{"product_id":"dishonestly-yours-isbn-9780593549551","title":"Dishonestly Yours","description":"\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eUSA TODAY\u003c\/i\u003e BESTSELLER FROM THE AUTHORS OF THE TIKTOK SENSATION, \u003ci\u003eADDICTED TO YOU\u003c\/i\u003e!\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eStarting fresh is the only way Phoebe can escape a life of crime, but her best friend's older brother complicates honest dreams in this gripping new series from the authors of the \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eAddicted \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eseries.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePhoebe Graves grew up in a family where deception and seduction are as commonplace as breathing. The Graves and her best friend Hailey’s family have been on the run their whole lives, but after a high-stakes con job goes south, Phoebe and Hailey decide to run away and start over. The small Connecticut town they settle in seems too good to be true.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe biggest flaw in their plan is Hailey’s frustratingly handsome brother, Rocky, who insists on coming with them. Living honestly isn’t in his DNA, and his past with Phoebe is downright messy. He’s everything she wants, but nothing she can have. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePhoebe worries that Rocky will tempt them back into their old ways, where lying is second nature.  She doesn’t want Rocky to mess up the new life she’s begun for herself. The longer she stays in town, the more she realizes what it means to have a reputation—and what a normal life with the man she loves could look like.“Krista \u0026amp; Becca have created a world that I not only love being a spectator to, but wish I could l be a part of. The characters, the twists, the cons…I couldn’t get enough!”—\u003cb\u003eElle Kennedy, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Krista and Becca Ritchie have outdone themselves with \u003ci\u003eDishonestly Yours\u003c\/i\u003e! It’s fresh and innovative and artfully crafted from the very first page. The tension is delicious and the twists kept me turning the pages late into the night. I was absolutely consumed by these characters and their stories. This is definitely one of those books I’m going to find myself thinking about for years to come.\"—\u003cb\u003eElsie Silver, \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Fresh, deliciously angsty, and sizzling with slow-burn tension that kept me glued to the pages. \u003ci\u003eDishonestly Yours \u003c\/i\u003eis a must-read!\"—\u003cb\u003eSamantha Young,\u003ci\u003e New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This story was addictive! Unique premise. Intriguing plot. It will leave you craving more.”—\u003cb\u003eDevney Perry\u003ci\u003e, USA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A rollercoaster of a read, with twists and turns galore. Krista \u0026amp; Becca Ritchie give us a cast of characters to root for as they fall in and out of their lives of crime. \u003ci\u003eDishonestly Yours\u003c\/i\u003e shows us that love can be both messy and sweet--like the perfect strawberry.\"—\u003cb\u003eJen DeLuca, \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eHaunted Ever After\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Dark and sexy, \u003ci\u003eDishonestly Yours\u003c\/i\u003e deftly deals in captivating twists and deliciously angsty love. The Ritchies stole our hearts with every page.”\u003cb\u003e—Emily Wibberley and Austin Siegemund-Broka, authors of \u003ci\u003eThe Breakup Tour\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Recommend this to readers who enjoy romances where loyalty is earned, family is found, and characters are morally gray.\"—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003e​​Krista and Becca Ritchie\u003c\/b\u003e are \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling authors and identical twins—one a science nerd, the other a comic-book geek—but with their shared passion for writing, they combined their mental powers as kids and have never stopped telling stories. They love superheroes, flawed characters, and soul-mate love.One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePhoebe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePeople say you choose your friends, but my friendship with Hailey Tinrock never felt like a choice. We clung to each other because we were told to, and then it became survival. And now-together-we're leaving our families behind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt midnight, the motel room stinks of stale cigarettes and a microwaved burrito from its previous resident. Yellowed stains bleed into the cement walls and ceiling tiles. Five-star accommodations right here. Luxurious.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's definitely not the Ritz-Carlton, and I've already become a roach murderer. I've counted four cockroaches so far, killed three with a rolled Forbes magazine that Hailey had been flipping through. She ripped off the cover with the roach juice to keep reading. I watch as the last one skitters into an air vent. It was smart to run away from us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe knew what was coming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs I plop down on the lumpy mattress, it lets out a warning screech but supports my weight enough. I appraise a box of poison-sorry, I mean hair dye. My scalp burns like I scrubbed it with sriracha and chile flakes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It says to wait thirty minutes,\" Hailey tells me, sitting cross-legged on the disgusting plaid chair in the corner. Her wet hair hides underneath a plastic cap, the color processing. She's wearing only an oversized black tee that says hexes on my exes, knee-high socks, and jet-black lipstick.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm not shocked she's painting her nails the same inky color.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHailey dresses like she's someone who could stab you while she's sucking on a cigarette, but her favorite movie is about sisters working at a small-town pizza joint and falling in love so, so slowly. I can't sit through ten minutes of Mystic Pizza, and Hailey watches it every weekend like it's her bible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe also has zero exes to hex. Just a laundry list of one-night stands and short-term flings. Our lifestyles aren't compatible with long-term relationships.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt least not real ones.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHailey doesn't recheck the instructions on the hair dye box. I trust that she remembered the info on the first read through. Photographic memory and all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'd be envious if she weren't my best friend and didn't use her beautiful brain to bail me out of a million and one tragic scenarios.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Are we sure they didn't make this stuff out of jalapeño paste?\" I force myself not to itch, but yeah, I kinda scratch and wince. No self-control. \"It feels like fire ants are exploding on my head. I've never even heard of this brand.\" I rotate the box to stare at the front. \"Vivid Value Color. What's our plan B if our hair starts falling out again?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"We shave our heads,\" Hailey says, like it's the obvious solution. She blows on her wet nails, and I try not to mourn my hair. Would I actually shave it?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes, I'm all-in with her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWould I tear up?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne hundred percent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWould she?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eProbably not, considering she shaved her head when she was sixteen. Now that she's twenty-four, it's regularly chopped at her shoulders in an edgy cut.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the moment, I'm restraining myself from doing a full-fingernailed scalp massage. Do not.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe can see my struggle. \"We didn't have much to choose from at the gas station, Phebs.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I know.\" I sigh, trying not to complain. We might be the same age and she might be the one figuratively behind the wheel, but I'm the one dead set on protecting us and keeping us from struggling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Hailey came up with this idea in Carlsbad, we had just trekked away from a multimillion-dollar beach house in the pouring rain. All façades dropped-we didn't call for our personal driver in his Bentley to take us \"home.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe just slipped out. Without splendor or attention.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlmost like we never arrived.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt'd been a little past one a.m.-you don't forget things like time when it's one of those days that stay with you. Or in this case, one of those nights. After a long, barefoot trek with our heels in our hands, we sat at a bus stop, thinking we could escape the rain while we waited.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe didn't.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCarlsbad's bus stops have fancy white pergolas as roofs. So rain slipped through the slats of wood and wet our hair and our flowery Oscar de la Renta dresses we just purchased this summer. Her dress was embroidered with poisonous white oleanders. Mine was threaded with delicate pink tulips.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHailey was silently crying. I could tell, even in the storm. She's an ugly crier when it's not faked. Her whole face was scrunched, and her reddened eyes looked touched by the salt of her emotion, not the sky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDark mascara streamed down her cheeks, and I clasped her hand tighter while my knees jostled. From the cold, I wanted to believe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was just cold from the rain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Phoebe,\" Hailey choked out. \"I-I don't think we should do this again.\" She tried to catch my gaze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut I stared at my lap. My dress was riding up, and a trickle of blood on my thigh became exposed to the elements. The rain washed away the crimson streak in a blink.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJust a millisecond. That's all it took before it was gone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"We're leaving California tomorrow,\" I reminded Hailey. \"It'll be okay.\" I was ready to get the hell out of there. To start the next job.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's always about the next job, bug, I heard my mom's voice in my head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHailey turned more to me. She squinted at me through rain and tears. \"What if we don't?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Don't what?\" I blinked through confusion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Don't go to Seattle.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo the next job, she meant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy stomach tossed like it had earlier that night. I glanced back down at the inside of my thigh, expecting to see more blood, but it really was gone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow she squeezed my hand. The desperation in the strength of her fingers clung against my heart. \"We could retire, Phebs.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"We're twenty-four. I don't think we're in a position to retire.\" I held my Hermès purse over Hailey's head as an umbrella, so the rain would stop pelting her face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe looked simultaneously thankful and distraught.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe weren't trust fund children with loaded bank accounts, but growing up, we'd experienced wealth like we were daughters of neurosurgeons and tech moguls. A Bugatti for two weeks. Penthouse suite at a five-star luxury hotel for a month. Two-grand rib eye with shaved black truffle for dinner.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere were times the fantasy would pop, and we'd reconvene at a Holiday Inn like regular middle-class folk, but only for short moments. One night or two.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur lives were always fantasies, and our parents taught us how to construct them and then rebuild when they started to crack.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMoney would flow in heaps and go out just as fast. Be flashy enough to maintain appearances but not enough to cause attention. Wear the designer dress. Drive the car that'd elicit your neighbor's envy. Pick up the thousand-dollar tab once to show you can.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInsulate yourself in the \"right\" social circles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen we became adults, things shifted a bit. Instead of playing with private school kids at some rich family's mansion for an afternoon, I could now attend an exclusive nightclub with VIP bottle service. Or the strip club that B-list celebrities frequented.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnly, I wasn't just partying the night away but seducing someone out of a few grand. Felt a lot different than batting my eight-year-old innocent eyes at the unsuspecting elite.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe marks tended to be affluent assholes, and as a kid I liked to believe we were Robin Hood-stealing from the rich, giving to the poor. But we weren't. We just gave to ourselves, and I was mostly a prop for my mom's long cons. There to give her backstory-sometimes as my doting mother, other times as my kind aunt or selfless guardian-more credibility.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy the time I was a teenager, I was no longer a shill. A prop. I had more responsibility and a bigger role to play. Long cons were always the bread and butter that kept us thriving. Short cons were like practice and a way to travel from A to B: conning someone out of a hundred bucks in sixty seconds, shortchanging a cashier.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnyway, after all our families did to live this fabulous lifestyle, my savings didn't see much reward. It was never about saving money for some brighter future.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe were supposedly already living the \"brighter\" future. Our line of work is ethically and morally questionable and borderline corrupt, but it's not like we robbed banks. Most of the time, we just . . . tricked people. Into believing our fantasies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur lies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut still, I listened closely to Hailey at that rainy bus stop like I understood what she was saying already. Even if the concept seemed far-fetched.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Retiring is the wrong word,\" she whispered, but no one was around us. Barely any cars zoomed past our stretch of road. \"More like . . . starting over. Like really starting over, from the beginning.\" Her mascara-smudged eyes were pleading with me. \"Phebs.\" Her voice fractured. Despite her goth wardrobe and her unapproachable aura that radiated toward strangers, I'd seen Hailey cry plenty of times in our lives.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe cried over a turtle she ran over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe cried when Romeo and Juliet died in the 1968 film.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe cried and cursed after breaking her pinky in a doorjamb.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd now she was crying from the fucked-up Carlsbad job.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hated seeing her this distraught. Tears of my own threatened to rise, and I was trying-God, I was really trying to see what she saw. A way out? I'd never considered it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI never wanted it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"We can do the normal thing,\" she said. \"The way that normal people do.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI couldn't see.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI couldn't see. \"Hails-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"We can. I know we can. We don't have to keep doing this. We don't. You and me-let's leave together.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy eyes stung, and I looked around for answers that I still couldn't see. Not like her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Inertia,\" she whispered a life-changing word into the rain, one that swung my head back to her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy pulse raced. \"What?\" I breathed, thinking I heard her wrong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Inertia,\" she said more certainly, more forcefully. \"I'm invoking inertia.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInertia: an object will continue at its current motion until some force causes a change in its speed or direction.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was unearthing a childhood pact that we buried like a time capsule. If someone invoked the word inertia, then whatever road we were taking, we'd have to change course together. To change course was to do the opposite of what our parents wanted for us, and that felt like the ultimate rebellion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe never wanted to be alone when contesting them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt felt isolating and devastating to stand against the indomitable forces that were our mothers. So the pact was born to ensure it'd always be the two of us against the world. It was an unbreakable pact. Stronger than a pinky promise. Stronger than a blood oath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's a pact reserved solely for us: two daughters of con artists and best friends for life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was only the second time the word was ever invoked. The second time the pact rose to the surface.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe first time, I'd been the one to say the word. We were fourteen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHailey had been viciously bullied at our prep school. She had hoped to \"tough it out\" even though every school day ended in tears. I had wanted to drop out of the prep school, though it'd go against our moms' wishes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo I'd said, \"Inertia.\" After that, we'd never gone back. We'd changed course together.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHailey summoning this word at the bus stop in Carlsbad swept me into the power of our friendship and the indestructible pact we wielded like a trump card.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had used it once and she followed through, despite being afraid of the repercussions. Now, it was my turn to do the same.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had to do it. There was no other thought in my mind then. I had to, and I would.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe opened her black leather handbag and pulled out a brochure. \"I found this.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe passed it to me. It started sogging between my fingers, but confusion began to fade as I gazed at the picturesque New England landscape.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVacation in One of Connecticut's Oldest \u0026amp; Most Vibrant Towns!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt looked beautiful and quaint. The kind of place you'd start a family and grow old. A place you'd plant roots.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNormal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I realized, it was her Mystic Pizza. The small town with only romantic troubles and college dreams. No lies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo scams.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd she wasn't asking me to take a weekend trip up the East Coast. I didn't know how long she had carried this brochure or how much she'd thought about leaving until then. But maybe that night had lit a match, and after what happened in the beach house, her idea had detonated into a plan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStarting over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA chill raced across my skin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDoing the normal thing. Was that even possible?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe wet brochure was crumbling between my fingers. \"Our moms will hate us moving to Connecticut.\" They'd been best friends since childhood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThick as thieves. Quite fucking literally. Only their lives were less than glamorous, unlike our cushy and glitzy upbringing-as they so often reminded us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe rain began to let up when I glanced back at Hailey. \"We're grifters, in case you've forgotten.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI like using that word because our moms hate it. They think \"grifting\" invokes a visual of tobacco-spitting hitchhikers. Though, we have hitchhiked before, and we try not to stay in one place for too long.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Then we don't tell them we're going,\" Hailey said. \"We could stop running. Stop conning. We could build something for ourselves that lasts. Can you picture that?\" She looked up like it was a constellation in the stars. Spelling out our real bright future.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePain blossomed in my chest from the strange, muddled yearning. The idea of not running sounded nice. Not conning . . . I wasn't so sure. While she stared up, I looked down at our sopping wet dresses, my discarded heels, and the dirt on the bottoms of our feet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It's hard to imagine,\" I whispered. \"Sounds more like a dream.\" A strange fantasy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut seeing the desperation in Hailey's eyes again-I really did want to give it to her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Then let's live that dream. Let's try.\" She clutched my hand again. \"Please, Phoebe.\" Her round gray gaze pleaded. Begged. \"I can't do it alone.\" A tremor shook her voice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe pact surfaced in my heart again. \"You won't be alone, Hails,\" I breathed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I was ten years old, Hailey told me to jump off a bridge into ice-cold water to save a drowning stray cat. She was too scared of heights, and I had rarely been scared of anything. I couldn't say no to her then.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303669518565,"sku":"NP9780593549551","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593549551.jpg?v=1767725196","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/dishonestly-yours-isbn-9780593549551","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}