Page 7 of Fake Crown

“Can I—can I get either of you a drink?” she asks.

“You paying?” I stare at Brent.

“No,” he scoffs.

“All inclusive.”

“When we get there. Until we land, you pay your own way.”

I turn to the waitress. “Just water, thank you.” Could I afford my own beer? Sure. But I’m not in the mood to drink with him. Brent Faulkner is not the guy I built in my mind. Not even close.

He lets out a snort. “A pint of your house beer.”

We sit in silence for a beat after the waitress leaves.

“You and Val broke up?” Curiosity is not my friend.

“We did.” His jaw tics.

“Today?”

He gives me a withering glare.

I can’t help a grin. “She didn’t post about you today. But yesterday, you were a total thirst trap.” There was something about the way he mentioned Val’s social media account that made me think he wasn’t a fan of her posts. When he scowls at me, I realize my instinct is correct.

“We won’t be talking about her,” he says. He leans across the table. “You’re okay with objectifying me, but if I did the same to you, I bet you wouldn’t like it.”

“There’s a long history of women being objectified and their worth being dictated by the size of their boobs instead of their brains. Once that reality is a bit more balanced, I’ll be happy to have you objectify me.” I flutter my fake eyelashes at him.

“But not before that?” His gaze travels over my fitted T-shirt. “Your choice of outfit says otherwise.”

“These are my travel clothes. Most comfortable items I own.”

“Bullshit. You already admitted you dressed like that to make my weekend hell.”

I raise my eyebrows and close the distance across the table. “How would my choice of clothing do that?”

“Look but don’t touch, I’m assuming.”

He’s got me there. Now that I realize he’s Brent Faulkner, I’m reconsidering my no-touching stance. I shouldn’t, though. Turns out Brent Faulkner is an asshole. A smoking-hot body only gets anyone so far.

Before I can respond, the waitress returns with our drinks. Brent takes a large gulp of his beer and lets the silence sit between us.

“Whose wedding is it?”

“My best friend from high school, Trevor. He’s marrying a girl from Bermuda. Sebastian Swan’s cousin, if you’ve heard of him. You said you were into sports.”

I scrunch up my face.

“Another lie?” He swigs his beer. “I’m tempted to call this whole thing off.”

If he did, I’d get my own hotel room, make some new friends, and have a blast. I paid for my own flight, so it’s not like he can stop me.

But in life, sometimes you only get one chance at something, and I’ve spent enough time staring at his photos that I want to be sure I’m rejecting a jerk and not some guy who’s screwed up from a bad breakup.

“I scrunched up my face because of what happened last year to the girlfriend of Johnny McDade, the star quarterback. I don’t want to get into school or sport politics, but the whole situation with the football team was unacceptable. Star athletes shouldn’t get special treatment when they’re shitty people.”

His gaze sharpens. “I don’t disagree.”