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)
“Julia, who by the way,” I add with heat, “isn’t much younger than Phoebe.”
“Phoebe acts—”
“I swear to God if you say older, I’m hanging up on you.”
“I was going to say more mature,” Jake retorts. “Phoebe has clearly dealt with more in her life than most people her age.”
I clench my jaw. “You mean she’s had to deal with me.”
“A marriage and a divorce aren’t little things,” Jake reasons, like it wasn’t a personal slight. “And you’re not the easiest person to get along with. And still, she’s choosing you for whatever reason, and I’m not asking you two to split up.”
“What am I supposed to do?” I hiss into the phone. “Let you fake kiss my wife? You want to fake fuck her, too?”
“I…” His sigh turns into a frustrated noise. “Look, we can work out those details.”
I drop the basket so I can pinch my eyes. I wish he were here so I could punch him in the face. “How do I know this isn’t your way of convincing Phoebe she’s better off with you?”
“It’s not like that, Grey. I promise, I’m not trying to be with her for real or to win her over. I just need her help.”
I shake my head a few times. This isn’t happening. I partially believe he doesn’t really want Phoebe—only because I have enough dirt on Jake to sink him deeper than the Titanic. So he’d have to be head over heels, foolishly in love with her to risk lying to me right now.
And I don’t think he’s in love with Phoebe—or else he’d be the one trying to protect her from his family. “I heard you,” I say. “I listened to you. And the answer is still fuck no.”
The line goes quiet, and I frown at a box of Trojans. My ears catch muffled noises over the phone. Someone is with him.
“This conversation is over,” I tell him, about to hang up.
“No, wait. I’m still here,” Jake says with a heavy breath. “Your ex-wife just dragged me into a closet with her.”
My muscles contract in tensed bands.
At least Phoebe understands the importance of privacy, but I remember being crammed in the country club’s storage closet with her. I remember pulling her hair and the hitch of her hot breath up against my skin. I remember wanting to thrust my cock inside her so badly, I could’ve wished upon every star for the ability to fuck her without consequence.
I hear Phoebe in the background. “Can you put him on speakerphone, please?” And then more clearly, she says, “Rocky?”
“He’s not dating you—”
“It’s not about that,” she cuts me off, panting.
Alarm jars me, and I immediately go to the cashier to check out. I’m not in town, I’d tell her if she wasn’t around Jake.
“What’s wrong?” Jake asks her.
“We have a major problem,” Phoebe tells us. “Claudia Waterford hired two matchmakers to try to pair me with Rocky. She’s dead set on getting us back together…and now she enlisted the help of these…fairy godmothers like I’m their Cinderella.”
I freeze.
Godmothers is code for Elizabeth and Addison.
Our mothers are in town. We all figured they’d arrive sooner rather than later. I didn’t think they’d entrench themselves this quickly into the Waterford family, but it’s not shocking they chose a role that’d put me and Phoebe together for a quick payout.
I should’ve known our moms would insinuate themselves in the town before arriving, but I heard nothing about them. No whispers, no gossip. Which means, I’m not exactly in the inner circle in Victoria.
I haven’t really tried to be. It wasn’t such a necessity.
Now, though—it definitely is.
I lose track of where I am, and things come into focus when the cashier scans a box of tampons my sister requested. When I’ve paid, I’m out of the drugstore and slowing my heated stride. “Hold on,” I tell Phoebe.
An athletic-built man in track shorts and a Nike wick-away shirt is snapping photos of my parked black McLaren. It sticks out like a shiny new toy among hand-me-downs.
He’s admiring it.
I jog to the driver’s side, acting in a hurry, and collide with the man.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say, in a rush.
“My bad.” He’s flustered, and we fumble with my plastic bags.
“No worries.” I detangle from him, then slip into the front seat. Door shut, I unpocket the phone I just swiped off him, and I delete every photo he snapped of the car. I check his iCloud settings and see he has it disabled.
I’m cautious. Paranoid. I’m not taking any chances, and I don’t need him to post this shit on social media and for anyone to trace me to a drugstore out of town. Shouldn’t have taken the McLaren. It seemed like a minor risk before now.
Before knowing we’re several steps behind Elizabeth and Addison.
Once the man disappears inside the store, I roll down my window and toss his phone on the pavement where we made impact. He’ll think he just dropped it.