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)
“Did I?” It sounds like a silly question out of context.
His concern hikes. “No, Hailey. I drove here after I talked to Carter.”
“Carter?” What? I almost sway backward, but Jake shields my eyes from the sun with his hand, and I stay fixed on him.
“Stuart Cartwright,” he clarifies. “The only Carter I know. My oldest friend.”
His old boarding school roommate, who happens to be my family’s forger. And also my ex-fling. I used to fantasize that Carter would be the one. The long-lasting forever romance—back when I thought I’d eventually have a whirlwind con artist love story like my parents.
The fantasy blew up when A.) I learned my parents lied to me and they seemed less like people to emulate and more like a cautionary tale and B.) I realized Carter and I no longer want the same things.
He will always be on the move. I want to stay in Victoria for more than a few seasons.
The want feels more like a need now that I’m pregnant.
I shake my head slowly. “Why Carter?”
“You talked to Carter on your drive here,” Jake says, pausing to let his words jog my memory, but all I remember is Oliver.
“No…”
“Look at your call history. He said he called you, and you picked up and told him you were driving to Newport for lunch at Briny Pearl.”
I fumble my phone out of my studded crossbody purse. Sure enough, I have an answered call from Carter. “Thirty minutes ago,” I mutter.
Jake opens the Porsche’s passenger door. “Here, sit. You look pale.”
“I’m always pale.” I’m dazed staring at the phone.
“Paler than usual.”
I feel dizzy, so I sink down on the black leather interior. Jake bends close, extending an arm over me to reach the cupholder. His bicep skims against my shoulder, and our gazes touch for a heady second.
His sandy-brown hair rustles with the wind, and I get lost in his cerulean-blue eyes, dreamy and idyllic like a perfect summer sky.
Jake Waterford has felt unreal.
Like another figment of my imagination. There was a time or two that I wondered if I’d made him up. If my mind had conjured him back when we moved to the quaint, delightfully romantic Connecticut town. The hot landlord to shepherd me and Phoebe into our new honest living.
Then we found skeletons under his bed—he faked his little sister’s death; he’d been friends with Carter—and I knew he had to be real. My brain wouldn’t construct someone this complex with sister baggage and parental issues and boarding school connections to my yearslong crush. He wasn’t simple.
I thought maybe I needed simple, but I found myself liking that he was so complex.
I still find myself liking him.
Even now, as he grabs a three-fourths-filled water bottle for me. I love and hate being doted on and taken care of. I love feeling important enough to matter, but I hate how it’s synonymous with being weak.
“Drink this.” He unscrews the Evian and hands it to me.
“Thanks.” I take small sips. “What did I even tell Carter?” I vaguely begin to recall climbing into the car and clutching the wheel.
“He said you were mostly talking about Oliver.”
“Oh God,” I mumble into a heartier swig of water.
Jake nods more strongly. “Yeah,” he says flatly, then rises to a stand. He stays close.
It’s no secret that Carter and I banged in the past, or that I’m now having casual sex with both Jake and Oliver. The causal situation (emphasis on casual) shouldn’t be awkward, but the more Oliver and Jake avoid each other—it is.
“What did I say?” I ask.
“Mainly that you were concerned about him. You think he needs a new role. Then you were rambling. Carter couldn’t follow your logic, so he called me after he hung up and said I should check on you. He’s not in Victoria.”
“I heard.” Carter flew to Manchester for a long weekend. He’s unsure if he’ll return to town or not.
I pick at the label on the water bottle. Jake remains standing, holding the hood of the car as if he’s touching my head, but he’s not touching me. He’s more careful with me than Oliver is. I love and hate that, too.
“Well, you found me. I’m okay.”
“Are you?” He lifts his brows. “Do you even remember driving here?”
“A little…not enough, probably.” I’ve told him that I lose time while I’m stuck inside my head. I have trouble being in the present moment. It’s a persistent problem, but it’s been heightened to these extremes since I learned my parents deceived me and my insomnia reared its ugly head. “It’ll come to me. It usually does.” We lock eyes again.
He’s the town heartthrob. A quintessential Prince Charming who has women swooning the second he enters a room. Every lady at Victoria Country Club will be trying to pair their prim and proper daughters with him.