Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Even though Hailey and I are best friends, she’s not the one I confided in about liking Rocky when I was younger. Rocky is her brother. It just seemed messy and complicated, and I was afraid she’d want us together as much as my mom did. I needed Hailey to reinforce the idea that we are truly a bad combo. And maybe she’s right.
Rocky and I are combative. That isn’t a healthy ingredient in a relationship. Not that I’ve ever been in a real one.
“Totally,” I agree with a page flip. “You’re the smartest person I know, so your wisdom is my road map.”
“I’m only book smart, Phebs,” Hailey says casually.
I scrunch my brows. “Now, that’s a big, ugly lie.”
She’s still reading, but her cheeks redden, her skin a pinker and fairer tint than mine. “I know useless facts about useless things. I don’t know how to fix a toilet or hot-wire a car. You have tools. I have paper.”
“Paper is useful.”
“Sparingly. Only at specific times for specific needs.” She shuts the magazine, resigned to these facts about herself.
And I wonder how we arrived at this place. Where it’s just easier to see how amazing the other person is—and it’s harder to see those same amazing qualities in ourselves.
“I love paper,” I tell my best friend.
She smiles over at me. “I love tools.”
We’re both grinning when heels suddenly tap tap tap against the marbled floors. We turn around at the same time a fortysomething woman approaches in a stiff but quickened strut. Reddish hair slicked into a perfectly neat bun; nothing about this woman is out of place. Her black wrinkle-free pencil skirt hugs her curves, and a gold nameplate is fastened to her silk blouse: katherine rhodes, manager of guest relations.
She’s slightly out of breath and ten minutes late. Her tardiness is the only scratch in her polished armor. It’s unseemly. How could she?
The horror.
The dry wit inside my brain almost makes me smile, but I smooth my lips together so I don’t come off as a smart-ass.
Her finger juts out toward the entryway. “Was that you?”
I realize she’s pointing at the grass I smeared on the marble. No hello, no greeting, just an accusation. Awesome. I open my mouth to lie, but I stop myself short.
“We’re here for the job,” Hailey says quickly. “I’m Hailey Thornhall. We talked over email.”
Katherine appraises Hailey’s attire: black slacks and white button-down. It’s the dress code in Katherine’s email that I’m also following. Hailey no longer has an eyebrow piercing or a lip ring. We’re both making efforts to fit in . . . except, I didn’t dye my hair back to brown.
I like the blue, and the email said nothing about hair color.
Katherine has two small tote bags hooked on her arm with the country club’s logo: a budding pink mountain laurel. “You’re both new and I’m too busy to repeat myself, so one mistake is fine—two is fireable.” She rips the glass out of my hand. Water sloshes back at me. What the . . . “This is for guests. You’re not a guest here.”
I pat the wet spot on my blouse. “Noted.”
She glares at my dry tone.
I want to bristle and act like I belong the more she tries to make me feel small. But I’m in no power position here, and I end up feeling like a wet poodle, tail between my legs.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
Her sharp gaze cuts to Hailey. “Magazines are also for guests.” She takes the Celebrity Crush from me, and when she collects the history on Satan mag from Hailey, she stiffens at the title and the thick streak of eyeliner that shades Hailey’s gray eyes. Katherine is probably thinking Hailey cracks out a Ouija board every night and communes with the devil.
I smooth my lips to holster a smile.
That couldn’t be the furthest thing from reality, but she’s not asking us about ourselves—she’s just telling us to do as she says.
More quickly, she hands us the totes. “An orientation pamphlet is inside as well as a map of the country club. Whichever one of you made the mess on the floor, clean it up ASAP, and fix your hair.” She’s staring at me.
My face is on fire. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
“It’s a mess.”
It’s in a pony, but at least she didn’t comment on the color.
“Get those pieces out of your face.”
I agree to this with a sheepish, “Okay.” I’m so glad Rocky isn’t here to see me wilt like a dying petunia.
“I can’t give you the tour today.” She takes a hurried glance at her watch. “We’re dealing with a situation at the pool.” After a glimpse of her phone, she lets out an annoyed breath. “Okay, well it looks like one of the Koning boys is walking you through the orientation today. I need to handle this.”