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)
Nova crosses his arms over his chest. “Not happening.”
I squint in the sun. “What’s on your face?”
“It’s called a mustache.”
“Gross, man.”
He flips me off. “Are you coming down here?”
I let out another annoyed breath and make my way down to the dock. “Your fear of water really needs to be looked at.”
“I’m not scared of the water, and you know that.” He glares at me. “God, sometimes it’s impossible to talk to you.”
My feet hit the dock, and I smile dryly. “Could it be because I don’t want you to talk to me?”
He opens his mouth to reply but an obtrusively loud noise comes from the neighbor’s dock.
A seal.
Hercules (Hailey named him) flaps his flippers at us and continues that honking sound. He’s out there every morning. Same time.
Every day.
But all he really does is make funny noises like he’s trying to cheer me up. Hercules would be a better roommate than Nova, who constantly has to “get on the same page” as me as if we’re in a perpetual group project that I never signed up for.
Nova waits for the seal to quiet down before turning back to me. “Phoebe and Jake.”
My body stiffens like those three words are literally repellent. “Is there a question there or are you just trying to make me punch something?”
Nova eyes me up and down. “You don’t like them together?”
“They’re not together,” I say, like he’s insane. Unless I’ve been sleeping under a rock for the last month—oh wait, no. I’ve been at the country club almost every day keeping tabs on the main players in town.
One of whom is Jake Waterford.
“I didn’t say they were.” Nova looks at me like I’m the one jumping to conclusions when he opened this whole conversation with just their names. “He’s been stopping by the museum and asking about her.”
Great. Just great.
I glare at the sky. Nova came into town with Oliver—wait, scratch that—he was manipulated into coming here by Elizabeth Graves. They see it differently, fine. But it doesn’t change the fact that their mom bumped them off the clip joint job, and that’s sketchy as hell.
When Nova got here, he inserted himself in the museum as an art curator. He’s not the best at talking his way out of a hole, but he can tell a forgery from the real deal in a heartbeat.
“Asking about her?” I frown. “Like what?”
“Casual shit, but I know he’s prying. I can’t tell if it’s because he likes her or because he doesn’t trust her.”
I want to say it’s the latter, but that’d be because I hope it’s not the former. And Jake liking Phoebe . . . Phoebe and Jake . . .
I don’t like the scenario.
I hate the scenario.
I don’t much like him.
I hate him. But he’s not special. Right now, in this moment, I hate every fucking one. I’m grinding my teeth and glaring at the bay.
Nova watches me too keenly. “I thought you’d have some insight.”
My only insight is a deep-seated jealousy that has gnarled around my veins and arteries. Every pump of blood is more toxic fuel in my soul. “It doesn’t matter.” I rake a rough hand through my hair. “He’s not her type. She wouldn’t go after him.”
“I don’t know about that,” Nova says. “Now that my sister is on this new honest-life kick, she has more options in the love department.”
More options.
Other than me—but he won’t say it.
I shift my weight tensely. The past month has been rage piled upon rage.
I can’t move on from Phoebe.
I just can’t. I never could. And if she’s unwilling to break away from our parents for good and I’m unwilling to be with her until we do—then we’re at a standstill that I can’t fucking stand.
With this new lack of communication with our moms, there are nights where I’ve just wanted to throw in the towel. Where I’ve imagined they’re gone forever and they’ll never find us. Where I’ve fantasized about showing up at the loft and shoving her against the wall and kissing her like she’s the only love of my entire life.
I almost hate the sheer strength of my willpower and control that constantly prevents me from doing reckless fucking things. Like leading with my heart.
More options for Phoebe?
Her love life has been cradled in my hands like mine has been in hers.
On so many jobs, we’ve pretended to be spouses. Pretended to be lovers. I’ve had my tongue inside her more times than I can count. Kissed my way down her neck and trailed my lips between her breasts. I’ve grinded up against her body, feeling the softness of her limbs against the hardness of mine. Felt the smooth curves of her hips and the warm heat of her breath. I can smell her sweet floral scent without Phoebe even being around. I’ve been in wealthy, toxic circles where I had to keep both of us in one piece. Where her body was mine to shield and protect.