says. “As do I.” A hint of a smile plays at the corners of his lips.

I set my water bottle on the ground at the starting point to the farthest wall and grab a harness. Instead of taking the other end of the wall, which has been our pattern—start outside and work inside—Brice puts his things close to mine. All week it’s been as though we’ve needed the distance to warm up to each other, and when we reach the middle to switch sides of the wall, there’s a cordial politeness between us.

The change in the routine we’ve established gives me an opening to ask him about his day or to question his choice in start position, but I enjoy that we mostly climb in silence. In every other situation, he’s often the center of attention, and it’s refreshing to realize he doesn’t always have to be switched on and performing for an audience. We exist in the same space, and it brings me a strange comfort to glance over and see him climbing, together but separate. Sometimes he’ll ask me how to tackle a particular handhold or transition, but otherwise, we forge our own routes.

His shoulder brushes against mine as he comes to my side to stare up at the handholds and footholds. “I want you to teach me how to do what you do.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” I half turn to meet his gaze, and just like almost every other time we’ve made eye contact in this space, the searing intensity in his light-brown eyes makes my gut clench.

“I want to learn how to switch off the fear. You climb like you don’t care if you’ll fall.”

“That’s not—” I bite my lip and stare at him. If he only knew. “I just don’t think about the fear. I focus on the next handhold.”

He gazes at the wall with his brow puckered.

“On the course, you have to be able to accurately weigh the risks and rewards, or else someone can get hurt. Especially if you’re the team leader.”

“Is that what happened with you and Wren when you were hurt?” He turns from the wall to face me.