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)
He winces. “Why do you always think I’m joking?”
“I didn’t think you liked me.” I shrug. “And you’re Jake Koning Waterford. People treat you like you’re flesh-and-blood aristocracy around here. I’m not bowing at your feet, so why would you like me?”
His jaw sets for a second, then his eyes dart to my hair. “I envy you. How’s that?”
My stomach tosses for a second. “Now that is a joke.”
He groans. “Just accept the compliment, Phoebe.”
“Explain the compliment, Jake.”
He takes a deeper breath, like this isn’t easy for him to say. “I don’t know exactly what you did to lose your trust fund, but you had the nerve to risk it.” He stares past me like he’s thinking of something else. “Some days I wish I could . . .” His voice trails off, his gaze darkening with an invasive thought.
“You wish you could piss off your family?” I finish for him.
He lifts a shoulder in a shrug, then he shakes his head. His eyes flit around me again. “I can’t.”
“You could,” I urge, and I don’t know why I’m tempting him toward the dirty pools of rebellion. Drama. Destruction. Danger. Am I Jake’s little devil on his shoulder?
His uncertain gaze meets mine. Possibly he sees I’m bad for him because he says, “I have more to lose than you probably did.”
Ouch.
Burn?
But valid.
Even with my new backstory, I don’t hail from a generations-old family legacy. That’s all him.
Before I can reply, he’s distracted by a guest in a red bikini, coming over to place some drink orders.
I’m about to take the drinks to lounge fifteen when a darker storm cloud shields the sun. A clap of aggressive thunder follows.
Red Bikini lets out a gasp of surprise. She reroutes her attention to the sky. “You don’t think it’ll rain, do you?”
As soon as she says it, a raindrop plops on my nose.
“Shit,” Jake curses and takes out his phone. “It wasn’t supposed to rain until tomorrow . . .” He groans at his screen. Not good news.
The clambake is supposed to happen on the patio and lawn. Fairy lights are strung between the pop-up tents, and circular high-top tables have already been carried and placed systematically on the grass. “Isn’t it partially covered?” I ask, referring to the tents.
Lightning cracks the sky.
“Koning!” Katherine’s shrill voice is worse than the thunder. She stampedes over in her usual pencil skirt getup. I’d be impressed by the speed at which she can move in that thing, but I can’t summon that feeling when it comes to her. “Did you see the lightning?”
“Hard to miss,” Jake says into a deep sigh. “We’re going to have to move everything inside.”
Her lips purse. “We don’t have time. The event starts in less than an hour.”
The wind grows wilder, and one of the umbrellas to the lounges starts flapping madly. Jake and I move in unison, running over to grab the umbrella before the fabric breaks from the pole.
I grip the base. He seizes the top.
And just like that, the skies tear open, and it starts absolutely pouring.
“I have it!” Jake yells over the thundering wind and rain. My wet hair sticks to my chin, and I’m squinting through the sheets of rain that assault us. I let go of the pole so he can tug it out of its base.
“Get the others!” he shouts.
I scan the patio and spot four more umbrellas, plus cushions on every lounge chair that look ready to take flight like we’re in Tornado Alley. Everyone else has vacated the pool area, even Katherine.
Kicking into gear, I hustle around the pool, my heeled boots sinking in soggy grass, and I take care of another umbrella and start collecting cushions under my armpits. I throw everything inside the sunroom that’s closed to guests during pre-clambake prep, and staff help stack my heap neatly against the wall.
Chelsea slips me a worrisome look, eyeing my drenched hair.
I don’t blame anyone for choosing not to brave the elements. I mean—we have to work tonight, and I now look like a drowned cat. Maybe Katherine even told them not to go outside.
At least I’m not alone.
Jake’s clothes are soaked, his button-down suctioning to the ridges of his eight-pack. Yep, I can clearly count each defined muscle that would likely rival Rocky’s Adonis physique.
No more Rocky.
My brain has been slow to process the memo.
Jake Waterford surprisingly doesn’t resemble a stray caught in a squall like me. No . . . he might as well have returned from a sailboat photo shoot with a sexy stormy theme.
Sexy stormy—I didn’t even think that could be a thing until now.
On my fourth trip inside, I notice how the staff that organizes the cushions and umbrellas are all women, and they’re glued to the big windows. I don’t think they’re storm watching.
I follow their rabid attention and see Jake has peeled off his button-down. Rainwater drips along the sculpted tracks of his chest. I wonder if he knows he’s in a one-man Magic Mike show right now.