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)
He’s scared.
The fight with Rocky unsettled him. Losing his supposed best friend. Losing the respect of some people in town. It must have hit him.
I try not to smile when I say, “No.”
Trent rolls his eyes again. “As expected, you make the stupid choice.” He opens the passenger door, taking my hardback with him.
“Trent!” I yell, jumping out of my car as soon as he climbs out. “That’s my book.”
Trent slides his sunglasses back on. “Thanks for letting me borrow it.”
I shake my head. “Trent—”
“See you at book club.” He waves me off and heads toward Baubles & Bookends. My muscles constrict knowing Hailey is inside the store.
THIRTY-FIVE
Hailey
“Leave some pickles for the rest of us.” George Reynolds means no harm by the comment, considering it’s followed with a chortle. He has When the Wind Blows tucked under his armpit and tops his plastic plate with rosemary and herb crackers.
My cheeks burn a deep shade of red. Book club has one of the best charcuterie spreads every month, and today I’ve piled my plate full of tiny cornichons.
In my head, George has just screamed, “THIS ONE IS PREGNANT!”
Pickles have been my latest undoing. I crave them. All kinds. Sweet ones, spicy ones, bread and butter chips, dill spears, even the sour pickles I used to hate. I’m beginning to think this baby might come out a full-blown pickle.
No one is thinking you’re pregnant, Hailey. I take that reminder and my plate to a high-top table next to a shelf of horror novels. If anything can calm my sudden nerves, it’s being surrounded by books.
I crunch a cornichon and cough. What the fuck? Trent just walked through the doors. I fight the urge to duck under the table or slip behind the bookshelf. Hiding from Trent—not the job. But I didn’t expect him to be here. Book club is my sanctuary zone where I get to eat free crackers and cheese and mingle over thrillers with Jake.
My stomach sours, and I barely get the pickle down with a gulp of water before Trent spots me. He beelines for my table.
This is good, Rocky would say. Use the opening. I see the opportunity, but improvising has never been my forte.
“Just the girl I was looking for,” Trent greets as he places the hardback on the table. “How’s it going, Hay-Hay?”
I blink extra hard at the new revolting nickname he just created. “Hailey,” I say.
He bites the end of his sunglasses. “Hay-Hay is cuter, no?”
“No,” I say into a crunchy chomp of pickle. Other book club members start eyeing us with sudden intrigue. Trent has been the talk of the town, and not so fondly. But this isn’t the first time his name has been churned through the rumor mill, and I’m sure he’s waiting for the dust to settle and his name to be cleared once again. Guys like Trent always come away from scandal with no more carnage than a wrinkled shirt.
“If you were looking for me,” I add, “why not catch me at Stonehaven? We live in the same hall.” I don’t love putting this idea into his head. Like hell do I want him knocking on my door in the middle of the night. But I am genuinely curious why he wouldn’t just take the easy route rather than jump-scare me in town.
He flips open the hardback absentmindedly, ignoring the onlookers. “Yes, but we’re also living on a big rock in the middle of the harbor. Your brother tried to drown me in a pool. What’s to say he wouldn’t throw me in the sea if he sees me talking to his little sister?”
I frown. “You’re scared of Grey?”
“Scared’ is a strong word, Hay-Hay. I am reasonably on guard, and if I didn’t respect Varrick so much and his competition for heir, I would’ve packed my bags already and moved back home for the rest of the summer.”
I’m sure this has more to do with Varrick’s money than respect, but I don’t push back on that. In fact, I choose to stay quiet, munching on my pickles while he eats air.
He watches me for a long second. “Phoebe is your best friend, so you two must have some similarities.”
My forehead wrinkles in a deep frown. Is he trying to pump himself up into marrying me? Figuring out if I’m at all like the girl he can’t have? I’m not trying to be his dream girl. That would involve him wanting to marry me and fuck me.
“We’re very different,” I tell him.
“Are you exclusively into men, or are you into girls, too, like Phoebe is?” His eyes don’t leave me, as if this is a serious question. It almost feels like an interview, and I don’t ask how he knows Phoebe has slept with girls. That’s not something she hides.
“Just men,” I say.