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)
“Right, but before you leave, I think you should know something.” Her voice is shaky and hushed. “He’s aware you two are together.”
“Wait, me and Rocky?” Phoebe tries to stay calm, but her eyes grow. “Together like…”
“Romantically together, bug.”
My brain is a screeching car crash. “Excuse me?” I shift my weight, glaring at the phone in my girlfriend’s hand, then out at the alley’s entrance.
Phoebe goes motionless. “How does he know?”
“It doesn’t matter—”
“It does matter.” She presses for more from her mom. I like this new side of Phoebe. The one that won’t take scraps or vague responses from the godmothers.
“He assumed based on how often Rocky has spent the night at your loft and how often you’ve spent the night at his boathouse. He’s been watching you, and he’s noticed that the two of you were almost always together in various situations. Pair that with your backstories of being divorcees—it reminded him of what we would do.”
“We?” Phoebe asks.
“Me and him.”
I’m not Varrick, but I can’t say it. Because I don’t know him—other than he’s capable of murder. And that is in me, but I can control my fury. I swim inside it every fucking day and night, and you don’t see me on a killing spree.
I rub my mouth as bile scorches my throat. He knows I love Phoebe. Could he use this against me? Would he? She’s his daughter. For the first time, I’m hoping that means something sentimental to him.
At least we have some information going into Stonehaven. We’re not five steps behind.
Phoebe must be thinking the same thing. “Thanks for letting us know.”
“Rocky,” Elizabeth says with strain, “look out for my bug, please.”
I swallow a knot and give a dry response: “I don’t know how to do anything else, Elizabeth.”
ELEVEN
Rocky
Waiting in a heinously long line outside for ice cream, I contemplate putting my arm around Phoebe. To feel her lean into me. She’s jutting out a hip toward me, like she wants to, but she might be thinking, It’s too soon.
Too soon to go public.
Too soon to risk cheating rumors spreading throughout town. I know that would hurt Phebs. Being deemed a cheater in a place that’s supposed to be her permanent life.
“What are you thinking about?” Phoebe wonders, keeping her voice quiet as the line grows and we barely inch forward.
“You.”
She weaves her arms together. “In what context?”
“How you’re loyal to the people you love.” I hold her blistering gaze. “You’d even sacrifice yourself for the sake of my sister. That’s what scares me. Your literal, insane interpretation of ‘ride or die.’ ”
“Not that literal.”
“Pretty literal.”
“It’s just called being a good friend,” Phoebe reasons. “And Hailey did all this”—she waves around town to emphasize the move here, defying our parents, quitting all they’ve known—“for me. Not the other way around.”
I speak under my breath. “Did you come here for her or because you wanted to be here?”
Phoebe goes quiet.
I lift my brows. “Point made.”
“She came here for me, too, so that makes us both willing to do what’s best for the other person.”
“Well, now I’m so very reassured,” I say dryly.
Children squeal as they race around lampposts with chocolate-smeared cheeks and half-eaten waffle cones, drawing our gazes to them. Phoebe has a faraway focus. I skim her features.
“Do you want kids?” I ask her.
Her head jerks to me. “Where is that coming from?”
I give her an intrusive look. “Kids. You. Staring. Duh.”
She makes a scrunched face. “I remember the caveman talk is why I divorced you.”
“Funny.” I look her over, feeling her dodging the topic. “I suddenly remember you being allergic to ‘future talk’ is why I divorced you.”
She snorts, but then winces a little in real hurt.
“I’m joking, Phebs,” I whisper.
“Yeah, I know.” Does she? Phoebe looks deeper into my eyes. “I don’t know what I want for breakfast tomorrow, you think I’ve thought about procreating?” She doesn’t give me a chance to respond as she quickly asks, “Do you want kids?” She searches my face like I did hers.
I don’t want to influence Phoebe by answering. I hate that I worry I will. I raise my shoulders, and she lifts hers back in a similar constricted shrug.
Yeah.
We drop it.
“What flavor are you getting?” she asks while canvassing the street, left and right. Everywhere the kids aren’t. “Let me guess. Rocky Road.”
Fucking really. “Let me guess, you’re getting strawberry.”
“Salted caramel. Which I already told you.” Her grin briefly meets me. “Look who’s the bad listener.”
“I was too busy reading your body to hear your lies.”
Her mouth forms a cute scowl. “I am getting salted caramel.” She gives my chest a light shove.
I hardly budge. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Then watch and believe…” She trails off, gaze caught on something behind us. Across the street. She squints at the entrance to Gulp Seafood & Lounge. The door is propped open, and a twentysomething bouncer texts lazily on his phone.