7. Posey
Posey
Last night was a lot better than I anticipated. After I cracked the ice with the first goofy hat and we got into the second bottle of wine, Brent loosened up. Soon, we’d tried on and taken multiple stupid hat selfies.
For a sports-obsessed jock, he was good for a laugh, and surprisingly honest.
But his worst memory turned out to be more intimate than I bargained for.
I didn’t even know what to say afterward.
A lot of times people play off my request or give half the truth.
Having seen the videos and the reaction to Brent’s meltdown, I can appreciate how truthful he was.
True to his word, I’ve never seen him behave poorly again on camera, and his social media is largely absent of anything personal.
Obviously I lied to him last night about how much I knew. Telling your crush when he’s sitting across the table from you, weird squid hat or not, that you’ve been obsessed with him for years just isn’t done.
Besides, I didn’t really know him then. What attracted me initially was his pretty face and hot body. My claim to only be interested in his body wasn’t a lie, exactly.
I peer at my makeup in the mirror. Much lighter than yesterday, but I’m not going barefaced.
With a sigh, I flip my compact closed. Brent left for the pool at the butt crack of dawn, but he was so quiet I didn’t even wake up.
I can respect a man who knows when to let a sleeping bear get some shut-eye. A morning person, I am not.
When we got back from the restaurant, we were both a little tipsy, and I stumbled on my way to the bathroom.
Brent with his cat-like reflexes managed to grab my elbow in time to steady me.
Then our gazes locked for a beat too long, and the air hummed again, a sound I’m becoming familiar with when he’s around.
“What if I already value you?” he whispered.
I laughed and asked him when little Brent learned ventriloquism. For some reason, big Brent didn’t find that funny. His tolerance for my teasing only goes so far.
With one last glance in the mirror, I grab my bag for the day ahead and shut the hotel door behind me. I’ve got a twenty-minute walk to the pool where Brent is practicing, and then we’re going to rent scooters to sightsee around the island for the day.
The wind whips through the trees, messing with my hair, but the ocean air is so refreshing and familiar, I reach the pool early.
At the perimeter fence below the high school, Brent’s voice booms out above the buzz of the kids getting ready to enter the school building.
I tilt my head and move closer. Instead of in the water practicing, which is what I expected, he’s working with a small group of kids on front crawl on deck.
Although I might not be headed to the Olympics, growing up on an island meant a lot time in and around the ocean.
My mother was adamant about swimming proficiency for me and my sister.
While I wait for the practice to finish, I watch Brent’s unending patience with one of the boys who is struggling to master his breathing. By the time the head coach blows his whistle, Brent must have explained the technique five different ways, and not once did his tone slip into frustration.
He’ll be a good dad one day.
The thought appears out of nowhere. Brent glances over as though he’s read my mind.
Our gazes lock across the pool, and then he holds up his finger while he tries once more with the boy in the pool.
The last time, whatever Brent says to him when he leans down, works.
Brent lets out a whoop of triumph when the boy surfaces at the wall.
The boy hoists himself out, and Brent high fives him, then he speaks to the coach before grabbing his bag and meeting me at the pool gate.
Warmth floods my body at the realization Brent Faulkner is spending the day with me.
A dangerous sensation.
He’s not supposed to be winning me over, he’s supposed to be learning how to value a woman for more than her tits and ass. I take a deep, steadying breath just as he reaches me.
From his bag, he takes out a power bar and unwraps it. “Want some?”
“You probably need it more than me,” I say. “I had something at the hotel. You didn’t swim?”
“Oh, no. I swam. Here from five to seven with the coach. Kids showed up at seven, and I spent the last two hours coaching with him. My coach set the whole thing up so I could get my workouts in. Trading favors.” He shrugs and bites off a large piece of his bar.
“Happens all over the world if I ever want to leave campus.”
“Really?” I take out my phone and punch in the address for the scooter rental place. A twenty-minute walk.
“They changed their practice times to accommodate me today. I won medals in freestyle, fly, and backstroke at the last games. I’m a hot commodity. Everyone who is serious about the sport wants a piece of me.” He smirks around his bar and eyes me. “Even some people who aren’t into the sport.”
“You really believe you can beat Phelps’s medal count?
” I’ve read the articles, and while it’s theoretically possible for Brent to do it given his performances at the Olympics when he was 18 and 22, the next one at 26 will tell the tale.
In four Olympic appearances, Phelps won twenty-eight medals in total, including relays.
“If I didn’t believe it, I wouldn’t have announced my intention.” He adjusts his backpack to both shoulders. “If you want something, you go after it. You don’t think about failure; you focus on success.”
“You sound like a motivational poster. I bet your bedroom is plastered with them. ‘“You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.’ Wayne Gretzky.’” I eye him.
“My favorite is by Maya Angelou. ‘People will forget what you said. People will forget what you did. But people will never forget how you made them feel.’” I make a leaping motion with my hand.
“Then, much like at the end of a fortune cookie, you have to add ‘in bed.’”
“Sounds like you need to get laid.” Brent shoves the last of his bar into his mouth.
“From your lips to...” I hold up both hands with crossed fingers.
He runs his hand over his mouth to wipe away any crumbs. “The rest of that is ‘god’s ears,’ right?”
“Yes, but god isn’t the one I need to be listening right now.” I give him a pointed look.
“From my lips to my own ears? I told you last night I value you.”
I sigh as we approach the front-facing desk of the scooter rental place. “I’ll know when the right part of you perks up and takes notice.”
Brent digs the scooter voucher out of his back pocket and passes it to the man behind the counter.
“One scooter? Who’s the driver?” the rental agent asks.
I raise my hand at the same time as Brent says, “Me.”
“Oh, no.” I frown. “I grew up driving these things around Bellerive. I’m not trusting an amateur with my health and safety.”
“I’m bigger than you.” He scans me. “Much bigger than you. Makes sense for me to be driving.”
“Actually—” The attendant holds up a finger.
“That’s bullshit. I’m not accepting any patriarchal ‘I am man, hear me roar’ arguments.” I put my hands on my hips. “The best driver should be on the agreement.”
“I’m not having you drive me around.” Brent mirrors my stance.
“You can rent a second bike,” the attendant says. “Or I can put you both on the rental for ten dollars.”
Brent fishes his wallet out of his bag and throws a ten on the counter. “We can both be on it.”
We hand over our licenses, and I grab a helmet off the rack. Brent tries on three before he finds one that fits. Amateur.
The guy brings out the scooter, one with enough power for the two of us, and he takes Brent through the basics. I stuff my bag under the seat, and I take Brent’s and use the bungee cord to secure it in the carrier at the back.
“I’ll drive first,” Brent says.
“Whatever,” I say. Unless he’s well versed in driving on the opposite side of the road to North America and familiar with Bermuda’s traffic laws, it’ll be a short ride before I take over.
He climbs on, and I get on behind him. Instead of keeping my space, I wrap myself around him as close as I can get.
“Is that necessary?” Brent asks over his shoulder.
I wink at the attendant who is standing beside us. “Very necessary.”
The attendant smothers his grin. “Have fun!”
“We will,” I say. “Come on, Brent. Hit the throttle.”
He turns his wrist, and we fly forward with a jerk. Turns out holding on this tight was very necessary.
“Whoa,” Brent says with a chuckle.
“Whenever you want me to drive,” I call out in an overly sweet voice.
“I got this,” Brent says. “I got this.”
We inch up to the exit from the rental place where the parking lot connects with the first main road. It’s a busy one, and I wonder whether I should have been more stubborn about driving. Despite Brent’s bravado, I have zero confidence in his driving skills.
When we sit at the intersection of the road and the parking lot while three perfectly good openings to merge into traffic pass us by, I tap his shoulder.
“I grew up driving roads like these. There’s zero shame in letting me drive.”
“We won’t crash?” Brent asks.
“With you? Yes. With me? Not a chance.”
He releases a long-suffering sigh. “All right. Fine.” He fumbles for the kickstand, so I climb off the bike and help him.
I pat him on the shoulder. “Know your strengths, Faulkner. I’ll let you save me from drowning later at the beach.” I waggle my eyebrows at him and trail a finger down his chest. “Might even let you do a little mouth-to-mouth before I’m revived.”
“Sounds like a fair trade. My manhood for some mouth-to-mouth action.” His lips quirk up.
I resist the obvious verbal setup. Manhood. Mouth. Too easy. Gotta keep him on his toes.
Once I’m secured on the scooter, he climbs on behind me. With no hesitation, I take the first opening to merge, and we’re off on our adventure.
Brent collapses onto my thin blanket and sets the pizza between us. “You’re impressing me, Jensen.”
“Was there ever any doubt?” I pop open the box from Upper Crust and grab my slice. We have the same taste in toppings—everything but the kitchen sink—and I couldn’t be happier.
“You drive a bike like a boss. You’ve got excellent taste in pizza. And you somehow had and packed this miraculously large blanket-towel thing, so we don’t end up sandy.” He fingers the yellow material.
“No pinching.” I slap his hand. “I’ve had this since I was thirteen, and I don’t need your careless fingers wrecking it.”
He grabs the largest slice, and he takes a substantial bite. While he chews, he stares out at the gentle waves.
We laughed all the way to the beach from the pizza place as Brent tried to hold onto the pizza and maintain his balance on the scooter. He didn’t trust me that the safest place for the box was between my feet.
Scooter rookie.
There’s a light breeze, and the sun is shining, but it’s not warm enough to swim. There won’t be any mouth-to-mouth action due to a pretend drowning. A good chance I’ll let his mouth encounter mine later. He’s been surprisingly good company.
“Is Bellerive like this?” He turns onto his side to face me, and he squints against the glare of the sun.
“Better,” I say, and I adjust my sunglasses.
“More history. Bermuda feels like a tropical island, but Bellerive is a slice of the United Kingdom that got lost. We found the better weather, though. King George would hate that comparison.” I laugh.
“Similar architecture to the UK. Similar street design—and by that, I mean narrow and chaotic.”
“Maybe I’ll have to visit someday.”
I flip up my sunglasses to meet his gaze. “Maybe I’ll let you.”
“Like you could stop me.” He laughs.
Stopping him would be easy enough. A word in the ear of the king’s secretary, my sister, would be enough to halt his approval upon arrival. He hasn’t asked me any questions about my family and apparently sucks at search engines.
I slide another slice of pizza out of the box. An amused smile tugs at the edges of my lips. “Eat up,” I say. “I need enough time at the hotel to glam myself up to meet your friends.”
He takes two pieces of pizza and turns them into a sandwich. It’s a good thing we got the extra-large box. “I don’t need to be told twice.” He grins at me between bites.
While he chews, I examine his profile, and a tiny flutter rises in my stomach. I clutch my abdomen in horror. Did I just...? Was that a butterfly?
“Are you okay?” Brent’s light-brown gaze examines me.
“Fine.” I let out a strangled laugh. “Totally fine. Nothing to see here.” But whatever I just felt better not come back.
Sex I can do, but feelings? Those have disaster written all over them. He’s on a hardcore rebound, and I don’t do relationships.
I stare out at the ocean, my palm on my belly button.
One flutter means nothing. Nothing at all.