Truths That Saints Believe (The Klutch Duet 2)

Despite my anger at such standards, something about walking into a room with Jay filled me with satisfaction. To be with someone like him, with that natural power, the vibrations that emanated from him. I didn’t miss the stares, the widened eyes, the raised brows.

Although I hadn’t exactly been a barrel of laughs during filming, I had still made friends with most of the people on the crew. It was impossible not to. Most were New Zealand natives, friendly by nature and virtually impossible not to like. There were many hellos, introductions and raised eyebrows at the title of fiancé that I used for Jay. The word was awkward coming out of my mouth. It felt sticky and thick and not quite right.

Husband would’ve worked much better. More permanent. No, I needed to tattoo myself on his fucking bones, wrap my veins around his so it was impossible for us to ever separate again.

Jay did do his best with the hurried introductions, the overly familiar handshakes with the accompanying back slaps. He tried. For me, he tried.

But he wasn’t in a ten-thousand-dollar suit. He wasn’t at a charity dinner where the entire purpose of his attendance was to intimidate, where every single person attending knew who he was, knew to be afraid of him and needed to impress him at the same time.

No, to everyone here, Jay was just the incredibly, devastatingly, heart wrenchingly handsome man who arrived at the party with the stylist. Nothing more than that. It unnerved him. I saw that. Normally, he’d cling to the mask he’d perfected over the years. Normally, he’d shut down, silence people with a mere look, do what he came here to do and leave.

But there was none of that here.

He was trying this for me.

“I love you,” I breathed in his ear after one of the cameramen flung a beer at him.

His hand, the one at my waist, tightened. He didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to. His eyes said it all.

Then came Brent.

Well, it was after we’d been split up by a bathroom break and me getting caught in various conversations on my way back to Jay, who looked to be stuck in his own conversation with one of the production assistants. One of the very young, fresh faced, denim cutoff wearing production assistants. She was perky, from her tits to her toes. Perfectly nice.

But she was pressing her perky tits up at my man’s face, and I swallowed acid. Jealousy did not become me. Nor should it overwhelm me. This man flew across the world for me. This man loved me entirely. I was certain of that. But that man was mine.

His eyes found me just as I extracted myself from a conversation. I knew they saw whatever toxic, possessive thoughts were floating through my brain because they twinkled with something resembling amusement.

I couldn’t help but smile. Couldn’t help but beam. We’d made it to that point ... somehow. That we could speak across a room with a mere look. That I could float around a party knowing that I was his and he was mine and that was the way it was going to be.

Forever.

“Stella!”

I was pulled into the crook of a very large arm. One that smelled of oil and man. Brent’s azure eyes were soft and warm, focused completely on me.

“You’re here,” he smiled, squeezing my arm, pressing me farther into his broad and muscled torso.

I didn’t look across the room. I didn’t need to, the force of his stare was a physical thing. More physical than the large and impressive arm around me.

“I’m here,” I agreed, smiling up at Brent while deftly stepping out from under his arm. Luckily, he let me do so ... after a moment of hesitation. I knew what Brent wanted from me. He hadn’t exactly hidden his attraction for me. Hadn’t pushed it either. Brent was a good man.

But my taste veered toward the wicked variety.

Brent’s eyes flickered over me. I was wearing a loose cotton sundress with billowing sleeves and a short hemline. My legs—like the rest of me—were tanned, and I had on heeled wedges because even though New Zealand did ‘come as you are casual’, there was no way I could attend a party of any kind in flats.

My hair was wild and curly, and I wasn’t wearing makeup except for a swipe of mascara. Lip gloss was impossible because Jay’s mouth was on mine any chance he got. Because of that, my lips were pink, swollen, my cheeks in a permanent flush as I continued to relive his hands on me. My cheeks were not pink from the memory of pleasure. Not right now. They were flushed with dread.

“You look beautiful,” Brent said, unaware of my panicked insides. The compliment was threaded with innuendo.

“Thank you,” I replied, my smile polite and tight.