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)
Strangely, I like picturing them on the same street where I wait for Phoebe. I’m not grieving what I lost—because I would never trade my sister and my brother for a life that’s not mine—but I am being a fucking fool by romanticizing a place and a family I never knew.
And in the next beat, I think, I won’t leave them behind.
I blink away the image of my birth parents. I can’t remember the last time where my mind drifted this far away from me.
I blame Jake. For telling me everyone loves summers in Victoria. I told him, “I’ve never loved a season, let alone a place, so good luck getting me to love the hottest months of the year.”
“Game on, jackass,” he said with a smile.
I rolled my eyes.
But I feel the smallest smile toy at my lips now. The fuck. I scrape my hand through my hair, about to dig out my phone and call Phebs. She’s taking literally forever, and the only reason I’m not waiting for her in the loft is because I’m guarding the apartment from Trent.
Like hell is he going to step one fucking pinky toe into the stairwell.
If he knew me, like really knew me, he would be terrified to pull what he did last week. The fact that I can’t put the fear of fucking God and every disciple in him is bludgeon-my-head-against-concrete levels of frustrating.
Apartment door opens, and I kick off the brick wall as Phoebe takes her sweet time slipping out, securing strands of her blue hair back with strawberry clips. I bet she struggled to choose an outfit.
“Were you writing a thousand-page memoir in there?”
“Yeah, and every word was Fuck Rocky.”
I laugh. “Nice way to make everyone realize you’re obsessed with me.”
“You’re more obsessed,” she flings back.
I tip my head. “Yeah.” I nod. “As always, I’m willing to take that W.”
Her red-hot glare and middle finger nearly draw a smile out of me tonight. Then she finishes fixing her hair. “Ex-husband.”
“Ex-wife.”
“What’s the rush?” She tugs the hem of her pastel-pink minidress farther down her thighs. I’d say the dress is going to fucking kill me tonight. It scoops low over her tits, and her gold necklace drips between them. But it has nothing on the rest of her. The temperature she burns at is my real undoing. “We’re just getting ice cream, right?”
“Maybe I’m just an impatient fuck when it comes to spending the night with you.”
She chews her lip, trying to subdue a stupidly big smile. “Quit.”
“Yeah, I’m not going to quit loving you.”
Her normal scowl vanishes. She’s melting.
I laugh harder.
She growls through a bright smile. “Fuck you.” She pushes my chest lightly but clings on to my shirt for an extended beat. Her smile oozes into deeper affection. I wrap my hand around her wrist for even longer. We stay frozen for a second, consuming each other with a tunneling look, and I almost forget where I am.
Not good.
Not detrimental either. The town believes she’s single and I’m single, and while we’re giving her breakup with Jake some room to breathe—so as not to tank her reputation here—I’d much rather the wonderful citizens of Victoria still think I’m actively pursuing my ex-wife.
So people like Trent can back the fuck off.
“Ready?” I nod toward the ice cream parlor. She nods, and we walk side by side, keeping our hands to ourselves. It still ratchets up heat between us.
“I couldn’t decide what to wear,” Phoebe admits. “That’s why I took so long.”
“I figured.”
She bunches her long hair on one shoulder. “How do I look?” She’s not asking sweetly. Her tone is biting.
I glance over at her combative eyes. “Like my Phoebe,” I answer.
Her brows spring. “No ‘You look like crap, Phoebe’? No ‘I can’t believe I even married that hideous clown’?” She is so far from ugly, it’s laughable.
“You look like crap, Phoebe.”
“Hmm, B-minus. For Barely Believable.”
The corner of my mouth tics up. “Could that be because I wasn’t trying for you to believe that bullshit?”
“Or because I’m immune to your tricks.”
“Or because I never trick you.”
Her scowl teeters in and out, and an unknown emotion flickers in her brown eyes. I’m unable to read the sentiment; she doesn’t let me as she skips ahead of me too quickly.
My muscles flex while my mind spins through assumptions I don’t want to make. Phoebe peeks back to see if I’ll follow her.
I haven’t slowed my pace.
I’m at her side in seconds. She seems relieved, but she has nothing to fear. I’m not going to abandon her.
Thirteen years old, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, all the way to her twenty-four and my twenty-seven—we’ve been tethered together. Only we’re not pretending to be cousins or coworkers or college dormmates anymore.
What we are now feels like the finale. When I know it can’t be fucking true. Because I will keep grifting. I will keep going.