Tangled Like Us Read Online Krista Ritchie, Becca Ritchie (Like Us #4)

Categories Genre: Contemporary, New Adult, Romance Tags Authors: , Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
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Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
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My blood heats, muscles on fucking fire.

Cut the tension, Thatcher.

Don’t cut a thing.

My brain is splitting in two directions, and it’s killing me. I hate indecision.

“Take it.” I nod to the half-gallon. “I can get more later.” It’s either going to her six cats or a cereal bowl, and her cats are more important than one of the guys eating Frosted Flakes.

She smiles softly up at me. “Merci.” While I dry her sunglasses on the bath towel I’m wearing, she rises to her feet.

I hold the glasses out to Jane.

Our fingers brush as she reclaims them, and breath knots in my chest. I take the milk-soaked mapeen from her hand, washing and wringing it out in the sink. Constantly glancing back at Jane.

Meeting her gaze is where I want to be, but also where I shouldn’t be. Not while I’m off-duty.

She places the sunglasses back on her head and grabs the half-gallon. But she hesitates to leave. Questions sparkle her eyes.

I check the oven clock.

I haven’t forgotten my brother. Couldn’t forget Banks if my life depended on erasing him from existence. I’ve been here for a few minutes tops, but it feels longer. Each second stretched taut.

I rub my hands dry on my bath towel, and her attention follows the movement and drifts on its own course to my crotch.

I’m trying not to imagine a lot , and as soon as she notices that I just noticed she stared at my cock—she sends me an apologetic look.

“You’re fine,” I confirm. She shouldn’t feel bad for that. I’ve pictured her in more carnal positions, and I must wear some of my guilt.

“You’re fine too,” Jane says quickly.

“Good,” I nod.

“Bien,” she agrees.

We’re not exhaling like we should. But I loosen my joints and open a top cabinet, seizing a shot glass. “You want to ask me something?”

“You’re missing your necklace,” she says in a single breath.

I didn’t expect that.

My brows furrow, and I look back at Jane. I’m not sure what emotion crosses my features. But she stumbles over her next words.

“Not that I stare at your chest…all the time. Because I don’t…” She pauses. “Though, it’s inevitable to look at your chest. Because, you see, your chest is connected to your neck which is connected to your face…” She touches her forehead like she’s burning up. “And it’s in my line of sight.”

I’m so close to a smile, it fucking alarms me.

Usually only Banks makes me smile.

I put the shot glass on the counter. “I gave the necklace to Banks to wear for today.” I find a matchbook in the junk drawer.

She’s not going to ask why. Or pry further. Because she’s respectful of how far she digs, but I want to say more. I need to fucking say more.

Jane deserves the full hundred yards from me.

Not just a fucking millimeter.

“You know the horns on the necklace?” I ask.

Surprise jumps her brows. Not by what I’m asking. Just that I’m reciprocating. She can’t hide this cheerful smile, and seeing her this happy makes me feel good.

Really good.

“Oui,” she answers. “The horns are quite pretty.”

I nod once. “It’s called a cornic’—at least, that’s what I know it by.” Cornic’ rhymes with unique. I take out a small bowl. “I was never taught the proper Italian word for it.”

“It has a special meaning?” she wonders.

“Yeah.” I check the matchbook to make sure there are at least three. Four left. “The horn is said to ward off the evil eye. It’s Italian superstition tied into tradition.”

She brims with intrigue. “Why would Banks need to ward off the evil eye?”

I head to the pantry. “It’s said if you have a headache or migraine, then someone has put the evil eye on you.” I pick olive oil off the shelf and return to the kitchen counter.

She loosely crosses her arms. “So you wear the cornic’ to ward off the evil eye and then your headache just…vanishes?”

“My grandma will tell you it helps.” I uncap the olive oil. “Others will say it’s just superstition.”

“What do you say?” she wonders, watching me measure oil into the shot glass.

I stare off for a short second. I see my chain ensnared with another chain. And I blink that flash out. Like a breeze passing by. “I like to believe in family first,” I tell Jane. “And there’s something about a generational tradition that seems fucking powerful to me.”

She nods. “Je suis d’accord.” I agree.

I tried to learn some French when I transferred to Jane’s detail. All of the Cobalts are fluent, and protecting her is easier if I can understand her.

Ten months later, only simple phrases make much sense to me. I’m not that great at picking up other languages.

Jane continues on. “But in my family, there’s also a thrill in irritating my dad with superstitions. As you’re probably aware, along with the rest of the world, he’s solely logic-based, but my mom is very much fate -driven. I suppose I’m somewhere in the middle.”


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