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)
My lungs feel full, but I can’t expel the deep breath I took. I just replay that imaginary scenario with Rocky over again. And I realize . . . I’d like it. Why would I like it?
Because I’m not attracted to Polite Pandas.
I want Grumpy Bear.
You can’t have him.
I ease away from Jake, avoiding his gaze as I shove popcorn in my mouth. Halfway through the movie, I twist in my chair and spot Hailey making out with Erik in the back. Good for her. At least one of us is having a decent time.
Jake’s phone rings. Not just buzzes. Full on rings.
I turn to him with shocked eyes. Who doesn’t put their phone on silent in a movie theater? Oh yeah, the guy who has never been to one in his life.
Wait . . . his ringtone.
It’s an ABBA song.
Jake is flustered as he digs for his phone.
“Turn it off!” someone yells in the theater.
“I’m trying,” Jake politely whispers under his breath. He hits silent, and I get a flash of a number on his phone. No name. “Excuse me . . .” He stands up and slips past me.
I’m about to follow him when he shakes his head at me.
Something is . . . not right. That song was not an angry I hate you ballad that he usually awards his family members. But it was important enough to leave the theater to call back?
I spin around in my seat, and Hailey catches my gaze. She looks just as confused, and she nods toward the doors like go.
After setting my popcorn tub on the floor and wiping kernels off my lap, I leave the theater. It takes a second to find Jake, sitting on a bench outside the bathrooms. He’s texting, and when he sees me, he slips his phone in his pocket.
“You didn’t have to come out here,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I know you were looking forward to the movie.”
I sit down beside him. “It’s okay. I’ve seen it before, remember?” Eleven times. “Who was that?”
“No one, really.”
My brows rise. “ ‘Chiquitita’ was the ringtone.”
He stares at me. “So?”
“So . . .” How can he not be following? “I’ve only heard power hate ballads come out of your cell. Who’s special enough to get that song?”
He laughs, but it’s weak. “You’re going to think I’m a rich prick.”
“Newsflash, Jake, I already think that.”
He takes a breath. “It was my broker. Probably the only decent person in my life.” He seems genuine, but I haven’t been in town with my best A game. I haven’t zeroed in on his tells yet.
I don’t like that I can’t discern if he’s lying or not.
It’s not good. Especially if he’s my fake boyfriend. That’s what made Rocky and me always work: I knew where the con was at all times. Here, I’m just in the dark.
Twenty-Eight
Rocky
“Trouble in fake paradise already?” I grin. I shouldn’t gloat, but I’m not one to turn away the chance. Not when it comes to Phoebe.
She stands at the edge of the dock, while I’m up high on my boat. Hammer in hand. No shirt. Threw that off an hour ago during the middle of demoing the galley’s cabinets.
Beads of sweat drip down my chest that have momentarily distracted Phoebe’s attention. I grin wider and add, “Fake cheating on your fake boyfriend already?”
Her scowl returns to my eyes. “Staring at your ugly chest is not cheating.” Her face flushes. “And stop using the word fake.”
“Why?” I question. “You love that word.”
She growls under her breath. “Just . . . help me.” She returns to what she said when she first walked up to the sailboat. “I don’t trust Jake.”
“I never trusted him,” I say. “Nothing has changed.”
“You don’t trust anyone.”
“I trust you. I trust my sister. My brother. Nova. Oliver. That’s a big number of people.”
“Five. That’s the same amount as a pack of gum,” she refutes.
I open my hand out to her like she made my point. “The perfect amount.”
She exhales a frustrated noise. “We don’t need to worry about your trust issues. You don’t have to trust him, but he’s cagier than I realized. I feel like he’s hiding something.” She tells me about the phone call at the movie theater and the ringtone.
I flip my hammer, thinking and glaring out at the sun-reflected water. “What if he’s a mole?”
She frowns. “For who?”
My muscles contract in tensed bands, and she slowly shakes her head.
“No,” she says. “Our parents aren’t spying on us.”
“He could be one of their connections, here to feed information back to them,” I say. “It makes sense.”
“It makes zero sense,” Phoebe says. “One: they trust us . . .” She shifts uneasily, neck reddening remembering the truth about me confessing my teenage crush to my dad. “At least, I think our moms do.”