Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
It did keep Katherine loyal to her. And I needed my mother to truly believe I was going to potentially marry Phoebe.
“I have to go home and take a shower,” Hailey said, sliding on her mesh shirt.
“You’re welcome to shower here.”
“My shower is fine.” She was avoiding my gaze now.
“Can we talk?” I asked.
“About what?” She slipped on socks, then reached for her combat boots.
“About what just happened.”
Her fair cheeks went rosy. “We fucked. You went down on me twice. I wanted to blow you, but I think I fell asleep. Then I woke up, and we talked about astrology and music. You’re an Aquarius—said to be deeply intellectual, independent, and rebellious—but I don’t believe in horoscopes, even though they do matter.”
“Why do they matter?”
“Because other people believe in them, and that belief holds weight.” She gave me an inching smile. “I didn’t tell you that part last night.”
“No, you didn’t.” I wanted to smile back, but uncertainty still hammered into me. Instead, I just shifted out of the bed, my bare feet hitting the floor. After I stood, I grabbed my watch off the dresser. Careful to give her space.
Now she was bashful seeing my cock. It confused me. “Hailey—”
“It was just sex,” she said. “We don’t need to complicate this.”
I frowned. “You showering here complicates this…how?”
“It just does.” She laced her boots.
I scraped a hand through my hair, knowing I shouldn’t want more. Because I agreed, “It is just sex.” I couldn’t have a relationship with her. I couldn’t do serious.
Not just because I was fake dating Phoebe at the time, but because it wasn’t safe to be committed to anyone who could potentially be collateral damage in this war between me and my brother.
It’s still dangerous.
Maybe even more now than before.
It’s been two months since the Hunt, and we still call our relationship “just sex.” The more I learn about her, the less I feel like it is.
As I leave my Porsche, loud rock beats blast in my ears, and I hustle toward Baubles & Bookends.
While most of my adolescence was spent in New York, all my summers were in this seaside Connecticut town. I love the sticky heat off the coast, the way the streets flood with bouncing kids as school lets out, the nostalgic smell of charcoal from Danny’s Dockside Grill. Sunsets melt like orange freeze pops, and nighttime feels alive with fireflies and bullfrogs.
I might’ve been the son of an eleven-figure fortune, a kid with a distinguished lineage dating back to the 1700s, but I was always just the third. Able to run off and buy cookie dough ice cream, race through Main Street like a vagabond child, and I found myself kicking soccer balls with other teenagers on the grainy beach as foamy waves crashed to shore. Always knowing in the back of my head that my family owned half the town. That our money came from one of the most popular, well-recognized beer franchises in the world.
The guilt came later.
When I realized my summers were blissful and free while my little sister’s were tormented and caged. She might’ve been the fourthborn, but she was the only girl, and our mother had planned Kate’s life down to the hour. Sometimes the minute.
I don’t know what brings more grief: knowing my sister never experienced these idyllic, joyful summers in Victoria or the fact that this might be my last.
My brother might take everything from me. He’s already started to.
Hailey’s fury-laced music bleeds into my veins. I can’t hear the woof of Archer Fitzpatrick’s Saint Bernard as he walks the giant dog along the cobblestone or the beep of cars being locked as vehicles park outside Symphonies on the Pier for dinner.
But I falter when I turn my head…and I spot Oliver Graves.
Fuck. He’s across the street, nearly parallel with me on the other sidewalk, and it’s clear we’re headed in the same direction. The loft above the bookstore.
He has a casual but quick stride, his hands in pockets of tailored khaki slacks. His designer sunglasses match the jet-black shade of his short-sleeve linen shirt.
Oliver dresses like he frequents yachts in the summer and chalets in the winter. Like he was a silver-spoon kid who never lived without a trust fund. I never would’ve questioned his wealth had I not learned the truth.
I stay in time with his lengthy gait. Our builds are very similar and we’re around the same height. I bet I’m stronger. Not a competition.
I breathe out a lengthy breath. Then glance over at him again. He’s not peering over at me. At all. He’s so unconcerned. Unbothered.
There’s something about him that simultaneously stands out and blends in, and I can’t put my finger on what it is. Maybe it’s the way he carries himself. Like he’s unshackled by life. Or maybe it’s just that he’s bewilderingly attractive. I might have the jawline, but his features are striking as they balance between daring and safe. Treacherous and harmless.