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)
He might’ve made a small, microscopic, hardly there one.
But I realize…“You remember that moment? From that long ago?”
“My memory isn’t shit.”
“No, you were paying attention to me,” I reason. “You were obsessed with me.”
He says nothing. He doesn’t deny it like I imagined he would, and in the silence, my pulse has boomeranged across the kitchen and returned to me. His voice is deep, rough, low. “I’ve loved you since I was fifteen; of course I focused on you.”
I intake a staggered breath, a heady feeling washing over me like I was just dunk-tanked in ice water.
It’s strange how much he’s verbalizing our love. It’s not that strange how much I tailspin at hearing it. I open my mouth to find the words to say back, but he’s inspecting the fridge again.
He picks up a jar with one pickle floating in murky juice. “Eating dill spears for breakfast?”
“Spicy dill spears, sir.”
He rolls his eyes but he’s starting to smile. “Whatever the fuck, ma’am. That’s not a breakfast.”
“It’s a snack,” I agree. “And Hailey and I mostly eat out.”
“Figured that.” Placing the jar back, he unpockets his phone. “Seaside Griddle is still open. I can order us takeout.” The local breakfast joint is open 24/7 and a short walk down the street.
There must be something worth eating here, though. I’m not ready to give up. “We have milk.” I tug out the half gallon of one percent. “And I know we have cereal in the pantry.”
That’s how I find myself eating bowls of Froot Loops and Fruity Pebbles past one a.m. with Rocky. Lights still on, we’re settled comfortably on the sofa, where I’ve tucked in sheets on the cushion and brought in my bed pillow.
He’s scrolling through Netflix for a movie, and he’s not even asking which genre. He’s already clicked into horror for me.
Giddiness is an overwhelming ingredient in our relationship. The addition almost makes me feel high.
And we’re not even screwing some douchebag out of millions. No one is being double-crossed by our duplicitous hands.
This is just…normal.
I scoop up some Froot Loops and look over at him. By his brooding face, you’d think the TV fleeced him and he’s plotting murder. That’s just Rocky. Sitting in cynicism and hatred, but I’d like to believe he gets enjoyment from being here with me. Or else he’d be long gone by now, and he’s never really left me.
“Would you consider this a date?” I ask him.
His head jerks in slight surprise, but I am confident. I stand fully by this pressing question. He sees and answers honestly. “Sex, dinner, and a movie. Sounds like a date to me.”
“Same.”
“Glad we could agree on something.”
“And look, the earth didn’t rip in half,” I joke.
“There’s still time for that.”
We share a brief, rising smile. Brief because the front door suddenly jostles open. I freeze.
Rocky is a shotgun. He’s quick to his feet, the bowl of Fruity Pebbles in his hand like a projectile weapon, and he’s standing in front of me. First thought is, our parents. They found my address.
They’re making an unwanted visit.
Fear recedes into a mountain of concern as I see who shuffles inside.
SIX
Phoebe
I frown. “Hails?”
She should be fast asleep in my bed right now. Not only is she wide awake, but she’s carrying a stack of worn leather-bound books against her small frame. I’m not sure she even heard me since she’s not responding.
Struggling to hold the hardbacks, she blows a strand of platinum-blonde hair off her chapped lips and nearly loses the stack trying to shut the door.
I run over to her before Rocky can, and I gather several books in my arms.
“Thanks, Phoebe.” She’s on a mission, barely pausing as she plops her stack on our two-seater bistro table.
Too many alarmed questions zip through me at once, and I go with the most useless one (don’t come for me). “Who do these books belong to? A crypt keeper?” I pile my stack on top of hers.
“Jake.”
My eyes bug. “Excuse me? Jake, as in our landlord?” And soon to be fake ex-boyfriend, but I don’t want to say the words and remind everyone of my current fake relationship. Mostly for Rocky’s sake.
Hailey isn’t answering. She’s flipping open a book.
I swing back to Rocky, and his dark concern is palpable. Jaw locking, muscles tensing, eyes narrowing—Hailey sees none of her brother’s protective storm cloud. No, she’s reading these yellowed, crusty pages at a mile a minute.
“Hailey,” Rocky calls out.
“Huh?” She doesn’t look up.
Okay, this is way more serious than I realized. Her plum-colored lipstick is faded in certain spots. Has she been biting her lips? Bluish tint circles her eyes and appears like makeup, but now I’m seeing it’s not from an eyeshadow palette. It’s from being sleep deprived.
I scoot the second chair next to hers. Sitting, I hesitate to reach out a hand and disrupt her mental focus too much. “Have you slept, Hails?”