Sinful Like Us Read online Krista Ritchie, Becca Ritchie (Like Us #5)

Categories Genre: Chick Lit, Contemporary, New Adult, Romance Tags Authors: , Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
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Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
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Who is perpetually fucking late to events. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve heard Ryke’s bodyguard on comms say something like, “We’re coming in an hour past.”

Being late might just obliterate the ground that I made with her parents.

I growl out my frustration and curse out loud for all three miles to the gas station. By the time I put the SUV in park, I’m barely accepting my fate.

Jane will vouch for me, and that’s the last thing I want. Defending me shouldn’t be what tonight is about. “I’m going to kill someone on Omega,” I mutter under my breath. “Except my brother. If this was on him, he’ll survive. Maybe.”

I’m talking to myself.

My jaw clenches, and I swear in my head. Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I think I’m nervous.

Fuck.

I hop out of the car and slam the door closed with a loud thump. The noise stirs something in the space between the pump and the trashcan, the movement caught in my peripheral.

I don’t have time for this.

But out of instinct, I check the shifting shadow, wanting clearer visual. Squatting down, I expect to locate a rat.

I rest my forearms on my knees and tilt my head. All I see is brown fur, a little thing curled in a ball next to the trash.

And then its head pops up, and my whole stomach drops.

What…?

Breath cages my lungs.

I’m staring at round, blue orbs for eyes. A tiny brown nose. Two perked ears. Long whiskers and dark-striped fur. I’ve been to enough cat shelters to know what I’ve found.

I’m staring at a tabby kitten. How could this happen? Out of all times and all days and all gas stations…

I look up at the star-blanketed sky.

I’m not as religious as others in my family, but I have faith. And call me nuts, but I feel like this kitten is Jane. Sent by someone who knew I’d need her. Come here to tell me that it’s going to be okay. Calm down. Breathe.

Maybe I’m just losing my fucking mind.

But I can’t walk away from this stray. She wouldn’t.

I hold out my palm, waiting for the kitten to approach me. “Hey, girl.”

She crouches on her tiny paws and tentatively creeps towards me. She barely hesitates before nudging her cheek into my knuckles. And I’m just gone. Right here. Right now. “Jane?” I ask like a fucking idiot.

Banks would be laughing his ass off if he saw me.

She keeps nuzzling my hand.

I draw in a deeper, stronger breath. It’s her. No one can tell me otherwise. “Fuck it.” I gently pick up the kitten. “Let’s go to dinner, Little Jane.”

* * *

To prepare me, Jane told me three things about Wednesday Night Dinner.

The dress code is anything and everything and nothing. Costumes are acceptable. Being buck-naked is also acceptable. There are no rules.

Conversation is not a requirement. Talk as much as you want or don’t talk at all. There are no rules.

But there are rules. Only one. Come as you are. Be true to you. And all will fall into place.

I took everything Jane said to heart, so I’m not wearing a suit. I’m not wearing my black slacks and a black button-down like I’m on-duty.

I’m on time. Made every green light. Surprisingly, I’m here before either Connor or Rose. And I sit at her family’s dining room table as me.

Dark denim jeans and a red flannel shirt, a kitten currently alert but tentative in the breast pocket—yeah, that’s a new development.

“She’s absolutely, positively the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.” Audrey Cobalt swoons, her gaze fixated on the tabby kitten. Jane’s sister turned fourteen in January, and right now, she looks transported from one of those PBS historical shows my grandma is always watching. A bonnet with fresh roses in a ribbon plopped on her carrot-orange hair, which spills over a ruffled white dress.

I’m hawk-eyed. Attentive.

Perceptive of everyone, everything, but there is too much to absorb. My eyes are feasting on the lavish elaborate scene. This is made for the movies.

For theater.

For history.

For The Phantom of the Opera and ancient sword-wielding times.

Not exactly for a man like me, but I’m not turning around. I’m not back-tracking. And I’m not made to cower. Nerves retreat.

I’m steel in a room of guys and girls ironclad from birth.

Seven sets of eyes are pinned on me.

I’ve sat down for one minute. Just as ready for hell as the minute before, and I’ll be ready a thousand minutes after.

Roasted goose and gold candlesticks line the table. I’ve always seen the remnants of this dinner in leftover containers. Strange, seeing the food before it’s torn to pieces.

A unique aroma clings to the air: a mixture of gamey meat, rosemary, garlic, vanilla and tobacco. I do another quick sweep around the dining room. Only Jane and her siblings are here, the heads of the table empty, but I think the absence of their parents might be purposeful.


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