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)
She wags her pointer finger. “That’s the thing, bucko—” She stumbles.
I seize her hips. She’s panting hard while I keep her close to my chest. “Bucko? Wow.” I widen my eyes. “Did you suck a gallon of helium behind the headstone?”
She starts grinning. “Must be the moon.”
“Must be.” I pull her up, resisting the urge to fuck her against a tree. She’s more careful this time, but not much more. Because Phoebe likes being caught by me, and I love catching her.
“Sentimental items are people adjacent,” she argues. “It’s the same thing. They’re all things.”
“No,” I state plainly, shaking my head.
“Yes.”
“Phebs, you can’t tell me my fucking toothbrush has any sort of special meaning. Other than ensuring I don’t need a root canal.”
She clasps my hand. “We’re headed toward example three.”
“Are we?” I say dryly, not needing her to tug me in the direction. I walk beside her, keeping her hand in mine, knowing where we’re going. We trek down the hill toward the winding road that leads out of the cemetery. Lit by the orange glow of cobwebbed lampposts.
It’s eerie as fuck. Do not love. Definitely want to leave.
Phoebe so clearly wants to stay, which makes me not in a hurry to go at all. I’m hooked on her, on her smiles emerging out of her usual scowls as she tries to make this dumb point. And then the point feels like the least dumb thing in the world.
It feels like the only thing that matters.
The only thing that exists.
The only thing I love.
The only thing.
Her.
So when she waves her hands like Vanna fucking White at the black Corvette parked on the pavement, I’m already falling in love with Phoebe Graves all over again.
“Ta-da!” Phoebe reaches the curb next to the sixties Stingray. “You cried when you first got the keys.”
It is a beautiful fucking car. One I coveted when Varrick had possession of the vintage collection belonging to my late grandfather William Wolfe. Now, over a hundred classic cars are mine.
“I cried.” I arch my brows. “Was that before or after you passed out from professing your love for fourteen fucking hours to me?”
“That definitely did not happen.” Her collarbone juts out as I stalk her backward until her spine hits the Corvette’s passenger door.
I pin her against the car, my legs splitting hers apart. “I thought we were spinning tall tales.” She’s breathless. I look her over. “No?”
“No.” She smothers a smile and tries to catch her breath. “Admit it. You’re sentimental. This Corvette means something to you.”
“You still don’t get it.” I thumb the gold heart-shaped locket that hangs between her breasts. She’s breathing like I’m chasing her, and it drives oxygen out of my lungs, too.
“Get what?” she whispers.
“That I’m mostly just sentimental over you.” I thread my fingers through her hair, pulling out the pony I’d already tied. She’s buckling against the car, and I want all over her. But I edge out the moment of collision by lifting the gold heart off her breastbone with my other hand.
The chain is still around her neck. I know what her mom used this locket for.
“What’s in your heart of lies?” I whisper.
Her smile isn’t just taunting. It’s tender and…sentimental. I feel the emotion swelling inside me. “Open it and see,” she says very quietly.
So I click the spring on the heart, and it unfolds. We keep such few photos of ourselves, so the second I see her and me from this summer—where I’m kissing her and sliding my hand into her hair like I am right now—my love for her blisters my gaze.
“No lies,” she whispers, her voice shaking with the powerful rapture I feel. “My heart only holds the truth.”
Three Summmers Later
FIFTY-TWO
Phoebe
I do a lazy scour of the family room at Stonehaven, in search of someone. Floors have been polished, chandeliers dim for a moody ambience, dark damask wallpaper restored, and all nooks and crannies have been checked for black mold. Biohazard-free.
Livable for longer than a summer. But this is not my place of residence. Even though I love things that go boo, I wouldn’t live somewhere that could potentially cause Rocky grief every time he’s ready for bed.
I rotate in a circle and tap my lips. “I wonder where she could be? Is she…under the pillow?” I swipe the quilted pillow off the tufted love seat. “Nope, not there.”
Giggles emanate from the arched window. Two teeny-tiny combat boots stick out from the bottom of a thick purple curtain.
“Is she”—I creep closer—“behind the tea cart?” I glance around the tea cart, only to hear bright snickering.
“Is she—”
“Boo!” A little girl in a black jean skirt bounces out with the cutest giggles ever.
As I said, I really love things that go boo. Particularly this gap-toothed toddler with light brown pigtails and big enchanting gray eyes that immediately steal hearts. I should know; she stole mine the minute Hailey gave birth to her and I held her in my arms.