Truths That Saints Believe (The Klutch Duet 2)

“Well, Karson is here with Jay because bad-asses cannot travel unless they are in pairs,” she explained. “Or for ‘business reasons,’” she air quoted. “That’s the blanket term that Karson uses whenever he has to slink off into the night,” she huffed. “As if I’m naïve enough to think he’s sending fucking faxes.” She shook her head. “Anyway, I actually think that’s just an excuse. In my opinion, I think Jay is absolutely terrified of you rejecting him, and he needed some moral support in case he ends up flying home without you. Of course, he’d never admit that. I am quite certain he’d actually cut off a limb before admitting such a thing.”

I blinked rapidly at her words. At the name she said, the one that I wasn’t allowed to think. My heart thundered in my chest. He was here. In the same country as me. But he wasn’t here. For whatever reason. It wasn’t because he was afraid—that man wasn’t afraid of anything. He was playing a game. That had to be it. Just another one.

Wren let me process the news for a hot second, maybe.

Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor as she explored my rental. “Cozy. Chic in a ... rustic kind of way.” She looked out the window at the rolling waves. “Good view,” she said in a tone that only a woman who had seen all of the world’s most exquisite sights could produce. Appreciative in a vague, jaded kind of way.

She whirled around, back to the view, eyes on me. “The most important question for the topic we’re going to be exploring—that is, whether you are going to reject Jay or not—where’s the alcohol? The stronger the better.”

I was already on my way to the fridge, knowing my friend far too well. Plus, I needed a drink after this influx of information. “I have wine, from all of the best wineries around here. Not that I’ve had the time to explore them, but a guy in production hooked me up,” I explained, pulling out a bottle from the fridge.

“Did you hook up with this guy from production?” Wren asked, grinning.

I got flutes from the cupboard. “No, considering he’s incredibly gay. I do adore him, though, and I’d totally have his children if he was willing to turn straight for me,” I joked, pouring each of us a glass of wine.

Wren took hers happily.

My throat burned ever so slightly from my joke. Children. Mine. Ours. Exactly what this whole thing had been about. Well, one of the things. I wasn’t stupid enough to believe that one offhand comment was the sole reason why he’d torn us apart. Torn me apart.

“When did you arrive?” I asked, aching to ask everything I could about him. Where was he? How was he? What did he look like? Was he ruined, tortured, changed forever?

Then again, Wren couldn’t give me that information because Wren had never met him. Not when we were together, at least. There was obviously a whole lot I’d missed out on if she was referring to him in a semi-familiar kind of way.

“Plane landed about two hours ago,” she answered, glancing at her diamond watch. I knew for a fact that it didn’t tell the right time because it never did. Wren was not a person who lived by a watch. She just liked things that glittered.

I glared at her. How is it you look like that after a fifteen-hour flight?” I waved my hand at her perfectly wavy hair, dewy skin and unwrinkled outfit—a white suit, tailored to perfection.

Wren unbuttoned her blazer, throwing it over the back of the sofa, revealing the tight tank she wore underneath. “Good drugs, endless amounts of water and the beds that fully recline in first class,” she replied with a wink. “Plus, Karson got me off when everyone else was asleep. I would highly recommend midair orgasms; does absolute wonders for the skin.”

I laughed, not doubting her for a moment. Then I looked at her closer. I’d yet to see Wren looking terrible. Even when she was the hottest of hot messes—which was often a couple of years ago considering she was a true party girl—she looked wonderful.

But there was something different about her now. Something about her eyes. They shone. Happiness radiated off her in a way that even that most expensive of skincare or injectables couldn’t mimic.

“You’re happy,” I observed. “With Karson, you love him.”

Wren stared at me for a moment, eyes wide and full of something resembling fear before she threw her head back and laughed. “Of course not, darling. I couldn’t possibly love him. I love my girlfriends, fine wine, diamonds, private planes and Botox. Not men. Never men.”

I regarded my friend, hearing the firmness in her words. She was trying very hard to convince me, much harder to convince herself. I was not about to crumble her house of cards, knowing how vulnerable and exposed it felt when they collapsed.