Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 145038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
“Your brothers still live with me.”
I give him a weird look. “Your sister and brother live with me.” I motion toward the short hallway where the bedrooms lie. “They’re right there.”
He whispers back, “Neither of which will punch me in the face if they catch me hooking up with you.”
“You’re scared of Nova?” My oldest brother has never gelled with Rocky, but they buried a small hatchet during Halloween. They’re very much on the same can’t-trust-our-parents side now.
Surprisingly, we all are.
Rocky fishes his belt through the loops. “I’m not scared. I just don’t want a black eye.”
“Understandable.”
Nova and Rocky have brawled over less.
Once we’re fully dressed as if nothing indecent just occurred, he comes closer when he sees me rubbing at my sore arms. Rocky massages my biceps and forearm with careful pressure, and my heart flip-flops in new patterns.
He’s been kind to me after many jobs before. He’s wrapped his arms so fiercely around me, hugging me for minutes on end. I fell deeply into those death-gripping seconds with him. I believed he needed the embrace, too.
I sensed him feeling how I was in one piece. I sensed him trying to hold us together. To physically feel that we made it through that city, that moment, that con.
But tonight is different. This isn’t about the end of a job.
A real relationship. Me and Rocky. Yep, it’s still dawning on me that this is happening.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
Quietly, he asks, “Have you eaten anything today?”
“Not that much. You?”
“I could eat.”
So I whirl around to open the fridge. Behind me, Rocky weaves his arms around my frame, and on pure instinct, I lean my weight against his body, knowing he’ll hold me tighter. He does. When he plants a kiss to my hair, a stupid smile spreads across my face.
“I didn’t realize you and my sister are living off of…pickles and string cheese?” The shelves are mostly bare, except for a handful of quick snack foods.
“I take offense that you’re outing my string cheese. It’s nutritious and fun.”
“For a four-year-old.”
Smile gone. “For a twenty-four-year-old. And who made you the string cheese police?” I rotate on him, almost wishing I didn’t because his arms drop off me.
“You, apparently.” He sweeps me with a dark yet caring look that skips my pulse, then his brows do this deep, concerned furrow at the barren state of my refrigerator.
“Groceries are expensive,” I remind him.
“Still penny-pinching?” He says it like it’s dumb since I have the tools to trick people into giving me money. But Rocky also isn’t actively roping me into rejoining a life of deceit. Technically, I haven’t really left since I’ve been fake dating Jake.
Deciding what I want to do with my life feels a lot less critically important than figuring out what our parents have hidden from us. Even if Hails orchestrated this move to Victoria so I’d stop grifting, I don’t feel in a rush to quit cold turkey.
I’m just taking everything day by day.
“I know it makes zero sense to you, Rocky, but I haven’t hated being a server.”
“What do you like about it? Seeing as how you’re not in it for the money.”
I shrug. “I’m more myself there than I’ve ever been…anywhere, and when it does suck, I can commiserate with Hailey. Plus, it can be entertaining. I get to see the nucleus of the town drama.”
“You’re in the nucleus, Phebs.” He reaches around me to open a fridge drawer. Empty. “Is this really a product of lack of money or because you can’t cook?”
“I can cook.”
“Microwaved mac ’n’ cheese doesn’t count.”
“Then you can’t cook either,” I say, sounding hostile.
All of us were taught to order food at five-star establishments, not consult a recipe to make it ourselves. Oliver is the only one who’s gone out of his way to learn how to properly sauté a scallop and make hollandaise.
And that’s because he was a sous chef for three weeks.
“Yeah, I can’t cook,” Rocky says roughly, “but I’m the one eating rib eyes from James Beard Award–winning chefs. What are you doing?”
“Thriving.”
He laughs.
I glare. “I hope you choke on those hockey pucks, by the way.” Okay, yes, the award-winning chef isn’t serving charred meat. I’ve smelled those perfectly seared steaks on scoops of garlic mashed potatoes, and my mouth has watered serving them to this old biddy named Margaret at the country club.
“Not hockey pucks. They’re never overcooked. Always rare. Bloody.” He tips his head to the side. “Just how you like it—since you were, what? Fourteen?”
I flush. “Maybe.”
“Maybe.” He gives me an exposing once-over. “You copied me.”
“What?” I balk.
“I ordered a prime rib so bloody at Spear & Knife in Dallas that it was practically raw, and after that, you kept ordering your steak the same way.” We were teenagers. He’s unearthing ancient fucking history.
I scoff. “Coincidence.”
“You’re beet red.”
“Out of anger.” Truth: I’m embarrassed because I might have, maybe, learned to order my steak the same way as Rocky, and this shouldn’t even be something mortifying. So what? Except, I don’t want him to think I was an impressionable youth, and he made such a big impression on me.