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)
I wonder when we became a vortex together. Exiting the EF5 winds takes hellacious effort, and I’m not fighting against the force of nature.
“Y’all?” I ask in a tight breath. “As in…?”
I want him to say, You. Mostly you. I love you more than anyone I know, Phoebe.
He shifts the toothpick again. “You know who.”
Right.
His siblings: a younger sister and brother. My siblings: two older brothers—granted, older by minutes.
I nod and say out loud, “You love Hails more than you hate the godmothers.”
“Astute,” he says. But he’s not adding me into the equation. He’s not putting me before his sister, and why would he? I’m just her best friend.
I’d put Hailey above myself, too.
I bend a little more. “I’ve been known to be perceptive.”
“Not more perceptive than me,” he says thickly. I’m unsure if it sounds like a challenge or a come-on.
I open my mouth to combat him. Instead, I intake a strange, shortened breath of arousal. I hope he doesn’t comment on it. And he doesn’t, not as his own muscles flex, as if controlling something carnal within himself.
We are perceptive. I think we both know attraction exists, thrives, terrorizes. Tension thickens at the unsaid things. Our bodies are mere inches apart, and still, neither of us shifts away or nearer.
I breathe hard.
He does, too.
Feelings are thorns we let puncture us. Sometimes I believe Rocky and I like bleeding out together.
I finally straighten up, and he slides his darkened gaze off me. If he had a beer, he’d likely chug it right now.
I wouldn’t say the tension snaps. It’s buried in my core, and I try to ignore it by checking my phone.
No new text from my best friend. I frown, wishing Rocky were wrong—that his sister would sneak out. Which is a funny phrase: sneak out. She’s in her twenties, too. Sneaking shouldn’t be a thing for us, but I guess it’s more like being held up at work. She’s clocking in overtime since she’s helping our parents preplan the next long con.
After this, we’re heading to Miami.
I shove the phone in the front pocket of my frayed jean shorts. My ass peeks out. Each bar has been burning hot, so I’ve loved my skimpy outfit for comfortability. Plus, the matching bejeweled jean vest is seriously cute.
“She wanted to be here,” I remind her brother. “The original plan was better.”
Hailey had concocted a Bar Bill job. It would’ve taken at least a month, if not two, to pick out a mark and for one of us to be hired as a bartender, but our parents rejected it. Now we’re just passing through Nashville with this short con.
Last night, when we were told the change of plans, Hailey looked so defeated and said, “I just wish they gave me better constructive feedback over why they axed it.”
“They said it wasn’t personal,” I told her. “It wasn’t a bad con or setup.”
Hailey fell flat on the bed, dejected. “I’m pretty positive they don’t think I’m ready to plan a job of that level yet.”
I lay back with her and held her gaze consolingly. “It’s probably just timing.”
Hailey’s Bar Bill job would’ve meant she’d be having fun with us at Rowdy Rooster’s Watering Hole tonight. We could’ve even ridden the mechanical bull.
Now she’s stuck alone at the Ritz, which—yes, it’s not a Super 8 or an RV park, but seeing Hailey’s devious dreams get shot down offends me as her best friend. The universe should be better to her.
Hailey ended up taking her blues out on a pint of Moose Tracks. Rocky had gone to the nearest convenience store last night to get her the ice cream. I imagine she’s finishing off the last of the container while we’re here.
“The original plan,” Rocky says under his breath, not dropping the subtle Tennessee accent. “Did you like it because your best friend came up with it? Or because it involved her being here?”
“Both. And because of Nashville.” I watch the line dancers. “I’m not ready to leave.” The catchy tempo from a fiddle is invigorating. “Are you?”
I feel him studying me. “I could stay.”
I try to pry my eyes off the rhythmic bodies, but I’m latched on to the heel-toe taps of cowboy boots as I say, “You finally fell in love with country music?”
“Yeah,” he deadpans. “It’s growing on me like a cold sore.”
I snort. Why would he even want to stay here for longer? “I bet it’s the toothpick,” I tease. “You’ve always wanted something to gnaw on.”
He flips me off.
I laugh, and I see the start of his smile before I’m entranced by the dancers again. Girls smack their heels and hop-jump to the beat. Guys tip their cowboy hats as they shimmy to the side.
Rocky pushes off the wooden barrel and suddenly captures my hand. Leading me to the dance floor. My pulse rushes ahead of me.