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)
And I know better than to stoke a war with someone who already recognizes my trigger is Phoebe.
“You’re Grey, right?” Sidney asks and drops her bra at her feet.
My head is leveled and unmoving, and my gaze is trained in precision on her face. Her lips form an uncertain O as I let her see malice cross me.
She’s trying to seduce me when I’m supposed to be seducing any living, breathing body. People make this shit too easy, and I’ve bypassed multiple chances to win the deal I made with Phoebe.
I’m actively losing at this point.
“I’m not good for you,” I tell her darkly.
I’m immoral, unethical, and deceitful.
Sidney teases the hem of her panties, not deterred yet. “Maybe I’m not good for you.”
Not only is my dick limp, but my brain is so far out to sea. Irritation pinches my brows, and I harden my gaze so I don’t roll my eyes halfway across the ocean.
“You’re single?” she wonders.
“Divorced.” I cut my eyes to the water and try to see if Phoebe joined the other skinny-dippers. She could be on the dock already, below the house where the boats are stored.
I haven’t checked there yet.
“I heard about that, too,” Sidney says.
“You came,” someone says behind me. The new voice pulls me away from my search and from Sidney.
“Val,” I greet, grateful for the easy escape. “Thanks for the invite.” I sense Sidney picking up her bra and laughing at a comment her friend makes, brushing off our exchange as she joins a huddle of girls.
“Anytime.” Val cups a mixed drink. Her face lights up more, glad to be remembered. “How are you liking it so far?”
I could play it up with the cliché, Better now that you’re here. Flirt.
Seduce.
Things that’ll take me a step closer to learning about Carlsbad, but I’m already half-assing this by scowling.
I stare out at the water. “Skinny-dipping, expensive liquor, and shitty music. My favorite.” I don’t conceal my normal dry tone.
She frowns but then plays it off. “Yeah, the music sucks. Alexa can’t pick songs for shit.”
Where’s Phoebe? A sadness weighs on me, and I stuff my fists in my leather jacket.
Val notices my empty hands. “Want a drink?”
“I could use a whiskey.” I find myself back at the liquor cabinet and wet bar. This time with Val, and while I pour amber liquid in a glass, she’s trying to convince me to attend the town’s clambake.
“It’s hit or miss on who attends, but the food is always amazing. You really should come, and I . . . uh,” Val begins to stammer.
I look up from the whiskey, capping the bottle. Phoebe. My pulse skips, and I steel my jaw.
She’s stuck in the short hallway, trying to push through the crowds to reach either the bathroom or the bedrooms. She’s not alone.
A taller, lean-built man has his hands on her shoulders. Directing her forward, even in the traffic jam. Glasses frame his angular face, and a bad taste fills my mouth.
Archer Fitzpatrick.
Twenty-eight-year-old English professor at Caufield.
Son of Stella Fitzpatrick, who’s the best friend of Claudia Koning Waterford (owner of the Victoria Country Club).
I’m short-circuiting—caught between pushing toward Phoebe and cementing in place. But before I decide which route to take, Phoebe sees me.
With Valentina.
We’re staring one another down. Blood courses through my veins, and my feelings aren’t jumbled. They aren’t confusing or enlightening.
Jealousy is ripe inside me. It’s aged into a heady richness over so many twisted years.
Seeing as how she’s en route to a bedroom and she hasn’t sent a post-fuck text, I’m catching her before the final act.
“I think that’s your ex,” Val says, as if Phoebe and I aren’t currently glaring at one another across the living room. “Oh, I think she’s coming over here.”
Phoebe leaves Archer after a few quick words, and she beelines for us at the wet bar. Her dark blue hair is tied in a messy pony, and her thick brows are crinkled with hot purpose.
She’s not sleeping with him. She’s coming toward me. The alleviating thought is squashed fast. Because Archer is waiting for her in the hallway. His arms cross with slight impatience.
“Hey. Valentina, right?” Phoebe asks, trying to be polite, but her lips are pinched in an angry pout. A smile is lost inside of me. Getting under Phoebe’s skin is an enjoyment, but her hot-blooded entrance and that fucking ponytail are burying a need in me.
Why her?
I’m pissed that I can’t get rid of her. I’m pissed that being around her makes me want to hold her and do bad things to her, and I’m pissed that when she’s gone I only want to find her.
“Yeah, Valentina,” Val answers hesitantly, still not offering her nickname to Phoebe. She studies me, then my ex.
I take a swig of sharp whiskey. It burns going down. “Can I help you, Phoebe?” I hear the coarse grit in my voice.