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)
Happy.
“I don’t get it,” Trevor breathes. “Why is the zone so big?”
“Because of Mystic Pizza,” Hailey says just as quietly.
Trevor twists his head to her. “Wait, we’re not having fun because of your obsession with a Julia Roberts movie?”
It’s more than that. I know it is.
But I never learned what happened in Carlsbad, so I just keep my mouth shut with unanswered questions.
“It’s not an obsession,” Hailey says. “It’s a fascination.”
“Those are synonyms,” Trevor tells her, but they share a small smile, almost like a hello and I missed you.
Just then, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Digging it out, I recognize Victoria’s area code. I answer on the second ring.
“Hello?” Please don’t be my father.
“Rocky,” Jake says hurriedly.
I frown, glancing down at the festival again. I search for Jake, but he’s not at the fountain. Phoebe. I don’t see her. I only find Nova canvassing the crowds and coming up short.
I’m about to ask where she is, but he speaks first.
He tells me, “I need your help.”
Thirty-Two
Rocky
It’s not an easy stroll down the sidewalk. I drive several miles out of the center of town to a gated property on fifteen acres of land. Along with the address, Jake texted me one thing.
Jake: Meet me at the stables
I called Phoebe right after that text. “I think he’s sincere,” she said.
“He’s sincerely shady,” I refuted. “He might as well have told me to meet him behind the dumpster or out in the middle of the woods. You’ve seen enough horror movies to know how this shit goes down.”
“He wants this fake dating thing with me to work out and that means being nicer to you.”
“Being nice doesn’t involve asking me for help, Phebs.”
“But admitting he needs your help for something is an olive branch. Major white flag territory. And anyway, we’re more dangerous than him.”
Her last statement was what changed things for me. She wasn’t wrong. I’m the con artist, and if Jake had a manipulative bone in his body—he wasn’t using it well.
She added, “This is the perfect opportunity for you to figure out why he’s being so shady. Go with it. Keep your phone on. Text me if you run into trouble.”
I smiled, feeling like this was a mini-job. Back to our old ways.
Now, I’m parking my sleek black McLaren in front of a large horse stable. No other person in sight. But the security guard at the gate let me in, so Jake should know I’m here by now.
I lean against the hood of the car and take out my phone, a second away from texting Phoebe about how this feels like a setup. Maybe he does work for our parents. Jesus, that thought wreaks havoc in my head.
A chill whips through the air, and the sound of crunching gravel stops me from typing. A blue Porsche approaches and slows to a park next to me. Jake exits and zips up his navy windbreaker, his gaze heavy on me.
“Thanks for coming.”
I smile dryly. “Coming is only enjoyable when I understand why I’m getting fucked.”
“You’re not getting fucked, Rocky.” He takes a tensed breath, stress clear in every microscopic movement he’s making. Down to the shifting of his polished loafers.
“Okay.” I hold out my hands wide. “Then what am I doing here?”
“Let me just show you . . .” Worries cinch his brows, like he thinks I’m going to jump in my car and make a quick exit.
But I’ve made it this far. There’s no reason for me to hightail it out. No offense to Jake, but he’s not that fucking scary.
“All right.” I follow him to the stable. The closer I get, the more I realize how giant this place really is. Off in the distance, I spot an enclosed riding arena where a horse trots with an older man. Another area has obstacles for equestrian events.
Inside the stable, I count twenty stalls. All are full except the one at the very end.
Jake brings me to a middle stall where a chestnut horse stands poised. The animal has a blaze: a white marking along its forehead and down the bridge of its face. The name Bowie is carved on a wooden sign. I tilt my head and scan beneath its torso. Male.
I scrutinize the animal quickly. It’s been a while since my mom quizzed me on horse breeds, but I just round out a guess. “Warmblood?” I ask.
Jake narrows his eyes on me. “You know horses?”
“Just a little bit. I took some riding lessons when I was younger, but I didn’t love it.” That’s all truth. I give Bowie another once-over. Horses, I don’t like. Most animals, I don’t like. I can trick them. Deceive them. But it takes more effort than deceiving a human.
Oliver has always been the best with animals.
Jake stares harder at the horse, a sadness washing over him. And then I remember something—a phone call I overheard months ago. My first day at the country club, he was arguing with someone about selling the horse.