Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Before I can ask what the hell a Koning boy is—Katherine zips off and exits out the double doors to the wraparound porch and patio.
Hailey and I exchange a what the fuck look.
“Koning?” Hailey frowns. “Like the beer?”
Skepticism pinches me, and my best friend follows me into the bathroom. I collect a bundle of paper towels. “Is Koning a family?”
I know the brand. Koning is just about everywhere in America. It’s the drink of mind when I think of football and beer. Their Super Bowl commercials are also pretty legendary. All of them incorporate sperm whales and the classic Koning gold crown.
Hailey searches the internet on her cellphone. “And your suspicions are . . . correct. The company was founded by a family in 1826.”
“I didn’t want that to be true.” I fix my hair into a neater pony, a little more nervous at the idea that we might’ve found ourselves among beer aristocracy. This isn’t a tiny independent brewery. Koning is the biggest rival to Anheuser-Busch, the company that makes Budweiser.
The Konings likely have money and prestige, two qualities that are like catnip for my family. It has the smell of a long con, and I’m not supposed to be sniffing out a new job for the Tinrocks and Graves.
“It’ll be fine,” Hailey says with nonchalance, but she’s gathering more paper towels at a rapid speed. She seems a little anxious.
It does sound . . . unbelievable that the Konings have roots in this little Connecticut town, and we just so happened to have picked this place to establish a new life.
Returning to the entryway, I’m on my knees and scrubbing at the grass stain on the white marble. Hailey kneels with me and helps clean the most stubborn green streak.
“I doubt anyone related to that family is here,” I tell Hailey while we scrub. “Maybe some infamous beer-drinking frat boys are running around the country club and they pound six-packs of Koning Lite.”
Hailey takes a good look at the glittering chandelier in the main rotunda. “More like bourbon-drinking boys.”
“I’m more of a beer drinker these days.”
I startle at the familiar voice behind us. He rounds our knelt bodies, and we look up.
“You.” Hailey gapes.
Jake in his fancy sport coat and leather boat shoes has his arms crossed like a disappointed dad. “Me,” he says while Hailey and I pick ourselves off the floor. I wad up all the dirtied paper towels, and Jake is practically pouting at my hair.
I feel like he’s channeling most of his disappointment into the fact that I ditched his advice. But in this new normal life that I can have, I want blue hair.
“Koning boy?” Hailey asks the important question. “What does that even mean?”
His arms drop with a heavy exhale. “Katherine.” He groans. “She’s known my brothers and me since we were small.” He says this like it’ll answer the question.
“You’re heavy beer drinkers—the Koning boys?” I ask, though my voice sounds tight. Stilted. I’m questioning everything now. He can’t be that rich.
“My mother’s maiden name is Koning,” he explains.
Okay, he is that rich.
Hailey maintains a stoic face. “So your family owns the beer company?”
Jake nods.
I go rigid. “Do they own this country club, too?” Why else would he be Katherine’s choice to give us the orientation?
“Yeah.” Jake sighs heavily like he didn’t want to have this conversation today. “We do.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” I cross my arms like a disappointed mother. He had every opportunity to tell us who he was back at the loft. He knew we would be working here.
“I didn’t feel like talking about my family.” The way he says it, there’s a subtle note of bitterness there that I’m sure few would catch.
“That’s fair,” Hailey says, like she totally gets being cagey when it comes to family.
But this is different. We’re hiding crimes.
What’s he hiding?
“It feels a bit disingenuous,” I tell Jake. “You knew we would be working here, and you were giving us tips so we wouldn’t be eaten by the upper elite, but in reality, it was just so we fit into your country club’s standards.”
“It was both,” Jake says. “We have a dress code. One that your best friend seems to respect more than you.” He’s staring at my hair again.
“It’s dark blue. Not cotton candy I-went-to-Disney-World blue, which I understand would distract people from their mai tais and pickleball lessons.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not the point—” He cuts himself off as his phone rings, and not with the automated ringtone. “Highway to Hell” by AC/DC blares in the echoing rotunda. He stares me down while fishing it from his pocket, as if waiting for a smart-ass comment.
I have none.
I’m just shocked he’d do a contrarian thing. Most people set their phones on vibrate.
Turning his back to us, he takes the call. “I can’t help right now, Trent. I’m giving an orientation to the two new servers.”