Page 29 of Fallen Crown

“Said something about grabbing dinner and meeting you at your place?”

“Oh,” Posey says, and her shoulders collapse.

It always amuses me to see how much the two of them still crave each other’s company. Nick was always going to be a sucker for Jules, but the closeness Posey and Brent have as well as the loyalty Rory and Alex have shown each other never ceases to amaze me. I’ve enjoyed lots of women, but I’ve never sought one of them out as though it was at the top of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.

I pour myself a whiskey and swirl the liquid around in my glass. Technically, I have a team training and then likely something with Tucker later on—though whatever we do, it’ll be a last-minute decision. We seem to be engaged in a game of chicken in regard to who texts who first about training together. Nothing is arranged in advance.

On the way to the estate, I fought with myself over whether finding out whatever Posey has to tell me is the right move. My gut knows the answer.

“So,” I say. That’s all I can bring myself to utter. To ask outright feels like a betrayal of the truce Tucker and I have been building the last few weeks. My curiosity is burning too bright for me to reject whatever Posey has to say.

“It’s a doozy,” Posey says. “Are you sure you want to know?”

I stare into my glass and then down the rest of the liquid. Whether or not I want to know isn’t the issue. Should I know?

“Will it make me think less of her?” That’s the line in the sand I’ve decided to draw. If Tucker will still look the same to me after, Posey can tell me.

“Definitely not. Might help you understand her a little better.” Posey breathes out a deep sigh. “But I probably wouldn’t tell her you know. The information fell into my lap the other night at Wino Wine Bar, but it’s not common knowledge. Not by a long shot.”

That much I know. Despite my own digging, I got nowhere. I set my glass on the bar. “Tell me.”

“As you know, Maren fell in Chile and was injured. Everyone seems to know that much. The part that’s been kept hush-hush, and I totally get why, is that Maren’s fall caused her to have a miscarriage.”

“Holy shit,” I say, and I sink into one of the armchairs across from the couch.

“Yeah,” Posey says. “And then her husband left her.”

That wasn’t my first thought. My first thought was my comment to her at the charity dinner a few weeks ago when she held Grace. My exact words won’t come back to me, but I know I teased her about her mothering instincts—or rather, lack of them. I wince.

“Jesus,” I mutter. Any coherent thoughts are gone. It’s no wonder Tucker isn’t keen to share the whole truth. Why would she want to bare her soul to the stranger she hated a few short weeks ago? “Was it the fall or the miscarriage that made her no longer want to race?”

“No idea,” Posey says with a shrug. “The loose lips closed up pretty quick the other night. If I hadn’t been listening so closely, I wouldn’t have even caught what I did.”

Tucker doesn’t appear to be afraid of climbing or at least not climbing in a controlled environment. Her reluctance to be on the team again must be linked to the loss of her baby. My stomach dips at how much of an idiot I’ve been. Here she is dealing with this huge loss, and I’m firing verbal BB gun shots thinking I’m so clever.

“To be clear, I told you this information so you wouldn’t use it against her.”

I level her with a glare.

“Do not act offended with me.” Posey points her finger in my direction. “You’ve been ultracompetitive with her from the get-go.”

That’s true, but for her to insinuate I’d use Tucker’s miscarriage as a way to gain an advantage is low. Only someone really terrible would—“Is that why her husband left the island?”

“If I had to guess, yes. The timing fits, but that really is a guess. I have no idea. Has she said anything about Enzo?”

“Nothing truthful.”

“Just tread lightly. I know you’re going through some things too, even if you don’t want to talk about it, but keep your relationship professional or whatever the hell you call your situation.” She drains the rest of her latte and drops it in the garbage can beside my chair.

Order and instructions have never been my thing, and her advice is likely falling on deaf ears. Ideas are rotating around my head, and they are definitely not professional in nature.

Although her family is big, I’ve heard they are highly dysfunctional. Other than hiding what happened to her, who knows how helpful they’ve been. Tucker doesn’t need a colleague or another training buddy. She needs a friend, and luckily, I’m a friendship expert.

We’re running hills, which is hands down my least favorite type of training. Sweat is pouring off me because Tucker decided the heat of the day was a good opportunity to see whether she could reduce our will to live. Before, thoughts like that would have made me happy. Now I’m cursing myself for not being able to shift my outlook on her fast enough.

Friends. Friendly. Tucker is my buddy. One of the guys. This torture is fun.

As I come down the hill, trying to keep myself from falling on my face as my legs wobble underneath me, I call out, “Wanna hear a joke?”