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)
Jake intakes a heavy breath, and he shakes his head like maybe he’s unsure.
Oliver leans forward again. “Look, I’m pretending to be a licensed therapist. I’m not actually one. Maybe it’s not healthy. Maybe it is. We’ll never know because we can’t divulge our entire pasts to professionals. We live in the bed we’ve created for ourselves.” He opens his arms. “We’re all fucked-up. Either accept it or move on.” I hear Move on from her.
I can’t breathe.
Jake and Oliver talk through their eyes. I can barely read where their heads are at, which only heightens my worry. I never wanted to hurt either of them.
Oliver nods toward me. “There’s a reason she told you the origins of her name but didn’t tell you I was giving her orgasms as a sleeping aid.”
Jake looks to me for answers.
“I didn’t think you’d approve.”
“I don’t,” Jake says. “But I’m obviously not going to stop you.”
“How is that obvious?” Oliver asks.
“Because I’m not going anywhere. As long as Hailey wants me here, I’m here.”
“Something we have in common then,” Oliver declares.
I close my book with a loud thud. “And if I want you both here?” I look between them. “What happens then?”
FIFTEEN
Rocky
“And then there were three,” Varrick says after the Bennet brothers have left for bed. He passes me a crystal glass of rare Dalmore whiskey, and he hands another to Trent Waterford.
“Agatha Christie fan?” I wonder. (Not that I really care.)
Varrick slouches back into a dark leather club chair. “Murder mysteries have their charm.” He’s a comedian. His eyes gleam at me; possibly he’s entertained by the fact that we can so easily see through each other’s bullshit.
“I do love the macabre,” I say with a raise of my glass.
He raises his, too, then takes a sip. I don’t drink mine yet. I meander around the intimately sized smoking room, acting like I’m so fucking fascinated with the towering bookcases, the marbled bust of a Roman god, and the ornate gold-framed mirrors—about five of them. My calm, self-assured reflection follows me.
What I don’t do—I don’t let myself wonder whether Christian Wolfe, my birth father, shared a whiskey in here with his own dad. Whether he played on the green tartan carpet as a child and listened to old men prattle on about stocks and real estate while indulging in cigars and bourbon.
What I actually do—I check for two-way mirrors and tiny red lights with each passing glance.
I’m highly aware he’s studying me like I’m a mouse in his maze.
Trent kicks back in the club chair beside Varrick. “Now that the children have gone to bed, I’d like to know a few things about your…summer proposal.” He slouches, ankle propped on his knee, getting comfortable. “Starting with this invite list.”
“My reasonings were stated in the letter,” Varrick says simply, but I’ve been enjoying Trent’s constant barrage of questions and ridiculously shallow comments that Varrick has had to swat away like gnats.
“Dalmore aged in an oak cask is much better than whatever that is on your shelf.”
“Why is there recessed lighting in here? Is that a can light?”
“Your housekeeper definitely doesn’t know what a feather duster is. I have the numbers of staff who’d completely turn this place around if you want them.”
It’s also kept Varrick partially distracted from his interest in me and the Graves siblings. I’ve seen him try to rest his gaze on us, only to be pulled in by Trent.
Why he hasn’t told him to fuck off yet, I don’t know. Other than he wants something from the firstborn fuckbag.
“I read it. You invited the founding families and families who made their mark on the town,” Trent says into a sip of whiskey. “But if you asked anyone who’s been here, they would’ve told you the Bennet brothers aren’t worth your time. Damian is terrible with money. He purchased a winery that couldn’t grow grapes.”
That’s not necessarily true, but not entirely inaccurate either. Damian won the winery in a poker bet against Jake. Not only was the property worthless but a bad investment that Jake had stressed to me he needed to get rid of.
“Put the winery in the kitty, Jake,” I prodded during the poker game.
He resisted screwing over another guy, but I don’t think Jake is fond of Damian, because it didn’t take a ton of convincing.
“And Sandon Bennet,” Trent laughs, “he’s twelve.”
“Fourteen,” Varrick corrects, sounding nonchalant.
“Same thing.”
It’s not.
“And what’s with the Smiths?” Trent wonders. “They’re trust-fund kids from out of state. Who’ve been here for less than a year—”
“Grey.” Varrick cuts him off for the first time. “Why don’t you take a seat?” He tips his head to the empty one across from him.
“I prefer being on my feet.” I come closer, just to relax against the bar and not pace around.
“Afraid the house will catch fire?” he banters.