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)
“You don’t think they’re suspicious of this random job in Connecticut? Where none of us have confirmed what it entails. Who the marks might be. Nothing.”
Phoebe wavers, then shakes her head. “If they trust us, they wouldn’t be too suspicious. We’re being vague to protect ourselves. They’d understand that.”
“My dad has been fishing for details,” I tell her, and I wish I could lump my mom and Elizabeth in with him, but they’ve been largely uncommunicative.
“Have our moms?” she wonders.
I glower and flip my hammer again.
She smiles, her trust in them resurrecting, and I’d never use every tactic in my arsenal to sway Phoebe to hate them. If I did that, I’d be no different than our parents, so I accept her sunny viewpoint while I’m sitting alone in my dark one.
Phoebe gestures to me. “Just think about this, Rocky. They’d have nothing to gain by spying on us.” She adds, “We are on the same team.”
I wipe sweat off my brow with my bicep. Maybe . . . I don’t know.
All my instincts tell me they’re involved somehow. Could this be the first time I have the ability to get actual proof of their manipulation?
Phoebe shifts her hips, impatient. “You want to do a trade-off? I’ll fix whatever needs fixed in your boat, and in return, you can help me figure out what Jake might be hiding.”
“You’re not fixing my boat.”
“I’m good with my hands.” She didn’t mean for that to be a come-on, and her glare skewers me. “I’m good with tools.”
“Great. You’re not getting near mine.”
Her gaze drops to my crotch.
Blood runs south, pumping through the veins of my shaft. “I was referring to my hammer, not my cock.”
“You went there,” she accuses.
“Fucking A, Phoebe.” I groan, just frustrated. Constantly. “Look, I know you could help me fix the boat, but I don’t want your help. I need this.” It’s my outlet. My thing.
She throws up her hands. “Then what do you want, Rocky?”
I can’t even look at her because the answer is right there. I adjust my grip on the hammer, rotating the hilt. “I don’t need anything in return.” I set the hammer down and grab my leather jacket. “I’ll help.”
She expels a breath of relief. “Thank you.”
“Where is Jake, anyway?”
“You can’t confront him right now,” Phoebe says, wide-eyed. “We have to plot. Make a plan. You don’t want him suspicious.”
She’s right. “Let’s call Hailey.”
* * *
• • •
Town streets have closed for Victoria’s annual Harvest Festival.
Vendors are set up along the cobblestone, selling warm apple cider, lobster mac and cheese, fresh oysters, and other fall staples. A local band plays somewhat-decent cover songs in the middle of the square, and the pumpkin carving stations contain more adults than children since a cash prize for Best Pumpkin Art is at stake.
Small-town normalcies.
Not here, Hailey has already warned me against confronting Jake at the festival.
I attempt to be interested in connecting two blue pieces of candy on my phone, but while I’m staring at Jake and Phoebe—sipping their apple ciders beside the town’s fountain, laughing and chatting like a happy couple—the timer runs out.
Shit.
With a tight breath, I shove my phone in my pocket.
My sister is elbow deep in a pumpkin at our table. I haven’t seen Hailey smile this much in years. She’s already drawn the outline of the Bride of Frankenstein on the pumpkin with a Sharpie, a blueprint for carving. I’m happy that my sister is happy, and I wish I could somehow bottle the essence. Preserve it for her.
But I’m useless on that front. I can’t shield her from our parents if they show up. Not completely, at least.
I scoop some seeds and guts from my pumpkin and slap them in the garbage can beside our table. Hacking at this thing with a knife might make me feel better.
I look over at the fountain again.
Phoebe smiles into a fuller laugh at whatever Jake said. He gesticulates with his hand, the one without the apple cider, as if telling a story, and he tries to contain a laugh of his own.
Every muscle in my body twitches.
“The more you stare, the more people notice,” Hailey whispers to me, casting a furtive glance to Phoebe, then back to me.
“I don’t care,” I mutter, wiping the pumpkin guts off my hands and onto a towel. “I’m her ex-husband. I can be jealous.”
I am jealous.
Locals and caufers (still hate it) meander around the street, partaking in the festivities. And the handfuls of faces I recognize from the country club—I ignore.
Hailey wipes the gooey residue off the pumpkin’s skin, just as Oliver strolls over with a tray of coffee and says, “A little early for Halloween to be wearing your costumes, isn’t it?” He looks from me to her. “Doom and Gloom.”
Hailey lifts her carving knife. “I’m actually happy.”