Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Really, I think she stole seven hearts that night.
I gasp. “Were you hiding there this whole time?”
“Uh-huh.” She nods robustly and rocks on her feet.
“What a terrific hider you are, little miss. Your mommy will be so happy to know.”
She presses her tongue against her tiny baby teeth in a cheek-dimpling smile, her shoulders rising a little bashfully. It reminds me of Hails.
“Auntie Phoebe.” She enunciates very well for not even being three yet. “You hide now,” she says, but goes and scurries back behind the curtain with a giggle.
“You ready?” Rocky saunters in, slipping his phone in his back pocket. “The nine-a.m. tour group is one room over.”
Shit. “Did you get the thing resolved?”
“The thing,” he whispers, like I’m understating this. “You mean the tourist who pissed in my great-grandmother’s vase?”
“Yeah, that thing.” The caretaker called us and said there was a “situation” from a tour group last night. I thought we were going to show up to something far worse. Like a busted pipe leaking through the walls. Or stolen trinkets, like the Sèvres porcelain or bronze wolf figurines.
Instead, it was the mysterious case of the pissing tourist. Which is extra funny, because out-of-towners are called “skunks.”
“Really putting skunk in skunk,” I tell Rocky now.
That makes him smile. “It’s resolved.”
“Yippee—”
“Where is she?” he cuts me off, instant I will go to war levels of defense in his voice. And Rocky says Jake is the Arthurian knight.
“I think she went up the chimney. Pulled a reverse Santa.”
“Funny.” Rocky nods to me a couple times, relaxing as he sees her little combat boots beneath the curtain. “How long have you been working on that one?”
“You get my on-the-fly material.”
“It fucking shows,” he whispers lowly.
I flip him off subtly at my side.
“And if you’ll all just pool right in here.” Susie, a college student and one of our excellent tour guides, directs a group of ten inside. “This is where the Wolfe family would gather, especially during stormy days when boating to town would guarantee seasickness to even the most experienced sailors.”
I take one step to collect my niece when she decides to spring out and proudly yell, “Boo!”
Tourists laugh, some clap, and she giggles, swaying side to side. Her lack of stranger danger drives Rocky out of his mind.
He scoops her up fast.
“Oh dear, her eyes,” a lady says. “They’re stunning.” This is the fourth eye compliment and it’s not even ten a.m. yet.
“Thank you,” the toddler says very clearly, her shoulders lifting again. She shies away with a little giggle-smile into Rocky’s chest. Too precious. Will easily murder for. Thankfully none of us have ever had to.
“These are the owners of Stonehaven,” Susie says, introducing us. “Grey Thornhall and Phoebe Thornhall. They’re the reason the public can venture inside this historic home and truly appreciate its significant part of Victoria’s rich history.”
Rocky didn’t do it for the kudos. He’ll say he did it for the money. But he’s not pocketing a dime. All proceeds from Stonehaven tours go back to the town.
I think he did it for them.
I glance over at the humongous oil painting hanging over the fireplace mantel of his brothers squished on a couch and his parents on either side and his mother holding him in her arms. No longer hidden in a musty secret room under a canvas tarp, but alive for all to know, for all to see.
“We appreciate you all coming out,” I tell them. But we have to go. I must not evoke enough hurriedness.
An older woman acknowledges the toddler perched in Rocky’s arm. “And who’s this little adorable girl?”
“Hi,” she greets cheerfully with a wave, no hesitation. “I’m Winter.”
I try not to panic because her name is Winter. She’s allowed to introduce herself. There is nothing wrong, but we were told as kids to never tell anyone our names. Even when asked. Because our parents were afraid we’d give someone the wrong one.
When we leave the mansion and board the speedboat, I’m a little shaken by the interaction. My pulse hasn’t calmed down.
“Phebs?” Rocky bends toward me with a toddler life jacket.
I’m seated in the copilot’s chair. Winter on my lap, humming to herself.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, trying not to appear freaked out. Last thing I need is for Winter to sense she did anything wrong.
She did everything right.
I hold her securely.
“She’s safe,” Rocky whispers to me, fitting her little arms through the life jacket. She has on a black-striped tee with embroidered red strawberries.
Hails said she’s been on a strawberry kick all summer because “Auntie Phoebe wears ’em and I wanna, too!”
I crinkle my nose to stop from getting emotional.
She’s safe.
“Uncle Rocky, no,” Winter whines as he buckles the vest tight. She tries to pinch at the clasps, but it’s too tough for her tiny fingers. “Unbuckle. Unbuckle.” Her brows crease, a panicked look in her eyes.