Dishonestly Yours (Webs We Weave #1) Read Online Krista Ritchie, Becca Ritchie

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary Tags Authors: , Series: Becca Ritchie
Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
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Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
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They’ve let me crash on the couch every night since we arrived in town, and if I want this to pan out for them, I do need to abide by Jakey-poo’s rules and help them make rent.

“I won’t get you two in trouble,” I assure them. “That’s the antithesis of what I’ve ever fucking done.”

They relax.

Phoebe caps her Yoo-hoo. “Hailey is right. We’re done conning. But I changed my mind about the party. I’ll go.”

I’m about to ask why when she adds, “I’ll be a sec. I have to get dressed.” I watch her exit the kitchen with a quick, lengthy stride.

“I’m not going,” Hailey says from the table. “I want to plug this into Excel.”

“You’re leaving me with Phoebe?”

“As if you two aren’t always alone together.” She stands up from the table, nose in her notepad.

I aim a faraway stare at the brick fireplace, letting those words sink in.

Seventeen

Phoebe

For a moment, I was about to actually agree to three-card monte tonight. A quick con to get a couple hundred. Just to keep us afloat longer. It feels like the easier route to just fall into my old ways, and for Hailey, I’d jump into that slimy pool of deception again.

I’m starting to think that I can’t actually be good. That my only tether to what’s right is Hailey’s moral compass. Maybe I don’t have much of one myself.

A seagull flies at my face, disrupting my thoughts and siphoning air from my lungs. “Jesus!” I duck while Rocky cackles next to me like a wicked witch.

I glare. “It’s not funny.”

“You break a mirror this morning?” he asks as we walk along the cobbled street together. He’s superstitious in a way that’s utterly ridiculous. He hates black cats, avoids walking under ladders, and despises anyone who opens an umbrella indoors.

I call him out on it. “You can’t be superstitious when you’ve pretended to be a psychic. There’s some sort of contradiction there.”

He opens his arms like he’s asking for hugs from the world. “I’m full of contradictions.” He looks to me with a twinkle in his eyes. “Feels good not to give a fuck, Phoebe. Maybe you should try it tonight.”

He’s trying to push me to work a con tonight. He won’t succeed. I have to think about Hailey and how upset she’d be if I tarnished the one thing she’s hoping for. This fresh start.

Rocky and I are headed to the party, and this town is small enough that it’s only a twenty-minute walk to the boathouse. My mom may have scoffed at a lot of rules and laws, but drinking and driving was never one of them.

And hopefully there will be booze at this place. Though, alcohol isn’t the reason I changed my mind about the party.

“You’re like an ugly little devil on my shoulder,” I tell Rocky. I mime flicking imaginary him off my left shoulder.

He doesn’t volley back an insult. Instead, his gaze sobers on me. “Want to make a deal with the devil?”

I’m about to reject him on principle, but his earnestness gives me pause. “What kind of deal?” I wonder.

“I’ll stop trying to coerce you into your old ways if you just tell me what happened in Carlsbad.”

My face sours, and mention of Carlsbad somersaults my stomach. “No.” My pace carries me faster and harder down the cobblestone.

Rocky easily keeps up. “Phoebe—”

“We’ve been over this,” I cut him off and then stop dead in my tracks. His chest bumps up against me, and he towers a good several inches above me. I’m five-eight in these heels, not short, and he hasn’t moved a millimeter back. Ugh! With heated words and heavier breath, I snap, “I’ve left that night in the past, and I need you to do the same.”

He stares down at me, his eyes sinking into a darkness. “It was something bad—”

“I’ll make you a deal,” I interrupt him again. “First one who gets laid tonight gets one wish granted. Your wish is that you’ll get a very detailed amazing explanation of that night.”

“And your wish?”

“Is for you to drop it forever.”

He looks me over, and his gaze is a hot wave stoking my skin. At first, I think he might reject the deal, but instead, he says, “How do we even prove it?”

“Send a picture of your postcoital self.”

He gives me a harder look. “We don’t take pictures.”

A very big rule among the godmothers. Selfies aren’t taken on a whim. They’re meticulously planned and given a ton of forethought. A social media presence can be a crucial part of a fake persona. But it’s not like we’re posting these pics.

The threat of anyone scrolling through our phones and suspecting our bad deeds is low, but not nonexistent, which is partly why the rule exists.

“I’m living honestly now,” I tell him as the wind grows angrier. I hug my arms to my chest, just dressed in jeans and a short-sleeve white tee. “I can take pictures, and if you want to win, you’ll risk it.”



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