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)
“No.” She glares. “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to Valentina. Just want to give you some advice about this one.” She jabs a thumb at me.
Val looks more curious. “Ohhkay. What about Grey?”
Phoebe steals the whiskey out of my hand. “He has a massive penis.”
Val nearly chokes on her mixed drink. “Oh my God.” Her eyes widen up to me.
I stare unblinkingly at Phoebe. She has seen my dick before (not an unfortunate fact, but one I should regret), and if this is her attempt at cockblocking me, she’s swerving into a wall.
“Classy as fuck,” I tell Phoebe.
“Again, not talking to you.” Phoebe is on a mission.
I shake my head, and I try to shadow a smile that twitches. I steal my whiskey back before she takes a sip, and I swallow more.
“Massive penis,” Phoebe repeats, “but—”
“Always a but,” I jump in.
Phoebe is annoyed, and I’m loving pissing her off as much as she’s been aggravating me. “But,” she emphasizes, “you know what they say. Size doesn’t always matter. Not when you don’t know how to use it.”
I lift my whiskey to my mouth. “Sounds like a you problem.”
“It was a you problem,” she lies.
We’ve never had sex.
She wants to fabricate a sex life we’ve never had? Fine. I can play this game better. “See, that’s not what you told our marriage counselor. You said, and I quote, ‘The sex was never the problem.’ ”
Her cheeks turn rosy, but she continues to acknowledge Val. “I just want you to be aware of what you’re getting yourself into.”
“You never could handle me in bed,” I tell Phoebe, and instantly, I regret the lie.
Her gaze snaps to me in hurt. Real hurt. “You never gave me the chance.” Her voice is stinging.
I couldn’t.
We can’t.
I push a hot hand through my hair.
Val shifts her weight, noticeably uncomfortable and confused. What Phoebe said to me makes no sense in our fake marriage. “I should let you two talk this out.” She waits for me to say, No, stay.
But I don’t.
I let Val go, and once she’s out of earshot, I swallow more whiskey. “Putting on a master class in bitchery?”
“Bitchery. Assholery.” She steals the whiskey out of my hand again. “I’ve learned from the best.” She downs the last drop.
“Thanks for the compliment,” I say dryly.
“Phoebe!” Archer calls out to her, and as she whirls around to follow the voice, I leave the bar and match her stride.
Nineteen
Rocky
Phoebe tries to cold-shoulder me. “Sorry, Archer. You still want to go somewhere quiet?”
He assesses me—Grey Thornhall, territorial ex-husband with zero fucks to give. Being this openly destructive in a new town is almost cathartic.
I stare right through him with the darkest, most scathing glare.
“Rocky,” Phoebe whispers between her teeth.
I haven’t said a word to him.
Archer wavers with an uneasy smile. “Actually, I have somewhere to be. Maybe another time, Phoebe.” With that, he makes a quick exit.
Phoebe spins on me. “Are you serious? Why do you have to be the living embodiment of ‘fuck around and find out’ right now?”
“I’m being myself,” I tell her, scoping out the drunken college students. People are watching us. “Isn’t that what you want me to do?”
She growls, huffs, and storms into a pit of dancing students. For the next forty-five minutes, we keep the closest tabs on each other. We splice conversations and rip through any unfamiliar hands. When a dripping wet, half-naked Collin tries to grind on Phoebe, I intervene.
When Sidney leers close, Phoebe is the natural disaster no one wants to be around except me. I’m swept inside her chaotic sphere that matches my own.
We both aren’t stagnant, still people. We’re fueled by tankers of gasoline. Made to endure and keep going beyond exhaustion, and we don’t stop.
We never fucking stop.
Not in the living room. Not on the roof. Not down below where the boats are stored. She chats with Rachel Rawlings inside the wooden Venetian boat tied to the dock. It ends as soon as I appear. Just like Damian Bennett’s short-lived proposition to blow me ends with Phoebe’s demonic glare.
We’re some of the most sober at this party, and too many people are singing and slurring Justin Timberlake’s “Cry Me a River” at the top of their lungs to notice our cockblocking war.
We aren’t doing this to stop the other from winning the deal. I’ve never been in the market to fool myself.
I’m doing this because I don’t want Phoebe to fuck someone else.
Plain, simple, and petty.
Her reasoning is the exact same. Trust me. (You should by now.)
The drunker the party, the more time it’s taking to cut through sloppy hands—and I can’t take it for much longer. Since I’m older than her, I try to take the high, mature road and find the brake pedal first.
Seizing Phoebe’s hand, I pull her swiftly into the bathroom and lock the door.