Chapter 8
Home Dump Home
Ryder
Griff was glaring at the rickety structure like the thing was about to gobble him up for lunch. I could see why.
The place was a total shithole – too narrow, too decrepit, and too damn ugly compared to the shimmering lake.
When Griff turned my way, I gave him a wicked grin. "Home sweet home."
From the look on his face, he'd rather live in the gutter.
No. He wouldn't.
I knew this from experience. Living on the street sucked ass. No roof. No walls. And no peace and quiet when you shut your eyes – which was why years ago, I'd learned to sleep light and wake fast at the first sign of trouble.
It was also why I didn't skimp on property today – a condo here, a skyscraper there, and plenty in-between. Unless the world went up in flames, I'd never sleep rough again.
But back in the day? I would've felt pretty damn lucky to be sleeping in a quiet dump on the lake.
Griff, of course, had other thoughts. "It's not a home," he grumbled. "It's a boathouse."
A shithouse was more like it. Still, I gave an easy shrug. "House, home. What's the difference?"
I watched as Griff took it all in – the sun-bleached boards, the peeling paint, and the narrow balcony that looked one stiff breeze away from collapse.
The place wasn't a fixer-upper. It was a lost cause.
It was perfect.
Griff flicked his chin toward the looming monstrosity. "A home is for people. That's for boats. You see an oar up my ass?"
I laughed. "No, but from the look on your face, I wouldn't rule it out."
When he only scowled, I fought to keep my amusement in check. The guy had no idea how much thought I'd put into this little exile of his.
This wasn't punishment. This wasn't even about the bet.
It was an intervention.
For months now, Griff had been running on fumes, restless and cynical. Sure, he was filthy fucking rich, but he'd forgotten what it was supposed to mean. He treated money like a bad habit, something shameful instead of something earned.
As for myself, I was tired of watching him brood and drift, like a boat missing its anchor.
So, yeah. I might've gone a little overboard when setting this up.
A private jet for me.
A limo and ferry for him.
And this lovely two-story disaster. It was the icing on the cake.
Technically, the property was mine. I'd bought it a few months ago, intending to tear it down and build something decent in its place. And I would eventually – maybe to keep, maybe to sell, maybe to hold for a year or two while I planned my next move.
Regardless, Griff would be the final person to live here in its current form.
Did he know this?
Hell no.
He needed the wake-up call more than he needed the full story.
And me? I needed a laugh.
Call it a win-win.
But from the look on Griff's face now, he wasn't feeling like a winner. Eh, give it time.
He was holding the box of pastries and grimacing, like the act of holding it was giving him heartburn. I almost laughed. If he thought that was bad, he should look inside the box. Oddly enough, I had while Griff was passed out in the buggy.
Yeah. A buggy, pulled by actual horses. And why?
Because cars here weren't a thing.
But apparently, cranberries were, because a certain barista had stuffed the box full of them.
Cranberry cookies. Cranberry muffins. And even some cranberry-frosted bagels.
Or donuts. Under the frosting, it was hard to say for sure.
Regardless, those tire-shaped things had been topped with enough cranberries to make raisins jealous.
It was fucking hilarious.
So now I knew what she'd been doing in the back.
Was I satisfied?
Not by a longshot.
Sure, that was one mystery solved, but there were still plenty to go, because I knew one thing for damn sure.
That barista wasn't what she seemed.
Here and now, Griff was giving me a funny look, like he was hoping I'd say, Just kidding, and hand him a keycard to a suite on Main Street.
Would I?
Not a chance.
Okay, I had rented a suite. But it wasn't for him. It was for me.
Would I be telling him this?
Nope.
He needed a reset, not a rescue. Or maybe the reset was the rescue, but hell if I'd be the one sleeping rough.
Mostly, I would be sleeping in Chicago. But I'd rented the suite for the whole month so I could come and go as I pleased. Call it a vacation. Call it business. Or call it a place to escape, because Griff wasn't the only person who could use a break from the city.
When Griff gave the boathouse another long, sullen look, I said it again to see if he'd twitch. "Home sweet home."
This time, he did more than twitch. His fingers flexed around the pastry box, which I'd taped back up, nice and tight. Considering the state of his stomach, he wouldn't be breaking the seal any time soon.
And why? Because hangovers were a bitch – as I'd learned a time or two myself.
Last night, I'd been doing more pouring than drinking, but it wasn't like I'd forced it down his throat.
Even so, the sight of that pastry box had me thinking. Not about Griff. About Tessa Sinclair – aka the barista.
Yeah, I knew her name.
And I knew her shame.
What I didn't know was how she'd ended up here, slinging coffee when she should've brazened it out in Chicago.
I mean, we all had our scandals, right?
There had to be more to her story. And hey, I was a curious guy.
But I wasn't so curious that I'd been willing to call her bluff at the coffee shop. I was no stranger to hard work. And Tessa – she'd been doing more than her share, handling difficult customers with no sign of help.
So yeah, I'd seen no reason to make her shitty morning all the shittier by calling her out, which was why I'd tipped her the hundred and called it good.
For now.
But later? Yeah, I'd be going back.