What Grows Dies Here

“I haven’t heard about him bringing any of his other women to the VIP booth at Klutch,” I added, turning to focus on my friends who were also watching Stella thoughtfully.

Unfortunately, they did not choose to continue this conversation with me.

“Something’s going on with you and Karson,” Zoe announced, zeroing in on me.

I opened my mouth in shock. “No, it is not.” Luckily, there was the low thump of the music and the multiple cocktails we’d imbibed tonight to mask how terrible I was at lying.

Zoe raised her brow. “That man is fine. Beyond fine. Not exactly my type, but definitely yours.”

I placed my hand on my chest in mock shock. “I do not have a type. I do not discriminate when a man is fine. Or the ruler of a small country. Or has some kind of palace.”

The prince took the breakup gracefully, thankfully, and we parted on good terms. The last thing I needed was another ruler of a small country pissed at me because I dumped him.

Zoe was not buying the act. “Yes, past behavior does indicate that you like all kinds of men, but that,” she pointed her red tipped nail toward where Karson had disappeared, “is a man. With the hair, the eyes and the jawline that will ruin your life. He is trouble. And Yasmin nor I fuck with men who spell trouble—although we can appreciate them for their beauty—you, Wren Whitney, fuck with them. Hard.”

Yasmin nodded in agreement, sipping her drink. “And you didn’t even look at him. Not once,” she added.

I started feeling mighty uncomfortable in my seat, and the truth was creeping up my throat.

“So because I didn’t objectify the man, that means I must have something going on with him?” I scoffed. “I’m a progressive woman.”

Another brow raise from Zoe. “Do I look like I was born yesterday?”

“No,” I pouted. “But you do look like you were born less than two decades ago with not a wrinkle to be found. Why are we talking about how I may or may not have looked at a man with a great jawline? You need to be getting out there.” I gestured vaguely to the dance floor. “When was the last time you were pounded good and hard?”

“Thursday,” Zoe replied. “Stop trying to change the subject.”

“I’m not trying to change the subject!” I yelled. “I just don’t want to talk about this.”

Both Yasmin and Zoe were wide-eyed at my reaction. I was not known for yelling. Or any kind of outburst. Not with my girlfriends, at least. They were used to the perpetually happy, always dramatic Wren, not the Wren who yelled at them when they were asking about a man.

Zoe held her hands up in surrender. “Okay, you don’t want to talk about it, we won’t talk about it.”

I pasted on a fake smile. “Sorry, too much vodka. Makes me unpredictable.” I held up my glass even though both of them knew that I could drink five more of these and carry on complex and calm conversations in three different languages. Because they were good friends, they didn’t call me out on my shit.

Yasmin’s gaze told me that she would eventually, though. She was my oldest friend. She never let me avoid the serious shit.

At some point, I would share about Karson. Once I had properly catalogued what the fuck was going on and could pass it off as yet another one of my casual flings.

“So what’s going on with the case?” Zoe asked Yasmin, turning her attention fully toward her.

I relaxed ever so slightly, even though I felt a gnawing sense of guilt for deceiving my friends. Even if it was by omission.

My phone buzzed on the seat beside me, so I looked down at the illuminated screen.

You look too fucking good. You’re coming home with me tonight. Don’t want any bullshit argument.

I pressed my lips together to hide my smile as I read the message. Luckily, Zoe and Yasmin were respecting my wishes and had changed the subject, in a serious conversation about Yasmin’s case. Normally, I would be extremely interested in this discussion because the case itself was very intense and dangerous and career making, but Karson’s text stole my attention. My fingers moved quickly over the screen of my phone.

What happens if I decide to make a bullshit argument?

I glanced up from my phone to scour the edges of the dance floor, looking for him, hoping he was skulking in the shadows, watching me. My phone buzzed, and I looked down.

Then I’ll come up there, kiss the fuck out of you in front of your friends, stake my claim and make sure we are not the secret you want us to be.

Anger quickly took place of my arousal.

Fuck you.