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 slips her a smile. “Doom and Raccoon, then.” He’s referring to her heavy black eye shadow.
“Procyon lotor.” She lines up her pumpkin and crouches to inspect a smudged Sharpie line. “It’s the binomial name of a raccoon.”
He intakes a breath. “I love a cute Procyon lotor.”
My jaw hardens. Jake’s laughter is real, genuine. I can tell, even from this far away, and yeah, it bothers me that he’s not fake laughing and fake smiling on the outside and for real cringing on the inside.
“Their life expectancy in the wild is only one to three years,” Hailey tells him.
“Which one are you, domesticated or wild?” Oliver asks, and it’s hard to tune in to their conversation while I’m watching Jake tell his story. I bet it’s riveting.
“Domesticated, unfortunately.”
Oliver replies in fluent Dutch, which cuts my gaze to him in warning. He tips his head to me like I’m being unnecessarily paranoid, but him knowing Dutch and being related to Phoebe—people will start asking deeper questions.
Where are the Smiths from?
How do you know so many languages?
Does Phoebe?
Where are your parents?
Who are your parents?
“No one heard.” He’s quiet while people stroll past us with warm donuts. “And anyway, if they did, I’m the world traveler of the family.” He’ll have to be. He lifts a coffee out of the tray. “A cinnamon latte macchiato for the Procyon lotor.” He hands it to my sister.
“Thanks, Olly.” She takes the cup and inspects her pumpkin.
“Diabetes in a cup for you.” He passes me my chocolate chip mocha iced frappé and keeps the black drip coffee for himself.
I force a smile. “You need to go to a dentist, man. Make sure someone didn’t pull out your sweet tooth at birth.”
“Spending an extra hour at the gym just to work off a milkshake—not an enjoyment of mine, Grey Thornhall.” He sips his black coffee.
I’d say Oliver is too concerned about his appearance, but we’ve all been drilled from a young age to ensure we appear a certain way. Fitting into what society deems “attractive” has been an unspoken rule.
Blowing steam off at a gym is one of the few things that keeps me sane. So I don’t mind lifting weights or playing tennis at the club. I can even kill two birds with one stone since they’re all social things that help me establish relationships in town.
“Where’s your brother?” I ask him.
“Loading up on oysters.”
A light wind rattles the trees, and when an orange leaf catches on Phoebe’s pink sweater, I think I’m in a new circle of hell.
Jake inches forward and plucks it off her.
“He’s touching her hair now?”
“She had a leaf in her hair, too,” Hailey says, observing the scene with me. As is Oliver.
“The classic WB drama,” Oliver muses, “the upstanding gentleman and the man-whore are fighting over the new girl in town. While her charming older brother stands off to the side and tells you”—he turns to me—“that Jake invited my sister to have dinner with his parents.”
I glare. “I know. Thank you and fuck you.”
“Guess I don’t need to ask how that’s making you feel,” Oliver says in his therapist tone.
The “dinner with the Konings” reminder is more gasoline on the fire raging inside me. Luckily, Phoebe already kept me in the loop.
It’s pretend, Phoebe assured.
She also told me that the more time she spends with Jake, the better. The closer she’ll come to uncovering whatever he’s hiding.
I’m fixated on the fountain. Them. Jake slips a piece of blue hair that escaped her pony back behind her ear, and I can’t stand here any longer.
“Rocky, don’t,” Hailey whispers as I push off in the direction of the happy new fake couple.
Twenty-Nine
Rocky
Hailey and Oliver don’t follow, and as I approach Jake and Phoebe alone, I sense heads swerving and eyes rerouting to me. Whispers trail after my dark presence as I cut through the street in a diagonal to reach the fountain.
Jake looks unamused when I come to a stop. He sips his apple cider stiffly. “Enjoying the festival?”
“Not really.” I take a bitter sip of my overly sweet coffee.
Phoebe watches the gossipy audience with caution and uncertainty. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this here.”
“Do what? We’re just talking,” I say to Phoebe, but I haven’t broken Jake’s challenging stare.
Skin pinches between his eyes as he feigns confusion. “What’d you say before in the locker room? I think the words were I’m not interested in her. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
“Not wrong.”
I’m more interested in you at the moment and what you’re hiding.
His face sobers. “Then what are you doing here?”
Phoebe is shielding her eyes with her hand. There must be a gaggle of people behind me invested in the outcome of this “fake” romantic rivalry. Are pieces real? I can’t see whether Jake truly is catching feelings or if he’s just starting to care about Phoebe’s well-being.