Page 62 of Fallen Crown

As a result, other than a text message to the group to confirm we’re still on for Fiji, I haven’t spoken to Tucker. She suggested we all do our own training, which used to be code for her and I training together, but neither of us messaged the other. We’re both avoiding whatever the fuck combusted between us the other night. Definitely confirmed that sex with her would be next level if that brief make-out session was any indication. Not that I’ll ever know for sure.

The way she moved on top of me was the best kind of torture. Seems criminal to never get a follow-through. All that heat. All that desire. Wasted.

Not completely wasted, I suppose. Late at night, the memory of that make-out session has gotten me off over and over again. Not helpful in the grand scheme.

If she’s determined to make her marriage work, I really do need to stay away from her. Even if the thought makes me vaguely sick to my stomach, and the minute I allow myself to veer off the rational path, I want to bang down her door and offer myself as an alternative. Irrational me is completely on board with doing anything I can to sabotage Tucker’s relationship, but rational me understands that’s a recipe for disaster. Eventually, she’d hate me. I can give her better than she has, of that I’m confident, but I might not ever be able to give her what she wants.

None of that matters because the phone call made it clear she’s trying to work on her marriage, and I’m an unwelcome distraction.

But if I was going to pursue something, the whole knocking down her door thing would be pretty easy in a few hours when our last plane lands in Fiji. Jag, Gary, Riker, Wren, Tucker, and I are spending two days in Fiji getting acclimatized and adjusting to the new time zone before the race begins. Two days was the maximum covered by our competition fee, and given the last-minute scramble to get Tucker organized after Paxton was out, I’m glad we get a couple days to regroup.

InterFlix sent a camera crew to travel with us. Seems like a waste of money to me, but I’m starting to realize InterFlix’s goal is to get me to cry on camera. One hundred percent, they are determined to crack the royal facade. I’ve got news for them. My twenty-eight years of experience tell me it won’t happen. A person I’ve never met before asking me deeply personal questions is just like every other public event I’ve ever attended.

Now if they convinced Tucker to ask me the questions, the rivers would run. I have a hard time pretending with her for very long in any direction. Indifference and a lack of feeling don’t mix or mingle around Tucker. I care a lot, and I feel a lot. Too much, maybe.

If the cameras are dogging me, it’ll be impossible to talk to Tucker. I understand the value of a narrative to an editor on a TV show, especially an unscripted reality TV show. My family has had enough documentaries and history pieces done on them that I’m aware how right and wrong filmmakers can get it. They can create a story out of nothing, and I don’t intend to give them something that would embarrass Tucker. Keeping a polite distance is the responsible choice. Hopefully I’m capable of making that choice enough days in a row to get us through.

When we deplane, Jag offers to deliver my things to my hotel room. I’m not appearing entitled when I’m front and center on camera, so I shake my head and grab all my own things. Tucker hitches her backpack onto her back, and she shoots me a shy smile. My chest threatens to cave in, and I want to throw my arm around her shoulders and draw her into my side. At one point, before anything happened between us, I would have.

It’s annoying that one kiss—okay, many kisses and some sexy grinding—have led to this awkwardness between us. But she doesn’t have the air of guilt around her that I would have expected. Maybe she doesn’t consider what we did cheating, but I would. If I was her husband, it would fucking destroy me.

For the next day and a bit, Tucker sticks close to Wren’s side, and the two of them are social butterflies with all the other teams. It’s only natural, since they’ve raced so many times that they’d know a lot of people, but the number is stunning. They seem to know at least one person from every team. While they have genuine conversations with people, I seem to be on the same introductory loop with a camera crew so far up my ass I wonder whether I should have purchased a family-size container of lube.

Of course I realized I’d be a focus, but this almost feels like a documentary. At the briefing meeting the night before the race, it becomes apparent there are several camera crews. The others are rotating through the fifty-some-odd teams, but the one we have only orbits around me.

When Iris, the camera woman, gets called away by a producer before the organizer begins speaking, Tucker slides into the empty space beside me.

“Are you enjoying your personal videographer?” she asks.

“Immensely. Wish I’d thought of documenting every nanosecond of my life earlier. Course, that would have caused massive problems for my parents. Social media was bad enough.” I slide her a glance. “Not to worry, I’m on my best behavior.” I’ve skimmed over the reference to my father, but when she looks up at me, I see she didn’t miss it. There are few things I love more than the expression of tenderness Tucker gets when she thinks I’m sad. Not sure I’ll ever tire of watching the shifting emotions drift across her lovely face.

“Are you okay?” she whispers.

“Okay enough.” I search her for a sign of something negative between us. Her attitude is a lot more relaxed than I expected. We’ve avoided each other this week, and part of me assumed we’d continue to avoid each other as much as possible here too. “Are you okay?”

The camera woman who wasn’t gone nearly long enough is headed back to us with the camera on her shoulder. She’s probably already running the damn thing. Tucker follows my gaze, and she purses her lips.

“I’m great,” she says.

Although I don’t expect to, when she meets my gaze again, I almost believe her.

Riker is snoring softly on the other bed, and Gary is outside the door standing guard. He and Jag are our crew members, and while they can’t follow me through every step of the race, they’re here to protect me. Jag is in an adjoining room resting up for the grueling adventure ahead. I should be sleeping too—we’re rising before the sun—but it’s the first time I haven’t had a camera within hearing distance all day.

I creep out of bed and head to the balcony. A few deep breaths of fresh air might settle me. It’s been unnerving to be so close to Tucker the last two days and not feel like I can be myself around her. Every time I’ve wanted to touch her or tell a joke or check in with her, I’ve been hyperaware of how it might seem when edited. If she’s trying to save her marriage, I can’t appear closer to her than anyone else.

I’d really love for her to wave the white flag on her marriage, but I can’t wave it for her. For the first time in my life, I’ve got big, scary feelings for someone, and I can’t pursue them without doing the other person immeasurable harm. If there’s one person in the world I’d never want to hurt, it’s Tucker.

I slide open the back door, and I suck in a deep breath of the Fijian air. So many air fresheners and perfumes claim to smell like here, but I’m convinced none of them get the fruity-flowery-salty combination right.

“Can’t sleep?” Tucker’s voice is rusty from the balcony beside mine.

“First time I haven’t had a camera up my ass since I arrived. Quite liberating. Very awkward to have it shoved so far up there.” I give her a slight smile. “You?”

“I can never sleep well the night before a race.” She’s sitting on one of the deck chairs, a blanket wrapped around her.

I judge the distance between the two balconies. We’re only one story up. Would I really do that much damage if I fell? I check the ground below and see it’s covered in shrubs. Good enough. At the edge of the balcony, I hop onto the metal rail, and Maren rises to her feet, the blanket pooling at her ankles.

“Brice,” she says.