In the thrilling conclusion to the Webs We Weave series, ex-con artist Phoebe Graves must pull off the biggest grift she’s ever devised to keep her friends and family safe.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Dangerously Ours by Krista Ritchie and Becca Ritchie, which releases on May 12th 2026.
Conning the rich and fleeing to new cities is all ex-grifter Phoebe Graves has ever known—until she started building real relationships in a small yet wealthy Connecticut town. But she’s worried these new bonds won’t hold fast as more than one big bad wolf threatens to blow down those she loves most.
And now more than ever, she has a reason to stay in one place. Among them is Brayden “Rocky” Tinrock, her best friend’s older brother, who’s been a partner to Phoebe during every daring and exhilarating con. And then of course there’s Hailey Tinrock, her best friend, whose precious secret they’ll do anything to protect. . . .
As Phoebe and her family team up with the Tinrocks to fight for a chance at a home, they confront the demons of their pasts and must do the impossible . . . deceive the most cunning con artist they’ve ever known.
EXCERPT
I think about Oliver a lot.
For too long, really. Even how he’s unlike Phoebe. How he’s so goal oriented that he’d race toward every checkered flag for the thrill. How he loves pushing his limits during jobs. How he’d choose the path with the most obstacles, the one that’s farthest away. How he’d run until his legs broke and his heart gave out. I think there is no stop in most of us, but for Oliver, he will run himself too hard, too fast, before anyone else has a chance to catch him.
I’ve always worried about putting him in a role that’d hurt him. I’m afraid I already have. My fault. When things go awry, it falls on me. I made the blueprint. So I made the error.
“Hailey, really, are you paying attention?” Oh . . . fuck. That’s not Oliver.
I blink into the clear, vividly bright present. I sit across from a formidable, stylish woman who could pose as a high-society New Yorker as much as she could a hardball attorney. But she’s not posing as anyone other than herself today: Addison Tinrock—my mom.
What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck? I think over and over. Trying to calm my panic, but how the hell did I even get here?
“Hailey?” Her cold voice is tinged with concern. More than she usually grants me, but it’s why I wanted to reach out. I could tell she’s been genuinely worried about my welfare since she saw my breakdown in the storm shelter. It’s been nice to see she cares on a deeper level about me and not just what I can do for her.
It’s what I choose to believe, anyway. There is a small possibility she wants me close so I can continue working for her, but my brothers and I have already established those bridges will never be rebuilt with our parents. Any jobs we pull, we need to have our own autonomy.
They can’t call the shots anymore.
“Um, yeah, I’m here,” I say, doing my best not to stammer. A light coastal breeze blows through the sunny patio of an upscale seafood restaurant. The wicker chair creaks beneath my ass as I reach for my ice water. Condensation wets the glass, which means I’ve been here for minutes, at least.
I need to check my phone.
I need to check the parking lot. Did I really drive?
Did Oliver end up bringing me?
“I actually need to make a quick call.” I scooch back. “Hailey, wait—” Her concern spikes in an odd way. She’s afraid I’m ditching her, that I’m retracting the olive branch. “I’ll be back. Really, I will be. Stay, p-please.”
She lowers back down at my insistence. Wind musses her new bangs, still a shade of auburn red. I assume she’s still waiting for Elizabeth Graves to show up. Just like I am Phoebe. Because neither is here, and our table is set for four.
Leaving, I weave through the crowded patio. I don’t make a scene. Too many people mind their own business. Every teak table is occupied. Chatter, the sounds of the sea, and speakers playing Tchaikovsky will drown our forthcoming conversation into incoherence from eavesdroppers. It’s a perfect place to meet.
I should remember arriving. I should.
“Think, Hailey, think,” I mutter to myself. Bad habit, speaking my thoughts aloud. Bad, bad, bad.
And thinking—thinking is likely why I’m missing passages of time. I was in my head, wasn’t I?
I try not to sprint through the restaurant. I almost crash into the ginormous fish tank, but once I swerve around the hostess stand, I push the double doors into the glaring sunshine-soaked afternoon.
Then I rock to a full stop.
My old faded green Honda is parked beside a sleek sapphire blue Porsche. The man leaning against the luxury sports car could belong in Pretty in Pink, Mystic Pizza, any Julia Roberts or John Hughes movie. Born to a fortune of blue-blooded New England aristocracy. He’s a man in numbers (twenty-eight), but also a man in how he carries his body. Confident in who he is, confident in his ideals, confident in his actions.
He straightens up and spots me from across the parking lot.
I see the concern tighten his striking blue eyes. I wonder if he sees the confusion in my gray ones.
Jake Koning Waterford. Why is he in Rhode Island?
