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)
Never say no.
I am a yes-man in his presence.
Yes, I will surely take the shot ski with you.
Yes, I think that snowboarder looks hot.
Yes, we can go on the black diamond again…and again.
Yes, you should definitely ask out the ski-lift operator and her friend.
Yes, I’ll watch the threesome.
My brain is on fire. Trent’s head only has room for three thoughts. Drinking. Fucking. Money. And let’s be clear, it’s not how to make money. He’s just finding new and creative ways to spend it.
My muscles ache from the slopes as I shed my winter coat and toss it on the king-sized bed. Clock on the bedside table reads one a.m., and my brain thumps from the Macallan that Trent likes to drink before lights-out. Yes, I’ll have a nightcap with you.
I groan as I kick off my boots. I’ve barely seen Phoebe since we arrived five days ago. Trent took a different private jet, stating he needed some peace and quiet for the ride to concentrate on “work,” but he invited only me.
He slept the whole flight.
Customs was a breeze. It always is, but I still hated that Phoebe had to go through it without me.
Oliver was there, though. Along with Collin Falcone—Trent’s former best friend who would’ve been invited on his jet, had I not taken his place. Collin is still living his frat-house glory days, which Trent thinks is both amusing and pathetic.
Collin is too coked up most of the time to really give a shit.
When I told Oliver to look out for Phoebe, he said, “She’s my sister. What else would I do?” I was still holding my breath.
He saw and said, “I’ll be careful.” Oliver’s go-to phrase holds about as much weight as a paper airplane.
He makes me nervous when we fly. He’s a showman, and you don’t want to be anything but invisible in a fucking international terminal.
Even if we’re led to a private jet on a private runway.
At least she was with Jake. I grimace at my own thoughts. Does he count as part of the team?
Maybe.
I roll my eyes and take out my phone, wondering if she’s even awake. Jake and Phoebe spend most of their time hanging around the chalet and reading books like this is a rest-and-relaxation retreat.
I’m not lying to myself—I am jealous.
I’d rather be doing anything else on my holiday than entertaining Trent Waterford, but I’d also be kicking myself if I brushed off his invite. I have to be here. Close enough to protect Phoebe and close enough to keep myself in Trent’s good graces. I have to do the hard fucking thing.
It’s Christmas Eve.
This can’t be all bad. Maybe I can sneak into Phoebe’s room. Kick Jake out. It all makes sense in my head as I send her a text. You awake?
She’s quick to reply.
Phoebe: Outside. Hot tub.
I want to ask if she’s alone. But I don’t. It wouldn’t matter. Every ounce of my body wants to go to her. Be with her.
I put my boots back on, quickly tying the laces, and when I’m down on the first floor, I realize I forgot my coat. The cold winter air chills my exposed flesh, and I follow the gray slated walkway to the back of the chalet.
Lights twinkle in the distance, down the ridgeline where hundreds of smaller chalets nestle close together by the village. Up here, we’re alone. Wind howls through the foothills, and I avoid deep breaths, not wanting to wake tomorrow with a sandpapered throat from the dry, frigid air.
Three more steps, and I hear soft, muffled voices.
My disposition plummets down the fucking mountain. Great. She’s not alone. Another night third wheeling to Phoebe and her fake boyfriend. Love this for me.
Two more steps, and I stop suddenly, her voice now crystal clear.
“You should really go inside,” Phoebe snaps. “Your brother will hate that you’re out here.”
Laughter. He’s laughing. And I know it’s not Jake. I know it before I even hear Trent’s smarmy voice. “See, Phoebe, brothers are a special breed. Jake knows what’s his is mine. It’s been that way since we were kids playing with Hot Wheels.”
Razor-sharp adrenaline slices through my veins as I hightail it around the corner. I stumble into view like I’m tipsy from the Macallan just as Phoebe says, “I’m not a fucking toy.”
Heat gathers in her brown eyes. Heat that smolders like a furnace inside me. Stoking my frustrations and anger.
Trent swings his head in my direction, and I push it all down…and down…and down.
I’m drunk. So it appears. I hang on to the nearest object, which happens to be a gas-lantern lamppost. “Grey.” Trent smiles, but it’s tighter than usual. He’s annoyed at me.
I haven’t been invited into this moment. I am unwelcome.
That gnaws at me in a deeper way, especially as I see Phoebe’s back glued to the edge of the hot tub, like she’s physically repulsed by him.